Dedicated to and based on a concept by Danschneider Arroyo, for every scammed author and lover everywhere... Chapter 54 East Vrmlmelmnsk, Syburslovenia At last, Alexis’ heart’s desire was within one GPS turn of fulfillment, and her desirous heart thumped rapidly as she crossed the landfill beyond the village bazaar. The trans-Atlantic journey, the loss of her luggage at the charmingly quaint bicycle-powered Aeropotschk carousel, the succession of taxis and taxi robberies, the bribes to countless provincial cops, the chicken she was coerced to buy at the market, the foreigny threats that bombarded her as she roamed the cobbled streets in search of 12 Zjrchskmsk Avenue, rooster wrestling under her arm — it would all be worth it when she could look her pfisher soulmate in his unpatched eye. “Your destination is in 300 feet, on your left,” Siri cooed. “Please be aware of organ harvesting activity ahead; I can devise an alternative route back to the Aeropotschk…” But Alexis now was guided by her appetites rather than her apps, and she pressed ahead, gently driving away one of the local street weasels that might have been the twin of the creature she’d nibbled at a charmingly retro crate in the marketplace, after her desire-filled gut had throbbed with non-cardiac desire for something beyond the boiled airline chickpeas. Her heart swelled with swollen feelings as she reached the last hovel at the end of the block before the rustic old cell phone/nuclear waste dump. Her delicate, alabaster fist-blossom froze before the warped plank that served as the door. This was crazy – when the private eye her BFFs at the cat café/cupcake emporium had hired for her traced the pfisher’s IP address to this tiny hamlet in a pastorally bombed-out former Soviet republic, she’d poured out her pain and fury at this Facebook scammer before understanding that rage is but the other side of that coin we call love. Between the lines of the badly constructed, clumsy warning that her system had been compromised and the ransomware demand, Alexis could sense the heart of a wounded outlaw soul. Like Beauty and her Beast, Bullock and her Jesse James…

Steeling her desire-saturated heart, the baker/quilter-turned-author rapped on the splintered wood like a desirous heart beating out a rhythm of love. “Come. To. Me; Come. To. Me.” The love-plank finally shifted, and a glacially blue eye peered from the shadows, like the piercing light of Cupid’s lighthouse beacon across the dark and ripply waters of doubt and pain. Alexis now knew her story wasn’t the website romance that “Lance Boyles” had pirated into an internationally acclaimed erotic vampire suspense thriller. Her story began with this rogue who indeed had stolen her desire-riddled heart. “Lance” grunted a series of long words neither Alexis nor most of her readers would have understood even had they been in English rather than some rural Slovenian language. Only her fondant sous-chef Russian Mikhail back home was poly-Slavic, but while he had insisted on accompanying her on her journey, Mikhail himself had found bliss with the lady day-trader from the city who’d finally taken her face out of her laptop long enough to discover the true meaning of rapture and pre-molded frosting at the town bake-off and comforter fair. The ceremony was next week at the old fiction mill by the river, the Reverend Dodge officiating. Alexis thus implored Lance to repeat his declaration into her cellphone. Her Cunning Linguist app translated. “It is you, my Alexis, at last. You have made the future of my destiny a reality!” He shoved the plank aside and emerged. Aside from the gnarled and possibly infected face-navel that had once served as his left eye, Lance was perfect. Hours of hacking and scamming in his dark garret had chiseled his upper arms into Greek statue kind of arms, and his jogging suit-draped legs had been shaped by constant escape from global law enforcement and Bulgarian mobsters. Lance’s was a life lived large, and Alexis felt a stirring in her loins wholly different than her reaction to the boiled garbanzos. Alexis fell into Lance’s arms, and his eye leaked dewy tears of love moisture. Lance grunted again, his Tokarev gun dipping sensually below his pelvis. “Can you forgive me?” Cunning Linguist recited. “Forgive you???” Alexis gasped, catching a lungful of waste dump sulfur. “You silly, beautiful Cyclops! You have made my humble paranormal suspense novella a classic in five Eurasian markets, and Kindled the long-extinguished embers of desire in my heart furnace. And besides…” She displayed the locket she had blinded a cabbie/former surgeon to protect. The woman had gone down hard and valiantly, and Alexis vowed to name a werewraith in her next novel after the driver, adding a few vowels for reader ease, of course. The filigreed gold clamshell was inscribed with her non-nom de plume fake writer name. Lance squinted at the florid mall engraving, then switched to his good eye. A.I. Chatt . Alexis’ digitalized heart swelled with love blood as the thief of that previously mentioned heart realized there was nothing for his future life mate to forgive. No more torture or remorse or fear of mercenary revenge squad retaliation. Lance’s life of underground plagiarism had nearly ended in violence numerous times – the Kindle Unlimited attack on his favorite wifi coffee shop/arms dealer; Nora Roberts’ Mossad-trained hit squad coming after his mother as she prepared his beloved borscht and cloned stolen Discover cards. The grainy photos of the meeting between a coldly vengeful and immaculately put-together Danielle Steele and Ivan the Badger in a Budapest Chik-Fil-A his bro Sergei the trafficker had Messenger’d him. As colleague after colleague had been “Kristin Hannah’ed,” as those in the trade called it, Lance had stayed one step ahead. Now, he had been apprehended by this spunky paperback word-poet, his heart clamped in the titanium grip of Alexis’ love-cuffs. His sentence? Life, in a maximum security prison with Alexis as his love-jailer.

Lance grunted. Cunning Linguist processed Alexis’ newfound language of love. “So. You want to see the place?” “Oh, yes, YES! On the soul of Stephenie Meyer, a million times YES!” Alexis exclaimed, flattening a feral cat as she hurled the plank aside. She felt like a bad Eastern European knockoff of Pinocchio (one of Lance’s top-selling works in the Russian children’s market and unedited, on the YA list). Alexis’ Intel chip glowed warm within her OEM bosom. Tonight, she would become a real woman, if they could figure out a workable interface…


Congratulations! Wow, I have been waiting to say that for a lifetime. Ah, sorry, you must be very confused. You've made it to the end; this is it. No don't run off, trust me, that's the first thing I did. Wasted a few trillion years doing that. I could hardly believe myself either; who would have thought that there was more? I mean, I still remember those millennia. I, we, were so rambunctious, thinking we owned everything and all that. Nigh immortal, near-infinite cosmic power; a massive far cry from the lives we lived before that. I bet you spent your first few million years observing new and old universes, just to make sure everything you were seeing was real. I'm almost certain the first trillion afterwards was spent in glee and excitement, seeing everything unfold and grow in front of you, any number of times you wanted, while building beings much like yourself at the time. The good old days, they were. But then, much like some you may have seen during your travels, you faded away; content, or perhaps bored. Normally, and it's a secret between you and me, you would have started everything over again; been the curiosity of another. The only difference is that you would have had to start all over again, with no knowledge or memories. Honestly, it doesn't sound that bad of a deal. Do everything again and again, but always retain the childish curiosity every time... ... ... Oh, I'm sorry, I spaced out a bit. Right, why you're here. So, if you remember, you were a universe once. The living beings within and those that died, yada yada yada. You've been through it, I've been through it, and you watched others go through it. After you were "born", though, you probably thought that was the end. "There couldn't possibly be anything more than the manifestation of the one the universe called 'God'," you perhaps thought. Well, actually, I know you thought that, otherwise there would be umptillions more here, other than just us two. But you were special, because amongst all of that noise and curiosity and observation, you had a single thought. It probably only happened once, and it was most likely just a fleeting one. You thought: "What if there was more?" And so when you faded away, unknowingly ready to begin the cycle, you ended up with me. Think of it the same way you ended up a God, except there was no creation. No, your previous realm, just, happened really, much like this one. I wouldn't think about it too much, or rather, I would. It's a good way to waste some time. Your new job? Well, eager to start, I see. Good enthusiasm, but do you see all of those? Every single one of those is a God, each watching over their little universe, unaware of where we are. Your job, bluntly, is to watch them. Really nothing has changed for you, except you're now, legitimately, infinitely more powerful. How many are there? I'd like to keep this as brief as possible, since I've already wasted five billion years just ranting, so I think I'll refrain from wasting some quadrillion just saying the number. You don't ever have to do anything, just sit back and watch. Why is this a thing? Good question. The short answer is: something absolute needs to observe. Think of it like when you were old and watching rowdy kids that weren't yours. Except you'll never be responsible, since these kids can't fall and scrape their knees. But I've spent too much time talking. I'll let you get to it. Huh? Where am I going? Yes, of course you'll get lonely, but there always has to be at least one. Because the entire reason I create new Gods is no longer for the sake of observation or curiosity, but rather did so for the hope that someone like you will eventually break the mold and join me, an immeasurable amount of time after I got here. Yes, the main reason I make Gods, Is that when one comes to greet me, I can finally die.


