Memories came rushing towards me as I thought about it more. The choice, the effort, the risks. Was I ready to take the chance?

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” my best friend Finn said when I brought up the idea, “You’re going to die! Everyone always has! There hasn’t been a person who actually completed all the games since before we were born!”

“Well, I’ll be the first,” I said, trying to make myself feel a little bit better.

“Whatever,” Finn said as he rolled his eyes, “There’s the mailbox. Go put your application in there.” I walked over to the mailbox and dropped my application letter in. I watched as I threw my life away to participate in a competition. As I expected, not many people had signed up. Why would they?

“So, what do we do now?” Finn asked as I came back towards him.

“I don’t know? Go get some ice cream and wait for tomorrow, I guess.”

The next day came by quicker than expected. By the time Finn and I got home, it was already well past midnight.

“I’ll tell you the news in the morning,” I told Finn while grabbing the unique gold and red-letter lying in the mailbox. The applications always came precisely at midnight on July 12th.

I sat down at the table and carefully opened the sparkly letter, trying not to rip any part of it. I pulled out the cream-colored paper inside, unfolded it, and laid it down on my marble countertop. It read: Dear Mr. Blake Champ,

We have reviewed your application and made a decision based on it. The Board of the Games has decided that you would make a great contestant in the Million Dollar Games, and we cannot wait to meet you at the Games Central today at 5 pm sharp.

Don’t be late,

Ashley Darwin From The Board of the Games

I knew I would make it, but some part of me wished I hadn’t. I rushed over to Finn’s house, forgetting I was supposed to tell him the next morning. When I arrived at his home, I walked up the stairs to his porch and knocked on his door. When he opened it, out came a disgusted looking Finn, in his pajamas. “What are you doing? You’re shirtless, look like you’ve been running, and it’s one am,” Finn said, very concerned for his friend.

“Well, I-,” I started.

“Wait, why are you shirtless?? That’s just creepy, man!” Finn interrupted.

“I didn’t have-,” I tried to say again.

“It’s one am!!!” Finn interrupted once again. “I GOT INTO THE COMPETITION AND I HAD TO LET YOU KNOW!” I yelled fast so he wouldn’t interrupt me again.

“Oh. Didn’t you say you would tell me in the morning?” Finn asked, wiping his eyes.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“Oh, then congrats! See you when you win and return! Goodnight!” Finn said, almost falling asleep.

“Yeah, goodnight,” I said as I started to run back to my house.

In the afternoon, I packed up my bags to go to the Games Central. I packed a couple of grey underwear pairs, a couple of t-shirts and shorts, some deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and conditioner, some money, and my yellow racecar phone. I then took my purple leather suitcase, took it downstairs, turned off all the lights, and headed for the bus stop.

I knew by watching the games each year; I was looking for a particular lime and purple bus with the words Million Dollar Games embedded on them. After about 30 minutes, the bus arrived carrying nine other contestants. Inside, one thing was shared between most of them. They were all panicking, except this one girl.

This one girl was sitting on a bus seat all alone in the back of the bus. She was short, with red curly hair and freckles. She has little round black glasses and a button nose. She looked around my age and was wearing a white t-shirt, a grey cardigan, light blue ripped jeans, and some white vans. I walked over to the seat on the other side of the aisle and sat down.

“Hi!” she said with a soft, gentle voice, giving me a little wave, “I’m Olivia.”

“Hi, I’m Blake,” I said, having no idea what else to say.

“So, are you excited about the games? My parents told me that the games have this good screen screen effect to make it look like we are dying. Isn’t that cool?” Olivia said as she started to stare out the window. “Yeah, yeah, I hope so, I’ve wanted to do these since I was a child. Dangerous things always seemed to appeal to me.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Olivia said as she smiled a little bit.

When we got to the Games Central and opened the large glass doors, we walked into a room with foam pits and all workout equipment types. Standing in the corner of the lime and black rubber floored room stood a middle-aged woman with a brown clipboard and a black pen. She was wearing a pink workout bra and some black workout leggings.