He often found that bus rides were oddly conducive to a particular kind of reminiscence. Sitting in his little row, with eyes glazed over, he reached back into his prepubescent self. He was at the kitchen counter, grueling over math homework. Intro to fractions: a real killer. None of the questions actually involved a fraction, and he’d completed most of the sheet without much trouble, yet there was one extra credit question on the back that he wanted to get right. Thinking back, he couldn’t be sure why he wanted to solve it so bad. It was elementary school, he couldn’t have cared much about his “grades.” Maybe it was a sense of perfectionism instilled in him by his upbringing, but he never much cared about that as much as he probably should have. In all likelihood, he surmised, he had probably wanted to simply prove that he could, most likely out of simple, run-of-the-mill childhood insecurity. He asked Mom for help. This was the only time he could ever remember asking her for help with homework. She always seemed too busy, and he always thought he could do these things on his own. Still, this time she helped. He refrained from trying to psychoanalyze his mother at this moment. The question that had stumped him was generously simple in hindsight. It was only asking how you would represent three of something out of a group of four. The problem was, he had never seen a fraction before. When he explained his issue to Mom, she pulled out four cookies from the cookie jar. She had baked them the day previous. Mom always liked to bake. Mom always had an unhealthy relationship with food. She laid the cookies in front of him and said, “You have three of these cookies. So, how many of the cookies do you have?” As an adult, he could see that she worded this extremely vaguely. He replied, “Three.” For what felt like hours, she kept repeating those same two sentences to him, and everytime he’d say “Three.” She’d group off the three cookies and he’d say “Three.” She’d raise her voice and he’d say “Three.” He had started crying. Mom looked very frustrated. Scoffing, she grabbed the paper from him, wrote three fourths, and walked away. He felt very fragile in that moment. Mom wasn't a great teacher. His stop came too quickly. He was surprised at how far ahead in time he’d managed to travel with that little sequence. The walk home was comparatively thoughtless. It was just the same procedure of motions - steps, turns, doors opening - that he’d gone through most other days. That sense of unimportance seemed dully significant to some recess of him. The apartment extended no greeting, and his bed found him in record time. He didn’t bother getting under the covers. He lay there for what felt like too long, then checked the time. 7:34 PM. The day was still young. He thought about all the things he could do, maybe should do with all this time on his hands. Read something, listen to music, work out, go for a walk, meet new people, watch a movie, play some video games maybe. He juggled the idea of these things in his head and decided that yeah, maybe he should do something, yet he knew that the second he moved his chest would be crushed by the lead ball that was laying on it. He was never much for parties. He’d made a fool of himself at enough of them. This one seemed to carry on far too long. The swirl of people and voices became dizzying if he focused on it for too long. He hugged the wall like he did the first time he went ice skating. He could feel the life of the room echoing through him. He didn’t like the feeling. It used to be that when he felt like this at parties, he’d go off by himself for long enough that all the holes in his body would close up again, and he could have another drink and maybe talk to someone after. Now, he knew that someone was bound to notice, especially in a cramped space like this, and leaving now would be especially dramatic. He resigned himself to getting comfortable and hoping no one struck up conversation. When he finally deemed it socially acceptable to leave, he did with only marginal deliberation. He would’ve said bye to the people he knew there, but then again, would he have? Walking out into the night air was at first a relief. The first few steps felt like a consolation, and the cool air cleared the dust out of his lungs, but then the air started to stream into him so fast he felt like he was being played like a harmonica. He was leaking all over. The walk back to his car became more hurried than he’d intended, and he made sure to expunge what was left of that foreign invader in his rib cage before getting in. The thought of music at a time like this seemed contrived, and more than a little childish. He put music on anyway - something with no words. As he drove, he imagined himself in a movie. What would he look like? How would the writers and producers deem fit to package him? What parts of him would be cast aside first in pursuit of digestibility? He imagined to an outsider the thought might seem vaguely anti-consumerist, but really it was nothing so high concept. It was an honest consideration. The streets were mostly empty, which was good. The thought of sharing the road right now made him feel strangely sick. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got home. The apartment complex was quiet enough. He parked where he found a spot; he never much cared about things like getting good parking. He thought about that tendency as he walked, and he realized how alienated that made him feel from the people around him. Everyone he talked to always had some kind of mundane complaint. Their food had to be fresh. They couldn’t drink Pepsi products. They didn’t like this or that actor. The temperature was too much this or that way. He had always resigned himself to these things. There wasn’t much point in agonizing over things like that, right? As he was unlocking his door, he saw a woman coming down the opposite end of the hallway. He looked at her for a second. She was pretty enough. He stopped looking. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He knew how easy it was to make the people around him uncomfortable. The thought made him want to cry. He wouldn’t. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. As the door shut, he looked into the pitch black of the apartment. There was one dull, silver streak tearing through the living room. He seized. He stood enveloped by that darkness for a time. He felt like if he were to move, the space around him would collapse in on itself and splinter into a billion tiny fragments that could never be pieced together again. Not because it would be impossible really, but because he lacked the grace, patience and inclination to put any of it back together. He flipped the light on. The room maintained. He considered what his first move should be, and resolved that he’d eat something. He had some microwave food, and the experience was pleasant enough. Really, it was just an attempt to delay the inevitable. He would eventually lay down in bed, with that same sensation of a snake coiling around his lungs and he wouldn’t know what to do about it. Some of his coworkers were really nice. He was friends with some of them. They were something of a group. They’d go out to bars together and drink and smoke and watch movies and do whatever they felt like. He hadn’t expected to spend as much time with these people as he had recently, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He had been enjoying himself. There was a lot of fun to be had with them. Still, there was really one reason more than any other for his continued participation. He’d liked her for about a year now. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d “liked” someone. In all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore, all he knew was that he felt it for her. Still, he had no intention of doing anything about it. Friday, they would all go together on a little pub crawl, and eventually get really high. Those nights always came and went in a bit of a blur, but that was the fun of it all. The week was a continuous stream of mostly undefined impressions, but the weekend was virile and fatalistic. It felt like there were stakes, even if he made sure there really weren’t any. This Friday would be no different. Somehow, he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The music seemed louder than usual tonight. He’d had his fair share to drink, yet he couldn’t shake this feeling of cold lucidity that held him. It wasn’t the ideal mindset when you’re in the middle of a dance hall. He found himself idling again. That fact made him uncomfortable. If he didn’t get up to something soon, then he’d be in for it. When he saw her friend coming over, he knew it was too late. “Go ask her to dance.” He hated the lecturing, but it was only fair. Everyone knew what was going on, and everyone could see he was doing nothing about it. He thought on some level that their goading was a little unfair, because they didn’t know his reason for inactivity, but at the same time he knew that he really didn’t either. He looked at her friend with playful disdain. “What, are you calling me pussy?” “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Go.” She was being a good friend to him for this, yet at the same time he couldn’t help but feel a little resentful. Prodding him into action meant prodding the source of his inaction, and that was something that no one was supposed to even be aware of. Of course, she wasn’t aware of it directly, but even being able to touch it tangentially felt like an assault. He gathered that he really didn’t have much of a choice. It was time to stop pussying out. He walked up to her, and found that he couldn’t think in that moment, which was for the best. If he could, he’d just think about what he was about to say and it would tumble out of his mouth completely twisted. “Hey, are we gonna dance?” He was relieved at how casual it sounded. He knew her well enough now to know that they were somewhat alike in their anxiety, and because of that she was eerily in tune with the insecurities at bare in him at any given moment. The grace with which he executed the line was like a verbal suit of armor. “Yes, but I can’t dance.” He figured she’d say something of the sort. “That’s great!” he said as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor, “Neither can I.” He’d love to have been able to say that the dance was evidently special to any onlooker, but in all actuality it wasn’t. It was actually a bit awkward. Neither of them, in reality, were very good at dancing. More than once they lost rhythm, or bumped into someone else. He spun her around a few times and even dipped her. The whole time they danced they just made comments about how off-beat they were, yet he couldn’t help but feel like it meant something. Being so close to her in that moment, feeling the skin of her hand against his, and the way their bodies moved together. It was the first time that night that his lucidity counted for something. He felt fortunate that this feeling would be hard to forget. After their dance was over, he felt like he came away with something. Looking at her then, as they made their way off the dancefloor, her face bathed in flickering and flaring multicolored lights, he understood that she probably didn’t feel the same way, and while that knowledge made him feel raw, naked, and vulnerable, he was okay with it. At least he got to make her happy, even if for a moment. After all the dancing was over, and the hall emptied, they made pilgrimage back to her friend's apartment. The weed gave way to a new, uncomfortable dimension of social awareness, but that was unavoidable. They watched a stupid comedy, and then proceeded to watch the whole series. Of course, he was forced to sit next to her on the couch. He’d expected as much. It made everyone giddy to see him squirm. So he sat next to her and watched. He knew her penchant for early nights, so he figured she’d go up to her room soon. That’s exactly the reason he was so shocked when she laid across his lap. An hour must have passed before he built up the courage to touch her. He felt conflicted for being so hesitant, but also couldn’t shake the feeling that if he did touch her something terrible would happen. As the night went on, and each movie blended into the next, came to hold her as she drifted off to sleep. He still felt that same sense of uneasiness, that same edge, but the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin made those feelings unimportant. He’d bathe in this feeling for now, and not think about anything else. He’d invited her over to his place to watch some movies. He felt nervous. At this point they’d gone out on a few undeniable dates. He was getting more and more comfortable around her, but still, having her at his place, just the two of them, it felt like he was showing too much of his hand. When she came, he decided he’d skip the game of pretending like they weren’t going to end up laying together, pressed as close as they could be. All of his doubt started to fade when he held her again, and he could be in that moment, drowning in her presence. They watched one movie, and then put on another. The movie stopped being so important. Where they’d actively been watching, commenting, joking, and laughing through the first one, the second was met with silence. They laid facing each other, legs intertwined. His cheek was pressed against hers, and his hand was buried in her hair, cradling the back of her head. He felt frozen in time, like his slightest move could cause her to shatter. He wanted to hold her so close that she would sink into him and they’d become one, so that he’d be able to feel her fingers, arms, and legs under his skin. He moved his face so that he could press his forehead against hers. As he did, their corners of their lips brushed. His heart punched him in the chest. He found himself surprisingly short of breath. He froze there, with their faces an inch away from each other. The time that passed like that had no concern for punctuality. He felt his arms contract, pulling her in, a fraction of an inch a second. He was helpless. She was everything in that moment. When their lips finally met, his chest caved inward and blew out of his back, leaving a hole where his solar plexus would have been, and the violence of the situation was unspeakable. He said goodbye to every solitary vestige that clung to him and the spaces he’d occupied in the days he’d walked the Earth. His bedsheets. His car. His books. His mom. The cookies. Fractions. Jealousy. Intimacy. The feeling of being slowly strangled. The poison in his veins. The fact that he’d wanted to make something special. The fact that he’d never known he was disabled, maybe? He’d never be able to paint his life on canvas. He’d never be able to embellish his death with words. He’d never truly face himself. He’d never see her again. All was as it was meant to be. Maybe one day he’d find the bones of the person he once was and build a house with them. He could only dream.


“CLEAR!”