With a loud, booming voice, she said, “Okay! Listen up, guys! This is your first training day for the first game tomorrow. You will need to take it seriously, or some of you will die. The challenge tomorrow is the ground challenge. It is the easiest, so if you guys train today, I don’t expect any of you to die tomorrow. Tomorrow you will be placed in a rapidly sinking quicksand hole. You will be surrounded by a very slippery mud and have one tree root to grab on to. When you get out, you will sit in the small room corner until everyone is finished. You will be practicing over here,” as she pointed to a small workout spot on the left filled with human-sized holes and ropes attached to the wall, “and we will be training for an hour. After training, you will go straight to the room and go to bed so you can be well-rested for tomorrow.” The training went by quickly, and before you knew it, it was time to go to bed. As I turned off the lights, I couldn’t help but think about what tomorrow might bring.

 When I woke up to the alarm buzzing loudly, it took me a second to realize what was about to be happening. Today was the day. Today was the day I would overcome the first challenge, the easiest challenge, and be safe for the next day. I wondered how many people would die because of this game and how many people would be injured. I would not have thought many people would die because our trainer said no one should. We would have to see what the day brings.

I got up, put on a black t-shirt and some blue shorts, and headed to the small rooms. Near the ooms stood people who were checking off names and assigning people to rooms. When I saw Olivia, she looked very nervous but not as nervous as the people around her. They were all shaking. I gave Olivia a quick wave before I was pushed into a room called Ground A-1. I looked around the room, and I saw a wooden platform in the corner of the room. I believed this was where we were supposed to stand after the games. There was some yellow sand lying in the middle of the room and shiny brown mud surrounding it. There was a camera in every corner of the room to show on television to a worldwide audience.

After about 5 minutes of standing in the room, I heard a loud booming voice coming from a hidden speaker inside of the room, “Welcome to the 125th annual Million Dollar Games! Today is the ground game. The contestants will stand in the middle of the room, ait until their waist is fully emerged into the quicksand pit, and will then begin to get themselves out of it. This is a test or strength and knowledge. Now contestants, please make your way over to the quicksand pit and stand there. Good luck to everyone!”

I made my way to the sandpit taking a deep breath in and out, and waited for my waist to be entirely under the sand. When I looked around, I saw the tree branch near the left-hand side of the room. I tried to grab it, but I continued to sink deeper. I started to panic, moving around frantically, and realizing that only made me fall faster. The yellow sand was seeping into my wide-open mouth as I tried to lay flat on my stomach. I started to float, taking deep breaths as I came back up towards the top. From there, I laid on my belly and reached for the tree branch. I grabbed hold of it, hands holding onto the splintering wood as I begin to pull myself towards the wall. I scrambled up onto the mud, one foot behind the other, almost slipping head-first back into the sandpit as I carefully made my way to the wooden platform.  As I sat there, watching the cameras disconnect one by one, I heard the drums’ beating and the speaker man saying, “Kai Ju,” letting us all know he suffocated under the sand.

A shiver ran down my spine as I realized signing up was a mistake, and I should’ve listened to Finn when he told me not to, but it was too late now.

When the game was finished, I ran over to my friend Olivia, who was crying with her face and clothes covered with sand and mud.

“I fell back in,” she cried, “I slipped off the mud and went head-first back into the sand. I almost died!”

“Shh, it’s going to be okay. It’s all over, no more sandpits for you,” I said, trying to comfort her. I was not ready for the next game at all.

Two days later was the air challenge. I woke up again to a calmer alarm in my small room with blue and white polka-dots pasted around my room, in the back of the Central. I got up, put on an old black t-shirt and some ripped jeans. I looked outside the curtained window, seeing the sky began to lighten with all shades of purple, orange, red, and yellow and started to yawn.

I opened the door to go to the new room. I watched as the other contestants rubbed their eyes and trudged out of their rooms. I caught up to Olivia, and we walked the long path together, talking about what was going to happen in a couple minutes.

When we arrived, our trainer was standing at the door with a clipboard. One by one, we all filed into the vast room, made to look like three different biomes. There was a desert, a marsh, and an arctic type place. Cameras were all places around the wall again, and microphones above them. On the ceiling, many powerful fans were waiting to be turned on.

After everyone was filed in, we heard the booming voice once more “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the second game of the year, the Air Challenge!! Today our contestants will face a powerful tornado and try to survive. They will use the different biomes to their advantage while trying not to be thrown anywhere they could injure them. The games will end in 30 minutes. Now I hope everyone’s ready because the games are about to start! Ready, set, begin!”

The big fans started to turn on at high speed, and the leaves were beginning to move around in circles. Everyone, including me, ran to different corners of the biomed room, escaping the middle, where the tornado would soon form. People begin to find hiding spots around the room as the tornado started to make its way to the desert area. The tornado picked people up and threw them across the room, making them land in all sorts of places. Soon enough, the tornado made its way to where I was standing. I started to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but its reach was too much. It pulled me up and away and threw me inside of a cold pond in the arctic biome. Olivia soon came after me, making a big splash in the cold pond. We swam over to where we could stand and stood there as the tornado made its way across the other biomes.

Thirty minutes passed, and the fans stopped abruptly. The tornado grew smaller and smaller as we all made our way to the door. We passed bloody bodies where someone had been thrown against a big rock. One of them I recognized to be a girl named Sophia Gardenwell.

Olivia and I were both freezing as we made it back to our rooms to take a warm shower and eat lunch. The fire challenge was on its way. Closer than ever.

I woke up at about noon on a Saturday by the bright sun shining through my curtains. The games would not start for another hour, so I headed over to eat some lunch. After that, I headed to the training facility to make sure my grip was on point. I climbed up the ladder and jumped on the rope, swinging back and forth over the foam pit. I moved around to jump to the solid side and land on all two legs and two arms, like a cat.

At about 12:50, I started to make my way to the new room, knocking at Olivia’s room first.

“Olivia! Open up! We have to go, or we’ll be late,” I said as I pounded on the door.

“I’m coming!” she said as she opened the wooden door. She looked like she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” “I- I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s too dangerous. They sugarcoated it for me, saying that the dangerous things were photoshopped on, and no one actually died. I don’t want to die. I don’t want it to be real. I want to go back home safe and sound,” she said as she started to cry again.

“Look, we’ll ask our trainer if you can disqualify yourself, okay? Let’s get through this one challenge first, okay? You’ll do great. I promise.”

This challenge was going to be a quick one. All you would have to do is swing over a rope over a burning fire. After you are done, you can exit the room. The booming voice started to talk again, making me nervous, “Welcome to the third challenge of the Million Dollar Games. This one is the favorite among the viewers because of the fire aspect. Today, the contestants will one by one swing across this firey pit and try to make it to the other side! This is a test of strength and grip. Good luck!” The first one in line was Olivia. She grabbed the white rope, with her feet still on the surface, and jumped off, giving a large swinging motion to the other side. She jumped at the top of her swing, landing safely on the other side. A couple minutes later, it was my turn, and I did the same thing.

After the game was over, only three more contestants, Olivia, me, and someone named Oscar Goins, were still alive. Olivia and I made our way up to the trainer to ask if Olivia could leave the competition.

“Excuse me. Olivia was wondering if she could take herself out of the competition. It’s too much for her, and she would like to leave,” I said, not knowing what the trainer would say.

She looked at Olivia and me up and down and then said with a smirk, “Well, what’s the fun in that? Back to your rooms kids, and get ready for tomorrow’s training.” Neither of us knew what to say. Neither of us wanted to compete anymore and was not ready for the last game, which is always the hardest. There would be no peaceful sleeping. Today the day. Probably the last day of my life. I was so frightened. I got up out of bed and looked around. I put on a backward t-shirt and some inside out pants as I made my way closer to the swimming area. I waited for Olivia by the training facility, and when we got there, we both shared our feelings on the upcoming competition. The booming voice was heard around the room, “Welcome to the last game of the year! The three contestants are Blake Champ, Olivia Ohia, and Oscar Goin. Today, you will be locked up in a swimming area and will have to find the clear key and unlock the gates with a tiny air hole that will be covered sometimes. The first contestant will be Blake Champ. Good luck”

Olivia looked at me with tears in her eyes, patted my back, and croaked a “Good luck” before closing her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to watch.