All he could hear in the dead of night is paramedics and EMTs rush to the scene.

“CLEAR!”

He never seen this coming.

“Still no pause!”

It hit him like a freight train.

“Charge at 150!” one yelled directing orders to the others. Then the sound of another electric current shock pierced his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be happening. He thought to himself as he sat off to the side on the curb. He had his face in his hand.

“This can’t be happening” he muttered.

This was supposed to be a happy get together. A nice evening filled with laughter and dancing mixed with witty chatter. And to top it all off, a quiet moonlight rendezvous at his special lookout spot away from the world in hopes of ending the night on a joyous occasion. But it seems the universe had other plans. What was once gone to be his proudest moment turn into his worst nightmare. As he watches hopelessly in his all-black tux painted in red spots and tears as the love of his life fights for hers. This is all his fault. Why didn’t he just plan a nice candle light dinner at his place? Something so simple. She always enjoyed the little things. But he thought it was a good idea to go the extra mile, exaggerate the entire thing wanting to go off in a grand finale. Anything for her. But this is not what he had in mind.

So, this how he repays her? The last four years gone up in flames right into front of him. He let out a gust of air he didn’t realize he was holding. Heart rate was doing 360s, it’s a miracle he even sitting here. Why is he though? Why did the universe choose her over him? If anyone deserves this fate, he would gladly volunteer in a heartbeat. He would do anything to press restart.

Restart to earlier today, his alarm bouncing off the walls of his room. He turns over in bed guiding his hand to the snooze button. Stretch his arms in the air letting a long-exhausted yawn. Feet planted on carpet flooring then he pushes himself up to start his morning routine. He walks towards the bathroom; use the toilet, turn on the shower, and quickly brushes his teeth. When the shower is nice and hot, he enters; grabs the soap then loather his body and hair really well before exiting after fifteen-twenty minutes. He already had his clothes out for today. He quickly got dressed reminding himself of today’s errands until he heard his cell phone buzz on the side table. Picking it up and smiled to himself. He pressed the green phone.

“Hey babe, what’s up?”

“Hey love, just calling to see if you were up” he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Yeah, I just woke up about to head out for the day”

“Where you heading?”

He scoffed “Nosy much?” she smacked her lips “Boy whatever”.

He chuckled into the speaker “Nah, I’m just kidding but I need to go to drop some things off by my mom’s before heading to the mall” he voiced. “Oh okay.... we still on for tonight” she mentions softly he knew it was more of a statement than a question. “Yeah, unless you have other plans” she giggled rolling her eyes not that he could see “No never, I’m looking forward to it”.

It made his heart skip a beat knowing she was as excited as he was. “That’s good to hear, can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see all I had planned”.

“You sure, I can’t get a little hint”

“No then it’ll ruin the surprise”

“Not for me”

“Girl, get off my phone” he laughed to himself but he could hear her laughing as well. God it’s the sweetest sound in the world.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying. Fine, I’ll let you get back to it. Love you baby see you later” she allured.

“Bye babe, I love you too”

She made kissing noises over the speaker until he heard the line end. He placed his phone into his pocket then grabbed his keys and whatever else he needs rushing out the house to his car. He drove down to his parents' church for a care package they were giving to all the members of church. He pulled into the driveway. Grab the box from the backseat and walked towards the house where his mom was standing in the doorway. They shared a quick chat before giving her a kiss on the cheeks onward to his next order of business. The mall was packed as usual on the weekend but he shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes tops. First, he went to the Gentlemen store to pick up his tux. They had it at the register hung and ready for him. After confirming his order, the teller hand him the garment bag. He smiles, wished him a great day and then he was marching down to the candy shop for her favorite chocolates. Next, Macy’s and lastly the jewelry store.

Checked the time on his phone to see he still had 3 and half hours left to spare. He grabbed something small to eat and continue to prep for the evening. The next time he checked his phone it was twenty-five minutes before they needed to be at the restaurant. He double checked his appearance in the mirror, grab the gifts off the counter, and sent her a text that he was on his way. It was not even five minutes when she walked out her house into the passenger seat. He knows he's racing the clock but he had to take a second to look her over. She had on a long emerald fitted evening dress with light makeup. He forgot to breathe.

“You like what you see?” she smirked, placing her hand on his cheek.

“As a matter of fact, I do” he kissed her palm then left a quick peck on her glossed lips. They pulled up to the restaurant without a second to spare. The concierge guided them to one of their private tables in the back marked his name on it. He pulled out her seat before sitting across from her.

“This place is gorgeous; I can’t believe you managed to get a reservation consider how booked they always are” she said taking a sip of her water.

“Never underestimate a man on a mission. I remember you saying you wanted to go here ever since it was open. And viola” he took her hold of her hand smoothing her knuckles with his thumb.

“Aww baby” she bought his hand to her lips “I don’t deserve you”

“Funny, I swear that was my line” they laughed and vibe off each other energy. He noticed the music turned to smooth jazz. “Care to dance” he said already standing up. “I’d love to” Pushing forward into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands rest upon her waist. They danced for a bit until the food arrive. Small chatters, a few drinks of champagne later; he slides over all the gifts he bought her minus one. Her face light up like a Christmas tree and nearly cried on the spot.

“Excuse me sir, is everything all right?”

He heard someone say off to his side. He turned his head towards the voice but he was met with a horrifying image. There stood the waiter with blood stain face. “Can you hear me sir?”

What’s going on? He stared at him idly. Until he felt her hand squeeze his. He looks at her.

“Is everything okay?” she said with the same extract blood stain face but now they were in his car. Her head was facing towards him. Her dress was ripped and blood was dripping on side of her mouth.

No. He thought. Then all sudden a bright light outlined her silhouette from behind then everything went black.

“Please sir, you need to talk to me”

He removed his face out of his hands. Where was he? Oh right, he almost forgot reality. There he was once again, hearing loud sirens; glass filled road; two cars totaled, and her nearly on death's doorstep. The officer in front of him lowered to his level. “Sir, my name is Office Wally, I’m just checking to see if you are, okay? Any injuries?” He stared at him but no words came out.

The officer sighed. “I know this is hard for you. And you are in your rights to take all the time you need but we do need a quick rundown of what took place please”

He ignored him once again. His hand slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red box.

He could feel tears form in his eyes but didn’t dare let them fall. He opened it.

There laid a diamond ring.


I was sitting when I saw it all, I was on the rooftop of the building smoking a cigarette, it was cloudy, one of those days where it seems like even the slightest thunder will make the sky collapse on all of us. That day I felt particularly overwhelmed by everything surrounding my existence: too much work, little time to finish all the tasks, the phone kept vibrating with each message, the weekend had social commitments that I couldn't refuse to have some time for myself, and apparently, that intermittent headache wasn't going to leave me alone for a while. Among all the things I had to do, I decided to go up to the only solitary part of the building, the only place where I didn't see faces, hidden there between the void of the 27th floor and the huge air conditioners. There, it was the only place where the intermittent noise didn't bother me. I much preferred hearing the deep hissing of the machine next to me than listening to murmurs, incessant typing, laughter, ringing tones of calls and messages, or my coworker's incessant pen chewing... Anyway, this was my place and my private moment. I actually never liked smoking, I'm a fake smoker... I smoke because I see others smoking and I feel like smoking, but I don't smoke because I really find it charming. The first cigarette always raises my blood pressure and makes me sweat buckets, it accelerates my heart and dries my mouth, but still, most people know that when you're smoking, you're having a moment for yourself and generally two things happen: they either move away or approach cautiously, but either way, it's pleasant to see that a piece of paper emitting smoke sensitizes people for at least a few minutes. And there I was... sitting, immersed in my own thoughts when straight from the sky, I saw something falling towards me. At first, it didn't seem like it was going to fall on the building, but slowly that tangle of plastic headed directly towards where I was. The sound it made when it fell will echo forever in my mind, the parachute had tangled around the person and had fallen at such speed that it had broken some of the skylights. When I managed to stand up, after the shock and looking for my phone... I stood there stunned, I didn't know what to do... well, I did know what to do but obviously, I didn't want to do it, I didn't know in what condition he was, I didn't want to find out if he was alive, agonizing, or dead, I just saw a lump tangled in orange plastic and thousands of threads and ropes... apparently, no one had heard the impact, in such a big and bustling city, that noise could have been caused by anything. My hands were freezing, my breath could only be expelled through my mouth, I felt very scared, which in turn disgusted me terribly. Among the cold, the tremendous gust of wind, and the relentless urge to vomit, I was there, living the strangest experience of my life. Who the hell prepares you for this? Is there a damn manual somewhere in the world buried among dust and other books called "what to do if you're on a rooftop and a nobody decides to fall like a meteor 30 steps away from you?" I definitely wasn't prepared for this. I deeply wished someone would come and push me and start doing something, at that moment I would have preferred to be seen as a useless idiot without the slightest common sense... but no, nobody, absolutely nobody showed up; it was just the damn mess and me. Slowly I decided to approach, mentally preparing myself for everything, to see a bloodbath (which I had never seen in real life), hear a deep groan and/or a scream of pain (which I had also never heard), or see a corpse with open eyes and a cold, empty gaze that would remain eternally in my imagination. I began to walk between the parachute and the ropes, trying not to fall, actually, I didn't want to get there, I didn't want to touch that lump, if I don't like touching living people, I definitely didn't have the burning desire to touch a probable corpse bathed in its own juices... I gathered the little courage I have and took a few firm steps toward it... when I was inches away from touching it, a gust of wind made part of the parachute inflate and began to drag it towards the void of the building's south face, I fell backwards but got up as quickly as I could and in an act of deep heroism, I grabbed the ropes and winches with all my might only to realize my profound stupidity in knowing that I wouldn't be able to stop it. Being dragged, I just wished to stop with something, a rod, a post, anything... and I did stop because the corpse hit the wall and I was behind it... and that's when I knew he was lifeless, my face and his face came so close that I could see his pupils through a transparent piece of the parachute's plastic... I could only see those brown eyes, I had never seen pupils so dilated and such a dead, expressionless gaze, I could see some of the blonde hair bathed in blood... and those eyes so dead, so expressionless, so similar to mine a few years ago. After a few seconds, all I could do was cry, I felt a deep sorrow for him because I began to think about his existence: Who is he? Is there someone waiting for him? At that moment, I forgot everything and decided to unravel his so far improvised grave, I tried to move him, but the air made it impossible to handle the situation properly but I had to get him out of there, all my disgust and fear had vanished. As best as I could, I managed to get his head out and then his arms, there was a huge puddle of blood, which actually helped me slide him out, with all my strength, I managed to free him... now there was a corpse and a guy soaked in blood, the perfect scene to go to jail for life. I searched his bags for his wallet, some identification, anything... but I found nothing until I reached the second jacket he was wearing... there I found his driver's license. James P. Jordan. Now it was much worse... it's said that you can't easily get rid of something you've already given a name to... until a few minutes ago, he was a corpse... but suddenly he became James P. Jordan. I looked him up and down, his legs were broken, one arm was completely turned over, and the back of his head was a bloody mess... his mouth was slightly open as if about to utter a word and his cold, vacant gaze towards the sky, he seemed incredulous, as if he couldn't believe he had fallen from where his gaze was fixed. I got on my knees to put his driver's license on his chest, I took his right hand and placed it on his ribs, I don't know why but I really wanted to apologize to him, and it made no sense, I wasn't even remotely guilty of his death, but still, I did... I apologized. Never in my life had I felt so accompanied... When the emergency services finally arrived, a group of people had already gathered, detained by the building security, and there I was, holding James's hand. I didn't want to leave him alone; I couldn't leave him alone. "Do you know him?" the paramedic asked me. "His name is James P. Jordan." "Is he a friend of yours?" "No, there's his identification. That's all I know about him." From that day on, I quit smoking. I stopped being a phantom smoker. But I couldn't stop thinking about James. I didn't know where his funeral was, if he was cremated, I knew nothing about him, I didn't know what happened after they took him away. Because I returned to my cubicle, back to my life, to work. Part of me wishes I knew where he is to bring him flowers, to see his obituary, and sit there thinking about nothing, just as I did before I met him. Sometimes I miss James. I wish I had known him in life. Maybe we could have been great friends. Perhaps we would have watched soccer or played video games. Perhaps he would have told me about his girlfriend while we drank beer on the roof of my house. Maybe he would have convinced me to fly on a plane to overcome my irrational fear of flying. Perhaps James and I would have been best friends, talking several times a week, and we would have a photo hanging together on a wall. But no, I met the one who could have been my best friend when he was already dead.