I looked at the swimming area and took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment of truth. I just had to unlock the gates, that’s all.

I walked into the swimming pool and watched as they locked me up. I then began searching for the hidden key. I swam around, feeling the water around my ears, and then I saw it at the very bottom in the corner. I swam to it as my ears started to hurt, my eyes are getting red, and I needed air. I stopped for a minute and stared at the closed breathing hole and continued to swim down, and down, while my eyesight became to get darker and darker, and my arms felt like noodles. I heard the drums beat twice.

Olivia screamed, “NO! BLAKE!!”

And then…

And then I woke up.


Herb Goes Hermit Herb peered over the top of his cubicle, mesmerized by the agonizingly slow movement of the minute hand on the clock at the far side of the room. In his one lone, exhilarating act of defiance, he had tossed his watch into the waste basket in the company cafeteria years ago. Everything else in his life was constraining and suffocating. As illusory as it was, Herb could at least imagine he was freed from the bonds of time. Time. 34 years = 408 months = 1,768 weeks =12,410 days = 297,840 hours = 17,870,400 minutes. The last 20 minutes would be the most painful for Herb- anxiety soars as the moment approaches. In twenty minutes Herb would walk out that door for the last time, liberated from the mind-numbing, torturous tasks he had so long endured. Herb hated his job, but not quite as much as he hated his boss and his coworkers. Punching out at the end of another miserable day at work brought little relief as he also hated his neighbors, their noisy, bratty kids, and their incessantly barking dogs. He was particularly burdened by old man Johnson’s rooster which faithfully announced the arrival of every new day a half hour before sunrise. The feelings were mutual. Herb’s going away party would be held the week after he left. Kids forfeited their baseball whenever a foul ball sailed over his fence. Conspirator theorists might even have suggested the dogs and the rooster, even though situated on opposite sides of Herb’s property, were running a tag-team operation designed to drive poor Herb, in layman’s terms, “woo-woo”. There was no salvaging Herb’s relationship with the rest of the world. Twenty minutes. Each jump of the minute hand took forever as Herb’s mind bounced back and forth from the scourge of his painful past to the peaceful, soothing, serene thoughts of the wondrous future that loomed just over the horizon. He had it all planned out. Walt had Disneyland; Michael had Neverland; Dolly had Dollywood; Herb would have his Herbville. Having no friends, no interests, and no pleasures, Herb stashed away a small fortune during his working years. As such, he was well positioned to acquire his Shangri-La, his Camelot, his Promised Land- a one-room cabin on a remote 50-acre parcel in the Montana Rockies. The nearest sign of civilization was the aging town of Butte, affectionately referred to by the locals, and by some phonetically challenged visitors, as “Butt”. With the mindset of a junior accountant, Herb had meticulously prepared for his great escape- a small wood-burning stove, stockpiles of firewood, flintstones, oil lamps, oil, tin cutlery, hunting and fishing equipment, and a moderate supply of bomb shelter-style food rations in case his hunting and fishing efforts proved inadequate. He made one concession for the sake of a possible medical emergency- a cell phone and a solar-powered charger. Herb and his hideaway cabin in the wilderness would be a self-contained unit; he had no further need of anyone or anything. Good riddance, world. Herb hatched his plan five years ago, right after he got a new, even more intolerable boss at work, and his canine-loving neighbor brought home two rescue German Shepherds that added volume and consistency to the cacophonous nightly bark-a-thon. He found his little piece of paradise in an ad in Wilderness Living Magazine, and he spent all of his vacation time making the place ready for the move. Herb supplemented his very limited survival skills with books and Internet searches. With his remarkable lack of commitment to the task, the workday provided ample opportunity for Herb to research life in the wild. He even picked up a few helpful tidbits by streaming a little Rambo online. Herb was as prepared as any unprepared guy could be for wilderness living. At 5:00 PM Herb was out the door faster than a kid heading for summer vacation. He drove straight through, Minneapolis to Butte. His final stop was Big Bertha’s General Store on the outskirts of Butte- “Everything You Need Under One Roof, And More.” By this time in the process, Herb had befriended the young man behind the counter. “Today’s the big day, Seth. I just filled up with gas, you know, in case of some kind of medical emergency. And I’ll need a few more cases of beer. Could you throw them in the truck?” “Will do, Herb. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” “This will be as bare bones. I want to live like the early pioneers, free of all the crap society throws at us.”  “And what about that pistol I suggested, you know, for those long walks in the woods you talked about? There’s Grizzlies up there, you know.” “No, I’m good.” “And Mountain Lions.” “I’ll be all right.” “And wolves.” “Well, not a Dirty Harry gun, maybe just a little one.” “Grizzlies, Herb.” “Ok, a medium size one.” Herb teared up when he saw the cabin. Sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the actual event, but not in this case. Totally relaxed, at peace, far from all the tribulations society had inflicted upon him for so many years. He was what he had dreamed about for so long, a happy Herb.