*Pilot, please report to the autonomic astronav unit.* I waited for Maria longer than usual. She usually would vanish for only minutes at a time, sometimes lingering to play with another one of the children in the nursery, but eventually, she'd always come back to me, at least for a little while. I haven't seen her all day, which was strange. Today, I turn six in standard years. The nursery was quiet. I usually play by myself or with Maria when she comes she takes me to sit by the window. She balances me on her lap and sings me the names of all the stars we see swiftly drift by us as the space station spins. I can name them all myself now. It's my favorite game to play - who can name the stars first. When I win, she gives me a hug and wipes the smudges of chocolate off my chin or shines the metallic patch on my forehead. We laugh together too. I sat by the window mumbling star names to myself when the pressurized nursery bay doors hissed open. I turned to look. It wasn’t Maria, as I’d hoped. It was the director. She had stern, dark eyes. I had never seen her smile, even though she often spent all day with Maria. Whenever I see her, I turn away, and look out the window and try not to make a sound. I almost shrieked when she tapped my shoulder. “Happy birthday.” she said softly. I looked at her. My eyes were wide and guilty. “Come with me, please.” she said. “You’re not in trouble. I promise.” She took me by the hand. My palms were already sweaty. My hands looked so little in hers. She led me down a long grey tunnel that seemed to wind aimlessly away from the nursery door. I didn’t know this place. I clutched her arm. The world outside the nursery station was monstrously big. Even the windows were bigger. The stars looked further away than I ever imagined. They didn’t have the same familiar spin of the station I knew, and I couldn’t name them all, even as I searched them in my memory base. At the end of the cold corridor, the director finally opened the door to a large room enclosed entirely by windows - no walls. I suddenly noticed my memory base console. It had become impossible to ignore the constant relays. It produced a complete astronav report. “I know where we are.” I muttered automatically. The director cracked the slightest smile. “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked. I was surprised to hear the slightest sympathy in her voice. I gave a timid nod. She put a bony hand on my shoulder. “Good. No one knows this place better than you.” She gestured vaguely to the star-freckled blackness all around. She wheeled around and left, leaving me in the star-room all by myself. I already knew what this was. I used to have a friend. He seemed older than me by a few birthdays, but he would play with me by the window sometimes. We’d sit together and pretend to be light-beams racing through galaxies, transmitting our differential gravity images to one another. We would almost choke on our laughter seeing how twisted a galaxy might look in the other’s eyes when we changed our velocities even slightly. He and I shared the same name - Pilot. One day, the director took him away. When he came back, he seemed devastated. “If I don’t accelerate soon, I’ll be stuck in this nursery forever.” he said to me on the verge of tears. I was confused by this, and I still am. I prefered the nursery to this place. We didn’t play the light-beam game after that. He only played with the older kids, until one day he left with the director and Maria, and I never saw him return to the nursery station again. Through the windows, the stars looked very still. The spinning nursery station had drifted away some distance, but I knew it was there. An array of control panels and displays emerged automatically from the floor. My memory base flooded with instructions. I understood the controls, as if I always had. The holopanels and instrument consoles that towered above me all over the room must have been mainly for display, or perhaps a backup. I could modulate all of them with my head, just by thinking. Another data message flashed into sight: *Pilot, please initiate autonomic astronav protocols* \- *encoding course to Acheron-418c.* A thousand parallel computations sped off in my head, somehow separate and together, like ants on the lunch-bay floor. I wanted to crush them all, all at once. Whatever test this was, I could just fail it, and go back to the nursery and sit and play by the window. I fought to squash all the subroutines that looped in my mind without asking me first. One after the other, the converging optimal-path calculations that crowded my thoughts I whittled to a tolerable murmur. When I did this while playing, Maria or the director came to check on me. Whatever was happening, I could delay. At any moment, someone would come in the door and take me home. I sometimes wonder about my mind. Maria tells me “Your mind is so wonderful and full of stars, Pilot.” My mind really is so malleable, especially after my memory base was installed. I could memorize a galaxy in an afternoon, sitting on Maria’s lap at the window. Watching the universe spin around us, no part of me felt metallic. I knew where I was. “You’re like a ray of light that became a boy!” she’d say as I recited differential stellar quadrants on her lap. The memory base display on her forehead would blink green when she smiled, matching the color of her eyes. Thinking of that always made me feel safe, even here in the lonely pilot chamber of an interstellar frigate, awash in the glow of endless familiar and unfamiliar stars. All steadily accelerating. Soon, I could no longer see stars, only wispy lengths beside me, flashing into view and fading far behind. The world was strange only for a moment until I sensed the unmistakable touch of galaxy-bent space. The computations had stopped. My mind was mine and only mine now. I remembered my idle day playing by the window. It seemed so far away now, and strangely purposeful, as I weaved through starry spirals in wide effortless arcs - blue-shifting starlight, and inky wells of hot gravity. I always knew where we were. But each moment, we were further and further from the nursery.


The man thought he would like to become a writer, but didn’t think he was well read enough. He ordered some books. Some were from the Amazon best-seller list, others he picked from a forum post: 100 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU DIE. He cherrypicked the shorter books with a page count of less than or around two hundred pages. This, he theorized, was the best way to get through as many books as possible in the shortest amount of time. He picked books from a variety of genres, but none too old. He would read these books two at a time. He would balance a novel and a book of short stories, or a book of essays. He would read the biographies of great men. When a book was done he would tick it off on his GoodReads profile (which he would set up) and pick up another. He would use various items for bookmarks – receipts, playing cards, dollar bills – but never an *actual* bookmark. He would go to great pains to never fold a corner or crease a spine. He would line the completed books on a shelf and occasionally make a mental note of how many there were. Previously abandoned books, including a fat Wordworth Classics edition of The Brothers Karamazov sat in a stack on the coffee table. After a time he would be ready to write, but what to write on? He had a laptop he used in his old job, but the screen was a whopping seventeen inches and when the graphics card was under duress the large fans would produce a steady drone. The laptop was full of messaging apps and games and other distractions. The weight hurt his knees after prolonged use. Not to mention the association with work. He didn’t want writing to be ‘work’. Best to find something smaller, less distracting. Something with no internet and a better battery (for long sessions in the coffee shop). He Googled for the most spartan notepad app, recalling an article he read about George R. R. Martin and how he used a DOS processor for all his work. The man made a mental note to keep a constant supply of backups, versions. Then there was the problem of where to write. He cleared the miscellany of the study into the spare bedroom, armfuls at a time. He rotated the trinkets on the sills and shelves, dusting beneath each in turn. Lint listed lazily in the daylight as the man vigorously vacuum-cleaned right into the corners, sweat shimmering on his red neck. He filled garbage bags until there was no more room in the can outside. He wiped down the old school desk and arranged a lamp, an ipad dock, a coaster with ‘COFFEE IS THE GASOLINE OF LIFE’ recessed across it. Then the problem of *what* to write. He bought a moleskin notebook with the intention of writing down minutia and trivia. Observations. He picked one that slipped easily into his jacket pocket, for rapid retrieval. He considered buying a hip-flask for the other pocket; after all, the best writers were also irresponsible drinkers. Maybe he could develop a habit and fast-track himself to Hemmingway status? Or perhaps he should be more mindful of his intake? Healthy body, healthy mind. He stocked his fridge with vegetables and bought flax and chia seed from a health food store. He made a couple of smoothies but struggled getting the ratios right. Instead, blended apple and kale congealed over a lake of coconut water. He grimaced as he drank, and spent the afternoon sucking kale flecks out of his gums. His wife comes home at around 5pm and he is already preparing dinner. She asks how his day was and he replies ‘productive’. An hour later, with the plates soaking in the sink, they collapse onto the sofa and watch TV. The show ends, and the great Netflix algorithm recommends another, then another. He dozes to the gentle tones of Bob Ross. As 11pm approaches they proceed up to bed, single file, turning the study light off as they pass. As he slips into unconciousness, the man thinks that maybe he would like to become a painter.