Hopefully, we will all have that one great moment in time, a defining instant that can be called upon from our lockbox of memories to bring a smile even in the most difficult of times. Herb’s moment was rooted in the crass, the most primitive of actions to be found in the human experience, but nonetheless, it was as glorious an event as one could hope for. Immediately after unpacking the truck, Herb walked out his front door, gazed upon the vast valley below, took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air, and peed. Functional and symbolic, the exhilarating feeling of the freedom to do whatever he wanted, as well as an overt expression of his distaste for the world below. When the deed was done, Herb triumphantly raised his arms above his head, Rocky at the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ali leaping atop the ropes after Liston failed to answer the bell, Jack declaring he was King of the World at the bow of the Titanic. Oops, maybe you don’t want to go to the Titanic thing, Herb. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness. Herb, the cabin, the mountains, crisp clean air, the moon peaking in and out of wispy white clouds. And no people, no rooster, and no barking dogs. Some pilgrims wander through the wilderness to find salvation; Herb found his in the wilderness. Unfortunately, the body operates on a separate track from the mind. Herb’s state of mental bliss was interrupted by nature’s call. < Warning: The following descriptions may be disturbing for some readers.> No, Herb had already gone pee-pee. Now it was time, as delicately as can be stated, to go… poo-poo. Herb read all about the early pioneers using leaves for…shall we say, cleanup. Herb realized his first miscalculation as he walked through the stand of tall pines toward the outhouse. Pine needles and leaves, similar in purpose when they are on a tree; not so much after they’ve fallen to the ground. Nothing in Herb’s research noted the dearth of leafy trees at higher altitude. Herb’s first visit to his new bathroom was…unpleasant. The splash of stars across the night sky was spectacular. Herb sat on a fallen log, taking it in all in, a heavenly panorama of sheer wonder unknown to those who dwell within the glow of bright city lights. Herb smiled as he snuggled under his quilt. He felt a great sense of relief over all he had left behind, but surprisingly, he had trouble sleeping. He was on edge the whole night as he kept waiting for the disturbing sounds of the barking dogs. And under the spell of some form of subconscious anticipation, Herb awoke the next morning a half hour before sunrise. A sheepish Herb entered Big Bertha’s the next morning. “Herb! What are you doing here?” “ I guess there is one more thing I could use.” “What’s that?” “Toilet paper.” “Ha…ha, ha…ha, ha, ha…” Herb, seeing no humor in the purchase, quickly grabbed voluminous amounts of toilet paper, and headed back to his little piece of paradise. Herb’s seller had boasted of the good fishing in the trout stream that bordered the property, but he (cleverly) neglected to disclose the competition. Even before he wet his line, Herb felt the menacing gaze of the grizzly bear just a hundred yards downstream. His first thought was he didn’t think a bear could be that big. His second thought was the gun sitting on the floor next to bed. Herb hurriedly gathered his gear and left today’s catch to the bear. Meals placed on your table at a restaurant may not look as good as they did in the picture on the menu. Meals pulled out of a box previewed only with written descriptions may appear even less appealing when held in your hand. After a lengthy review of his options, Herb went with the “Black Bean Burger.” Herb felt good about starting his cooking fire in the mode of Daniel Boone. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch click. God dammit. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click. You’ve got to be #@*! Kidding me. “Hey, Herb, what do you need?” “Just some matches.” “You came all the way down here just for matches?” “Matches, Seth, matches.” Herb managed to down the Black Bean Burger with the help of a few beers. He couldn’t help but note that tonight would have been pizza delivery night from Felipe’s back home. The prospect of fishing was akin to Herb’s temptation to misbehave in grade school. He had never seen a nun whacking a kid with a ruler, but the reputation for such acts was enough to keep him in line. Likewise, Herb had never seen a man ripped to shreds by a grizzly bear, but recalling such reports was sufficient deterrence to keep him from the stream. Plan B- hunting. As Herb had never done it before, it may have been imprudent for him to rely on taking down big game for his subsistence. Herb figured he should get a little practice in. The guy at the sporting goods store showed him how to load his hunting rifle, but Herb’s hands were shaking as he put the bullets into the killing machine. He stood just 20-30 yards from the target, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. The shockingly loud bang and the jolt to his shoulder scared him to death. Maybe hunting wasn’t his thing. He could acquire a taste for the bomb shelter food. As nightfall drops in temperature in the mountains can be extreme, Herb tried to limit his outhouse visits to the daylight hours. Going pee-pee wasn’t an issue, as one of the benefits of his new life was he could now pee anywhere. Going…poo-poo…was the problem as Herb’s butt was not accustomed to making contact with freezing cold surfaces. The sound of howling wolves in distance only added to the discomfort of the experience. Boiled potatoes, powdered milk, Black Bean Burgers, crackers. Herb wasn’t a prayerful man, but he was thanking God for beer on a nightly basis. One night he put in a call to Big Bertha’s. “Hey, Seth, does Butte have any pizza joints that would deliver up here?”  Short walks through the woods. Even though Herb packed a pistol whenever he strayed far from the cabin, he feared the odds of hitting a wild animal in full attack mode would be slim. He stayed close to home after sundown as the howling wolves in the pitch-black darkness unsettled his nerves. Quiet, then it got even more quiet. Herb had grown tired of debits, credits, reruns of Colombo and Gunsmoke, traffic jams, wait lines at the grocery store, barking dogs, and a crowing rooster. Could he now grow tired of nothing at all?