Shelley knew to keep quiet; years of conditioning will do that to a person. There was little to take- there never was, when you rarely even feel like a guest at a new address you learn not to burden the space with stuff. “Shelley, are you packing?” the question didn’t need to be asked but her Mother was in full panic mode. Time was always of the essence when they were moving.

“Yes, nearly finished, Mum” but as the last syllables left her lips, she immediately regretted them. Thoughtless, thoughtless Shelley. Shaking her head, she knew she had made an error. Words were like bombs in these high-stake situations and she knew better than to drop them when her mother was already so close to losing the last of her sanity. “Nearly finished, Shelley for Christ sake, I asked you two hours ago, how can you only nearly be finished?” She could hear the sigh telepathically as even her teenage hearing couldn’t pick that up from downstairs. Nonetheless she could visualise her mother’s lips purse as the air escaped. She could visualise her prematurely wrinkled face screw up in fear and misplaced anger. Misplaced as she knew that Shelley was not the reason, they were in such a rush, knew that Shelley’s behaviour hadn’t ruined a perfectly good home. Shelley knew better than to retort or add a match to a situation drenched in gasoline. She hadn’t always been so reserved, in fact at points, she had been downright cavalier. But, shouting, bitching wailing, only extended the inevitable and in most cases, led to her misplacing or forgetting the very few possessions she had attempted to collect. For years she had struggled to contain her temper, to bottle the emotions that bubbled from their childish to hormonal ways, but any behaviour can be learned if it is practiced enough. The hands on the clock were acting in a way contrary to the laws of physics. One minute Shelley felt that time was dragging and the next time she looked half an hour had passed. It was currently in the former of the two. She sat amongst the three lowly bags she had packed, the ruins of another failed address, another failed attempt, another failed series of promises. Glancing at the slowly moving hand on the clock she realised that it was past any semblance of dinner time. Darkness had shrouded them and this time not just because the electricity had not been paid. Lets be honest a bar bill often necessitates being paid over lighting when the landlord is 6 foot 4 and built like a semi pro wrestler but her mother had always liked to keep the lights off when they were doing their midnight flit. Shelley could hear her mother bordering on the frenetic downstairs. Cupboards were being shut with increased loudness, her movements back on forth from the rooms becoming more chaotic as she bundled up the last three months of a home. Three months of stability that was always teetering on an edge of the consequences of a shoddy gambler. It was always going to end like this, history had never failed to repeat itself, but they were all falling into the chasm once again. “Shelley, come down here your father will be home any minute- he won’t want to wait around” of course he wouldn’t – he never does. When you’re running from your present and your past you tend to want to do it at pace. “Coming” Shelley uncrossed her legs, thankfully before the pins and needles had fully set in. Looking around, for what would be the last time, she realised she had liked this place. It was much better than most of the places before, when black mould would creep up the walls, permeating everything it touched with its ever increasing growth. The ceiling had also been intact which, again, was a nice surprise. You cannot take clean and dry sheets for granted. Picking up the bags she moved down the stairs. Down to the turmoil that surrounded her mother. The disaster that her mother had tolerated and been a participant in. I’m sure she felt that she was doing her best, keeping her family together, but could you keep something together that was so fractured industrial glue couldn’t even fuse the cracks? Downstairs bags were strewn near the front door ready for the fleeing exit. There would be no goodbyes from neighbours just skid marks on the road being the last memory that they had resided here. In fact, I’m sure the neighbours didn’t even know their names. When you move as often as her family did, it was always best to not give a forwarding address. It makes those unpaid bills that bit harder to be repaid. “Shelley, thank god, your dad is on his way, help me move this picture” of course there was a picture to be moved. Her father’s fury could always penetrate plaster board. Thankfully they had become resourceful in fixing and mending in short time frames. If she ever got to finish her education, she could always look at career in interior design. As the picture was finally adjusted her father walked in. His permanent odour of stout and Marlboros trailed in behind him, like a ghost of his afternoon. Shelley was quiet once again as she helped her mother move their pitiful belongings to the car. Her father, as inept as usual, stood on his phone shifting from foot-to-foot anxiety billowing from his pores in the same way the cigarette smoke billowed from his mouth.

Not for the first time Shelley felt the hate rise tasting its hot bile flavour at the back of her throat. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time they would flee in the night, but she knew these days were numbered. She wouldn’t be a teenager forever and even if her mother wouldn’t leave, she knew she could, and would.

As she got into the backseat of the car it was only this thought that stopped her from screaming.


The steam hit my face as I took a sip from my cup. My grandmother smiled at me sweetly. I looked down into my oolong tea and saw it again. The same thing I saw every time I drank oolong tea. If you didn't know, oolong tea has mental alertness benefits, or that's what my grandma always told me as a child. She wasn't wrong. Only, I don't think she thought I'd see a premonition when I drank the tea. I never told anyone what had happened. I was scared someone was going to throw me into a mental hospital or experiment on me in an illegal government lab. The vision I saw was like a daydream. I can't move, I never felt like I was breathing, and everything felt like it was moving at a snail's pace. The only thing I heard was a flatline. The only thing I saw was my grandmother lying in a hospital bed with 9:13 on the clock next to her. It terrified me. Seeing my grandma and hearing a flatline? No one wants to see or hear it--let alone knowing she's in perfect health and still seeing it? I had it a few times before I stopped drinking the tea altogether. This is until today. September 12th. My grandma invited me over after my classes. She wanted to bake brownies and drink tea. Catch up because I hadn't been there in a bit. I walked inside to see her sitting in her rocking chair. Her brown, leather chair with a red flannel hanging off the back. She smiled at me as she saw me. I sat my backpack down. "Ella, lovely to see you, dear," Mama Rose said. "Hi, Mama Rose," I greeted. "Come sit with me. I was looking at old pictures of your Papa, Joe." I walked over and sat by her. I hadn't noticed the photo book on her lap before now. She was on a page with six pictures on it. The top left was a picture of her and papa on their wedding day. Below it was Mama, Papa, and baby version my mother. They were sitting on the porch and my mom was distracted by something off-camera. The bottom picture on the left was Mama, Papa, and I--sitting on the same porch, and I was distracted by something to my left. On the same page on the right were Mom and me. I was much older and we sat on the porch. We were both looking at the camera. Below it was the same day, just a remade version of Mama, Papa, and I. The last picture was a picture of me next to Mom and Papa's grave. "I miss him so much," Mama said. Her wrinkled finger traced the gravestone in the picture. "How about some tea, Mama?" I asked. I got up and made a pot. "You know, your Papa loved watching baseball?" Mama called out. "He just adored you when you started playing." "I played just for him, Mama," I called out as I waited for the pot to finish. "Oh, I know, dear. I'm surprised he didn't know that." "I was horrible! He still cheered for me." "Your own personal cheerleader." I let out a laugh. The pot hissed once it was finished. I grabbed two cups from the cupboard and poured the fresh oolong tea into them. I placed Mama's sugar in one and mine in the other. I took the cups over to where we were sitting. I gave her, her glass. She took a drink and I hesitated. Mama set her cup down. "You know, Ella," Mama said. "When I drank my special oolong tea for the first time, I saw a man lying in a bed. For many years it scared me because the man was dying. I didn't know him, but I felt him die when he took in this deep breath." I gave her a confused look as she continued, "--and for many years, I didn't know who that man was." "Who was it, Mama?" I asked. "It was your Papa Joe." I was stunned. She saw Papa's death like I was seeing hers? "I'm guessing you're seeing someone else die, too?" She asked. I gave a nod. She smiled. "I'm glad I'm not the only one," she said. "Your mother never wanted to drink the tea." She let out a sigh that turned into a hum. "I should get some sleep," she said. She closed the photo book and stood up. She put the book back on the shelf. There were rows and rows of photo books. "Good night, Ella," Mama said. She walked off. "Good night, Mama," I said. I took a sip of my tea and saw it again. Mama dying in the hospital bed. I thought nothing of it and went back to my dorm. I took my nightly shower and went to bed quickly. I woke up to a disturbing call late in the night. Well, it was 1 in the morning. Mama was taken to the hospital. I quickly put clothes on and rushed there. She was already on oxygen. I looked at the time and it read 1:34. Nowhere close to 9:13. Time progressed and Mama wasn't getting any better. The day had gone by. It was 11:50 pm. I was more confused than ever and even so, she didn't die at 9:13 am or pm. Time was ticking. Mama reached her hand out to me. I took it. "I'm ready to see Joe again," she said. Tears started falling down my face. "I miss him so much, Ella," Mama told me. "Mama, stay with me," I begged her. "I'm not ready to lose you yet." "Yes, you are. I love you, Ella. I love you so much, dear." "I love you, Mama." Mama took a deep breath and the monitor let out a flatline. I started sobbing and I saw the time. 11:59. A doctor ran in and did something. I was too focused on Mama's face. A tear had slipped down her face. "Time of death," the doctor announced. "23:59, 9/13."


I look out the window of the truck that was bumping along the dirt road, the bulletproof glass covered with pearly drops of rain. They danced down the glass, maneuvering and merging with other drops. Despite everything, I grin, laughing as they trickle down and I trace them with my finger. As I feel the wind from the baton rushing against my ear, I stop smiling and suck in a sharp breath, the baton crashing against my skull. My face turns into a grimace, allowing them to gag me and tie me up again. Warm blood trickles down my face, wanting to be like the drops of rainwater on the window. But rainwater isn’t red and sticky and thick, and rainwater isn’t what’s dripping on my white uniform right now. I keep wondering. Why am I here? This is a prison, strong as that of Alcatraz, in which I am being held captive. I feel something else on my cheek, mingling with the blood, salty and flowing. Tears, I guess. I hear a mutter from one of the armed guards accompanying me, something like sissy. I’m not sure though. My breathing is shallow, my eyes watering and my forehead gushing blood. One guard hits me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, then I don’t remember the rest of the ride, seeing as it is spent unconscious in a potato sack. When I wake up, I go to rub my head before remembering the biting pain of the zip ties around my wrists and ankles. I squirm, trying to maneuver my wrists out of the binds. My hands grasp blindly for anything, *anything* that I can cut myself free with. I fiddle with a round knob on the floor, it feels like a doorknob. I scoot forward a bit, pulling upward on the handle as soon as the guards look away. I begin to fall until I’m able to find a handhold on the rock wall. I feel a sharp pain as one of the rocks scrapes on my arm, then I get an idea. I scrape my zip-tied wrists over the sharp stone, over and over again, until I feel it loosen and fall off. I grasp the wall, trying to feel for cracks in it, though not succeeding. I continue to fall, my arms scratching against the wall, bleeding. I hit the ground with a thud and a few cracks. I yelp out in pain, my teeth grinding with the impact. My eyes water. My dirt caked cheeks quickly turn to mud covered, tears slipping and sliding and making patterns through it. I pull out the messy bun the guards had called ‘prison protocol’ before they had started to laugh hysterically at the alliteration they had created, and I use the elastic to hold my hair in a braid. Despite everything, I won’t let them stop me from getting out of here. From seeing the family that I don’t remember, the one they erased from my mind, just as they had my name. They were calling me Kid or Girl, but not by a name. Then I remember. I remember it all in a burst of light that illuminates not just the tunnel, but also the black hole of my mind. I am Roselia, I don’t have a family. I crawl out of the tunnel. *I’m not that person anymore,* I decide. I’m not going to be Roselia. From now on, I’m Delilah Clarence. My sister's and her ex-boyfriend’s name. But no one needs to know that, and no one ever will. Because no one knows them. The same thing here, though. No one ever will. I mean, that’s why I was there. I killed them.


Left or right? left or right? I have played this game a hundred times. Which way do I go? where can I hide? No matter my choice he always seems to be there, waiting. He’s too fast to outrun, and even when I hide he can find me within seconds. I’ve only been able to fend him off so far by accident. The last time he caught up to me I was able to grab a handful of hair and scratch at his face. He scurried away quickly, but will have recovered soon, he heals too quickly to do any lasting damage. I must make the choice while I still have the time. Left or right? To the right is the long hallway. That direction could lead to temporary shelter in one of the openings along the way, but that is only if I can make the stretch of the hallway without him finding me. If I go left the room opens up, and there is more room if I need to defend myself. However, the floor can sometimes be slick, it’s impossible to tell if there will be water on the floor. Right. I’ll go right. I’ve gotten faster I can make the length. I hear a noise behind me. Could it be him? Has he recovered yet? I can no longer hear his labored breathing. I turn to go right but as I do, I see a shape out of the corner of my eye. A shape twice my size, moving at unbelievable speeds. In desperation I turn left I head towards the open room, rushing around the corner as fast as I can. I see an opening, a pathway out of the maze leading to open air. If I make it before he catches me then I can escape. As fast as I can I move towards the opening hoping that he doesn’t see me move, hoping that I’m quiet. I can see freedom, I can see green, I see my way out. I put on a final burst of speed and slam headfirst into a glass wall. The sound of my body crumpling against the glass is loud enough to draw attention. His body emerges from the shadows of the room before. His eyes are wide, and his crazed grin gets even bigger as he lets out a laugh of delight. This is it. There is nothing I can do. Head still aching I try to stand, using the glass wall as a support. If he is to get me then I will give him a fight. I stand on my shaking legs, trying to rise with dignity. My heart pounds as he races toward me, I barely have time to raise my hands in front of my face when I feel the full force hit me. I am pushed to the ground, his body crushing mine. The weight is impossible. I cannot move. In desperation I find my voice- letting out a cry, hoping beyond hope that someone, anyone, will hear my voice. A scream fills the air. “What’s going on over here?” A woman walks into the dining room and sees her children on the ground in front of the screen door. Her toddler jumps off his sister and looks away shame-facedly. “Benjamin, how many times have I told you, Baby Gwen is too little to wrestle with. Look, you hurt her, she’s crying because you scared her,” The mother says as she scoops up the bawling infant in her arms “Saw-ee Mama,” The boy looks apologetically at his mother “No, don’t apologize to me, apologize to baby,” “Saw-ee Baby” “Thank you buddy, now please, be more careful next time”.


IN THE KEY OF F-MINOR (7th) The city blocks of seventy story (and higher) skyscrapers collapsing from the shock of the pulsed wave cannon resonated at 21.827Hz, if only for a brief moment. It was a low hum, but it was a strong foundation to build with. The miles of automated vehicle assembly plants; 29.956Hz. But there was a certain angle the phased picowatt laser array had to burn through them, starting at the foundations and working it's way up through the infrastructures three or four at a time. It was a gentle, almost fragile sound. Timing the spin-up of the mass driver was tricky, but it paid off: 32.703Hz vibration frequency as the thousands of tons that had been a section of a mountain, now traveling at twice the speed of sound, devastated the remaining megalopolis. A firm and true note. Something was missing, though. The AI on board the mobile weapons platform tutted as it cycled through it's library of weaponry looking for the perfect device to finish. In the span of nanoseconds, it settled on the ideal coup de grâce . The protective shielding covering the quadruple canisters of missiles slid smoothly out of the way. Each missile contained twenty-four multiple independently-targeting re-entry vehicles, with every warhead armed with a nuclear payload. All four launched in a shallow arc into the stratosphere. As the umbrella of destruction rained down, vaporizing the horizon, the landscape itself shook at a perfect 38.891Hz, a pleading but impactful E flat. The AI hummed along with this perfect chord, satisfied.


My head hits the surface with a loud thud. I cry out as my eyes snap open into a bright, pink light. I grumble to myself as I realize that I’m sitting in my car, clutching my steering wheel. Huh? My head must’ve drooped down and hit the wheel. Did I fall asleep driving again? I glance down and see that my car is in drive, but it’s not moving. I look back up. Vibrant hues of peach and pink paint the dusk sky, with puffy clouds persisting overhead. My car rests on a long road, stretching out straight for miles disappearing into the horizon. Either side of the road are empty, open fields of red dirt. The concrete road looks almost purple from the bright sky. I furrow my brows.

I’ve never been here before. I must’ve gotten tired and, not paying attention, drove in this direction. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been spending too much time at the office, and way too much time staring at spreadsheets. But it looks like it’ll be late soon. I need to make sure the team’s presentations are ready for next week. I need to finish working, which means I need to head home. Whatever direction that is.

I reach for my purse in the passenger’s seat and pull out my phone. I try to turn it on to use the GPS. But the screen doesn’t light. I press all the buttons as many times as I can before my fingers get tired, but nothing happens. I groan and toss it back into my purse. I guess I’m on my own for this one. I’ll have to drive until I find someone who can help, or something familiar. I mean, I can’t be that far. But I need to hurry.

I press down on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward shakily, rolling down the road and rumbling. I hiss. I know my car is old, but I just had maintenance done on it. Why is it doing this to me now? I hit the gas again but I barely go any faster. My car continues to moan as it moves along the long street. I glance back up at the sky as I drive. I try to plot out what I have to work on when I get home. But I can’t focus. Why is it so bright? I know, light pollution is a thing. But I’ve never seen the sky like this before, so vivid and yet so suffocating. It almost looks… fake. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see them.

I almost miss it, since I’m staring up at the pink clouds. But I turn just in time to watch a herd of deer galloping in the distance, in the fields off the right side of the road. They look like deer, lean and agile as they trot off into the horizon. But their skin looks almost too rosy in the bright sky, like they’re actually pink, and they move so fast that it doesn’t really look like

they’re running. It looks like they’re floating. I blink, trying to force my eyes to see clearer. But as my eyes reopen, they are too far and their silhouettes fade into the distance.

I sigh and turn back to the road. As I do, I notice a man crossing in the middle of the street. I slam on my brakes, my tires screeching, just in time to stop my car from crashing right into him. I scowl, lowering my window and sticking my head out. “What’s wrong with you?!” I snap at him. “Can’t you see where you’re going?” The man hesitates, looking at the ground for a moment. He slowly raises his head to me and our eyes meet. He’s young, probably close to my age. His olive skin glows in the vibrant light and his long, dark hair is disheveled, strands hanging messily in his face. He stares at me for a moment before speaking.

“Sorry,” he says in a deep, but still soft, voice. “But you didn’t exactly see me either.” I purse my lips. “I saw you enough to stop before I hit you. What’s your point?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He nods. “I’m just… confused. I don’t know where I am.” My first thought is that he’s drunk or high. But then my second thought is that I don’t know where I am either, and I’m pretty sure I’m sober. Yeah, pretty sure…

I grip my steering wheel, wanting more than anything to just drive around him. But I don’t. I know I’m confused and I know I’m in a rush but… I can’t. I press a button to unlock my car doors. I motion to him. “Get inside,” I sigh. “I’m lost too. Maybe we can help each other.” He hesitates again. He looks around at the wide, empty field beside us, and then down the long, seemingly endless road. Then he nods and hurries into my passenger seat. I lock the door after him and hit the gas again, my car once again rumbling and quivering down the street. “My name is Aydan,” he says as he clicks on his seatbelt. “Oh.” I wasn’t expecting him to tell me his name. “I’m Elena.” “You look familiar.” I bite my lip. I’ve been staring at him out of the corner of my eyes, wondering the same thing. I know I’ve seen him before. From work? From college? From a night out? I don’t know. He’s so familiar, and yet so not, almost like he’s from a dream. “How did you get here?” I ask.

“I don’t remember. I just woke up on the side of the road. And you?” “...I don’t know. I kinda just woke up in my car.” Ayden doesn’t respond. But a tense silence now fills my car. What are the chances of us both waking up here, on a road neither of us know? Then Ayden bolts forward, pointing out the window. “Look at that!” I jump, following his finger. He’s pointing up at the sky. The pink clouds move through the sky, like normal… Except, they’re not normal. They’re practically speeding through the air, swirling into each other and changing hues of pink so fast, it almost hurts my eyes to watch.

I hit the brakes and stop the car again. Ayden starts to fly forward but is stopped by the seatbelt. He looks at me, eyes wide and confused.

“Something about this isn’t right,” I murmur. Am I talking to him or to myself? “Everything feels so fake, like it’s a dream, but I know I’m awake or… At least I think I am.” “Before you found me, I was staring up at the sky,” Ayden says. “And I saw what I thought were really big birds. But when I looked again, they didn’t look like birds. They looked kinda like people, flying up there.” “Then I have to be dreaming.” “No, if we were dreaming, I would’ve woken up when you almost hit me and scared the crap out of me.” I glare at Ayden but he’s unphased. “We can’t be asleep.” I shake my head. “No, I’m asleep. And you’re just a part of my dream.” Ayden crosses his arms and purses his lips. He’s thinking. He then reaches for my purse, digging through it. I gasp and reach out to stop him. But he pulls out a pen and then catches my wrist, holding it tightly. He uncaps the pen between his teeth and then presses the point into my forearm, so hard that it stings. I wince and try to pull away but I can’t. He drags the pen down, a black, inky mark staining my skin. He then lets me go. “See, I have to be real,” Ayden explains as I glare at him. “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. Dreams can’t hurt you. But I did.” I look down at the black line on my arm and then back up at him. He offers me a small smile and I can’t help but notice that he’s a little handsome. I grin back at him and nod. Yeah, he has to be right. If this weren’t real, I would’ve woken up by now. I press the gas and the car continues onward. “So, why do you think all of this is happening then?” I ask. “Maybe it’s not.” He shrugs. “Maybe we’re both dehydrated or we both got drugged and left here on the road. I don’t know. I just know I wanna get home.” “Me too.” We drive for a while, mostly in silence. Ayden tries to turn on the radio but nothing happens. We both try our phones, and again, nothing happens. The car continues forward and yet, nothing about the purple road changes. It keeps stretching on and on, without turns or dips or hills or anything. The clouds continue to swirl, and I see more deer in the distance again. But this time, I’m not sure they’re deer. I keep remembering what Ayden said, about the birds looking like people. The deer start to look like people to me too.

The only thing that changes is the moon. After a few minutes, we start to see it in the sky, though the pink hues don’t fade or grow any darker. As we continue, the moon seems to get closer and closer, like we’re driving into it and not into the horizon. Soon, it looms over us, right at the foot of the road. “Maybe we should stop,” Ayden says. His voice is quieter than before, soft and scared. “We won’t crash into it,” I argue. “It’s the moon.” “Yeah, but I’ve never seen the moon like that before. I’m just getting a little worried.” “You’re the one who said something must be wrong with us. That can’t be real. Besides, I have to get home. And you said you wanted to go too.” “I know, I know… I just feel anxious right now, and I don’t know why.” Ayden continues to complain, at one point even begging me to stop. But I don’t. It’s not even so much that I’m in a rush or the presentation or anything. I just can’t will myself to stop. The moon is now all we can see, a pale pink so bright in front of us, that it’s practically white. I wonder if Ayden’s right, if I should stop, but I can’t get my foot off the gas. It’s like my lower body refuses to move, to listen. As the white is all I can see, I realize Ayden is quiet. I’m about to turn to him, to ask if he’s okay, when a loud, echoing metallic clang fills my ears. I try to scream but no sound comes out. It’s all white. Just everything… white. --------------------------------------------- “Miss! Miss, stay with me!”

My eyes flutter open. The first thing I see is the moon, a small white crescent in the dark, starry sky overhead. Someone is carrying me in strong, sturdy arms. An unfamiliar face looks down at me and smiles.

“Oh, thank god,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I thought we lost you.” “...Where…” I choke out, my voice dry and hoarse. It hurts to talk. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe.

“You’re off the freeway,” the man explains. He lays me down gently in a stretcher and I wince. Everything just… hurts. “There was an accident. I think you fell asleep at the wheel, miss. But… I guess that doesn’t matter right now. You need to get to the hospital.” Two people lift my stretcher and roll it into the back of an ambulance. I wince and look at their uniforms. EMTs. It’s bright in the ambulance and I groan. I remember the vibrant, pink sky from my dream. I would rather have that then this white light. My dream… Just a dream. “Who was the victim?” I hear one of the EMTs asking an officer outside of the ambulance as the second EMT starts to hook something up to my arm. I look. It’s an IV.

“Some poor guy crossing the street,” a police officer explains. “She didn’t even see him. He was a photographer, Ayden Patel. He didn’t make it.” My eyes snap all the way open and I try to sit up. Both EMTs hurry to me, holding me down and talking to me. But I can’t hear them. All I hear are the sounds of my screaming and the name again and again in my head. Ayden? No, it was my dream. Just a dream. The doors to the ambulance slam shut and we speed forward, while I’m still yelling. One of the EMTs injects something into my arm. I start to get sleepy, feeling myself slip into another dream. No, I don’t wanna sleep again. I don’t want any more dreams. As I lose myself again, I look at my arm where they injected me with some kind of sedative. And I see the black, inky mark still trailing down my forearm.


Jake turned away from his mother’s current one-sided shouting match with the driver in front of them. He looked out the window as the phone towers ran past them. ‘Probably to get away from her screaming. Would that I could be so lucky. Too bad they are all chained together or they could escape more easily’ “-maybe you should pray to God for some driving lessons! It’s a miracle that you managed to find the keyhole you moron!” Jake turned to look at his mother’s face. Her lips were compressed in anger. He decided to speak. “Maybe they are having an emergency. Like having to rush to the hospital.” She kept her eyes straight ahead. Her tone was as gritty as the road, “Then why wouldn’t they call an ambulance?” Jake replied tentatively, “Would you be able to afford an ambulance?” She was silent now. He couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or if she was thinking what he said through. He hoped that she was experiencing a rare moment of self-reflection. Her thumbs flexed as she still gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. The passing fields made a less stressful preoccupation than that, so he turned away again. ‘See, this is why I don’t want to drive. It makes them both so angry.’ He couldn’t bear the starchy silence any longer, “How much longer do you think it will be?”. She flicked her head to his side of the car, “Check the map.” Jake reached by his feet to grab the atlas that was trapped by crossword books and snacks. He leafed through the spiral bound tomb until he came to the familiar highlighted pages. He traced his finger from their last stopping point a little way and held it there as he looked up for a sign to tell him where in this hell-hole they were. There was nothing but fields, telephone towers, and endless road in sight. Jake looked back down. His finger moved across the map but the path wasn’t making any sense. Until he saw that he had made the grave error of a misdirected turn. He felt a surge of adrenaline bore up his spine and spider-web through his head as his eyes grew wide with a sharp sense of terror. ‘Oh, she’s not going to be happy about this.’ He didn’t want to ask, he hoped that he was wrong about being wrong. He dared to risk the question, “Do you know where we are? Which road we are on?” She was annoyed as she said, “35 North. Still.” He froze, and kept quiet as he tried to calm down. Deep, silent breaths. He gave her the right directions. They were still on course. The shards of anxiety slowly melted from his mind. He kept his eyes glued to his finger tip, unseeing, as he heard his mom’s voice. “So? Are we on track?” “Yep.” Jake put the map back in its resting place and decided against asking the time related question again. If the question caused confusion or started a fight, he’s not sure he could handle it after that scare. ‘It won’t be long now. Just have to make it until tomorrow morning at the latest.’ ‘I might as well take a nap; it will help pass the time.’ He brought his knees up to his seat-belted torso and rested his head on the window. He hated how it made his teeth chatter as he closed his eyes and tried to de-stress. The hum of the road was annoying but the seat vibrations were soothing. Time was passing with human silence until his mother pressed a radio console button to continue the cd story that was stopped during the previous driver confrontation. Something about a woman named Charity and a man named Selfish. Jake had heard it many times before on these trips. It was easy to fall asleep to. It was finally peaceful. He could relax. In his dream he opened his eyes and looked into the distance of the fields. There was a large older man there. Bigger than any skyscraper. Jake’s dream knowledge knew that it was God. It’s eyes scrutinized Jake. It reached behind itself and pulled out a rifle and aimed it at the car. Jake thought he could feel his heart beating faster. He felt panic as God raised the rifle to its eye and pulled the trigger. A teeny figure came from the far-off barrel. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it grew closer and became larger until it was half the size of God and was running right for him. It was Jake’s mother. And the imitation was approaching fast. It ran as though the car were a forest boar and hadn’t eaten in days. Its brows were furrowed, its face twisted. It screeched as it chased the car. It stumbled as it rounded the back of the vehicle. Jake turned to warn his driving mother but when he turned his head his face was next to the driver’s side window and watched the monster clamoring and clawing its way to where he sat. He looked down at his hands which were on the wheel. He tried to steer but the car would not let him. It was out of control. He turned his head to see the beast chasing him up the length of the swerving car until it was running right next to him and looking directly at him, so focused and intense. She looked manic. Jakes hands were glued to the steering wheel. He couldn’t move as she punched through the glass and latched on to his wrist. As they wrestled for control, the car became even more out of control, jerking across the road. Jake felt terrified and weak up against this rampaging visage on its warpath. The car was tipping over more with each jerk until it was falling over. They were crashing. He turned from her onslaught to focus on the road. God was Standing there, as big as before. As they thrashed towards it, it transformed from a much older man into a huge Jake. Time slowed down as the giant spoke: “See, my servant will act wisely; he will be raised and lifted up and highly exalted.” Jake’s adrenaline was flooding his body as the car crashed into the road and rolled. He couldn’t scream. His eyes opened. He was in his usual spot of the passenger seat. His mother was still driving. The familiar story form the CD continued on. He knew that his mom saw him look at her. But did not acknowledge it. Did she see him look at her? He didn’t care. He was just glad that he did not mumble or scream, which would cause questions. He could pretend that it never happened. He could pretend that everything was normal. “-kings will shut their mouths beca- beca- beca-.” Oh no. Here it comes. The radio has skipped before. The mother spoke, “work in Jesus’ name.” The radio replied,”beca- se- se- se-.” Her voice grew loud again “I command you to work! I plead the blood of Jesus on this radio. Talk to it Jake, tell it to work. Command it.” Jake put his hand on the radio, like he was taught to and echoed the same words his mother shouted. He tenses as he hears his mother. “You will respect me, as a child of God I command you!” The radio was too afraid to defy his mother for long. Jake wondered if it only started working again to get her to stop screaming at it. Jake leaned his head against the window. There was peace once more. For now, at least.


Backtrack Frank didn’t like himself. He really didn’t. The feelings first visited him at his wife’s funeral five years ago. He realized he wasn’t feeling the way he should be feeling. It was sad and all, but he wasn’t devastated, as if he had just lost his soul mate, the true love of his life. That was because he hadn’t. He sat in the front pew, just feet from the bronze casket, and the sad reality sunk in. Frank had “settled”. Darlene was a good woman, and a good mother, but it wasn’t the true love he had once dreamed of. At his age, Frank knew he wouldn’t have another shot at it, and that was a sad place to be. He caved to family pressure and spent thirty-seven years in a law office dealing with paperwork contrived by others. He hated every minute of it. He took more pride in a rabbit cage he once built than all the wills, real estate contracts, and leases he had drafted. At least he could see the real life purpose to it. Accurate or not, there is nothing in the human experience quite so sad as the perception of a wasted life. He was a loner, not by choice, but by the natural evolution of lack of energy and loss of interest in almost everything. He wasn’t suicidal or anything like that. He was just unhappy, not because of things happening to him, but because of what he done, or not done, with his life and what he had become. It was all made so much worse because he could remember a different Frank, a Frank he did like. Every night would end the same with Frank sitting alone at the kitchen table under a ticking clock with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums. Disappointed with his current life, and being too old to have much of a future life, Frank sought solace by visiting a former life, which he recalled as happy. The albums helped him remember who he once was. Frank kept it simple. He labeled the albums Backtrack #1, Backtrack #2, and Backtrack #3, each covering discernable segments of his life, grade school years, high school, and college days. He visited the Frank he found in those pages every night. Unlike many who look at the past with a melancholy sadness, Frank enjoyed the time he spent with the old Frank. Those were great times, and he was a great Frank. He opened Backtrack #1. A young boy stood in front of his garage, disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on his face, the right pant leg on his blue jeans rolled up to his calf, and holding a worn basketball under one arm. The picture was taken the same day he led the Celtics to another championship. Sometimes he would bounce a pass to K.C. Jones at the elbow, or rifle the ball to Heinsohn who would hit one from the corner. Most of the time Cousy took it himself, faking out his man and driving hard to the basket. Taking care not to hit the electric wires hanging over the basket, Frank developed his three-point shot before there was a three-point shot. He hoped he’d end up playing for the Celtics, but he’d be okay with a spot on any NBA roster. Dreams are so much better before they are unfulfilled. The alley looked so small. How could they have done so much in such a small place? The venue was narrow, the asphalt cracked and pitted, but it was Wrigley, The Garden, and Lambeau to those boys. It was all they needed for an outfield for whiffle ball games, a basketball court at the hoop on Cortzen’s garage, and a football field between the two telephone poles, the same poles that served as the goal and outer boundary for the games of “Ghost” at night. There were so many kids in the neighborhood. Frank could always round up enough bodies for some kind of a contest. It was such a good time, such a good place, and Frank liked going back there. Frank loved the picture of him holding his racers in front of the warming house at the town’s ice rink. He had to coast into a snowbank to stop, but those cold winter nights were the best. He would call Weather right after supper every night hoping the temperature was below 32˚ so the rink would be open. He would meet Cherri there. Even with the thick winter gloves, it was exciting to hold her hand as they skated in circles to the scratchy tones blaring out of the old loudspeaker hanging on one of the light poles. It was all the more delightful as his parents never knew the reason for Frank’s sudden interest in outdoor sports. Frank could name every kid in the picture of his 5 th Grade class. He remembered muffling cries of anguish whenever his good buddy Billy Sandler kicked him in the shins when Sister Mary Martin had her back to the class. No one ever understood why, but that’s what Billy did. It hurt back then, but Frank laughed about it now. They played with a mini football in the blocked off street at recess. Frank was always the first one picked, and he would play quarterback. When they weren’t playing football, it was Four Square, Red Rover, or just acting goofy. Frank liked recalling the carefree days of just being a kid. His mother kept most of his report cards, A’s and B’s across the board. Funny how a 77-year-old man can still take pride in that. A quarterback with top notch grades, not enough fingers for all his NBA Championship rings, and a girl’s first love. It doesn’t get any better than that. Frank closed Backtrack #1, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He opened Backtrack #2. He wished he didn’t have his eyes closed in the picture, but he was happy the local newspaper photographer snapped that shot of him hoisting the league championship trophy his senior year. The box score was posted right next to it, and his mom had circled his 17 points in red. He must have been embarrassed at the number of pictures his mom was taking at his Junior Prom. He cut a handsome figure, and the girls were all so beautiful. Judy was beyond beautiful. Every time Frank looked at those pictures, he smiled as he remembered his father’s final admonition as he left the house- “No drinking and keep a lid on the moochie-moochie stuff.” Frank was a fun guy back then, steep in mischief, and clever. He was the undercover guy who planned, organized, and assisted, but never got caught. Henry Hooper got busted, but it was Frank’s remote control fart machine that poor Henry was holding in the picture. He was the one who talked Dick Larson into riding his motorcycle up and down the school hallways, and even held the door open for him when blasted his way in, but he was never connected to the prank. The memorable day the aging Miss Helstern ran screaming out of her classroom, Frank’s little brother was missing a hamster. Frank liked that high school kid and his sense of humor, the boldness, the creativity, and the good sense to never get caught. The program from the high school talent show his sophomore year was bittersweet. Frank played the guitar-sort of. He and a couple of his buddies fancied themselves as the American version of the Beatles. Benji on the organ totally lost his place, and then the speakers went out. The group garnered lots of laughs with only a smattering of sympathy applause from some parents. His dad called him Elvis for the remainder of the year. Frank now laughed louder than anyone in the audience that night. Report cards weren’t in the album, but his grades were always solid. As he crept closer to the real world, he sensed a professional basketball career was no longer a certainty, and he started to contemplate more cerebral options. He had the grades and resources to consider a wide variety of possibilities. It was like “Anything Can Happen Day” on the Mickey Mouse Club Show that he watched as a child. Frank was in the starting blocks. He could go anywhere. He could be anything. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a scientist, a photographer, a veterinarian, a pilot, a sports reporter, anything. That is the beauty, the wonder, of the teenage years. One is free to imagine doing anything, of being anything. Frank loved visiting the guy who had the ability to dream, and every night Backtrack #2 put him there. Frank was tired, but he needed to spend just a little time with the guy in Backtrack #3. Those bothersome green leaves of summer were falling all around Frank, and he felt like he deserved, needed, the smiles to linger just a bit longer. Frank opened Backtrack #3. He almost couldn’t recognize himself in his track uniform. He couldn’t make the basketball team, but hard work can get you a spot on a small college track team. Shaggy long hair, a moustache, muscular shoulders, and tanned, toned arms and legs. Man, you were one good looking guy, Frank. At first, track was only his fallback sport, but Frank learned to love the comradery, the competition, and the trips around the Midwest. He ran the 880 and the mile, and he had a nice four-year career. Frank admired that guy's efforts and accomplishments. He remembered his dad telling him there was no better status in life than that of a college student, and Frank learned he was right. The party photos weren’t always the most flattering, but what the heck, they were college kids. Roger in a toga passed out on a park bench in front of the firehouse. Who took that picture?! Frank got him up and took him back to his dorm. The fraternity snow sculpture was disqualified for being “tasteless”. (Frank told them it wouldn’t fly.) The basement beer pong “battle to the death”. It was all so stupid, but it was so much fun. He remembered the northern pike being bigger than it looked in the picture. Every summer, he and Charlie would head up north for a long weekend fishing trip. Frank imagined himself in that rowboat, holding a cold can of beer, soaking in the sun, while keeping half an eye on that oversized red and white bobber bouncing around atop the glistening waves. If that wasn’t heaven, it had to be the next best thing. Some nights Frank would substitute a cold beer for the coffee. It helped put him back in that boat. Matters of the heart turned more serious. Frank was that incurable romantic who had the deck stacked against him from the get-go. Finding that “love-at-first sight, true love, soul mate” proved to be more difficult than coming up with a good match, so he remained largely unattached. He dated a number of girls, and somehow a few pictures survived the years and found a place in an album. They were all pretty, and he liked them all. There were parties, picnics, bike rides, canoe trips, the movies, days at the beach, repeated visits to the no entry fee zoo. Keeping it light, there was no drama, no stress, no pressure, no hurt, and it was all good. College Frank could be patient. He was young. There was a whole world of women out there. He knew he would find true love someday. It was a little like “Anything Can Happen Day” again. He could dream of her and what she would be like. That was the best part of Backtrack #3 for Frank. He liked thinking of a Frank at time when he could still imagine the moment he would meet his true love. Frank closed his eyes and blended it all together, that little boy shooting hoops in his backyard, holding Judy close to him as they danced at the prom, and giving it everything he had on the bell lap. It all swirled around in his mind until he could see one pretty good guy. He was proud to have been him. Frank put the albums away, rinsed out his coffee cup, and went to bed. He would get through another day tomorrow, and then sit down at that small table under the ticking clock for another meeting with the old Frank, that guy he once knew and loved.