The evergreen branches covered with snow brought extra beauty to the setting, but the cold temperatures created more challenges for Herb. He was making more frequent trips to the wood pile, brushing the snow away, and kicking logs to free them from the pile. Herb moved his bed closer to the old wood burner, and he and his blanket became one. Sometimes the scales are tipped with that proverbial last straw; sometimes it comes with a ton of bricks. Shivering in bed, Herb felt a little something else going on. It was just past midnight, the snow was falling, and a fierce wind was blowing. The last thing Herb wanted to do was make a trip to the outhouse. It is a known fact that the coldest experience in life is a bare butt placed on the ice-cold surface of a seat in an outhouse in winter. Herb will attest to that. As Herb opened the door, ready to race back to the cabin, he saw them approaching, first one, then two, and finally a third. His research was correct- wolves do hunt in packs. Herb slammed the door shut, breathed a sigh of relief, and snuck a peek out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves were drawing closer. Oh my God, Herb! They know you’re in there. He looked, they were gone. He looked, they were back. They were circling the outhouse. Herb about couldn’t breath. He thought if he stayed perfectly still, they’d leave. And then scratching, clawing at the walls, at the door. It finally occurred to Herb to fasten the small, rusted hook on the door into the eyehook on the door. The hook immediately broke off. Herb grabbed onto the wood slat running across the door and held on for dear life. He couldn’t believe he was being hunted Jaws-style by three freaking animals. The door swung outward so he just had to keep the banging from creating a sliver of an opening for one of the beasts to stick its head through. He once again pictured his pistol resting comfortably on the floor next to his bed. Repeated failed attempts to gain entry seemed to only anger the attackers and intensify their efforts. Growling, snarling, frenzied clawing at the door and walls. Holy crap! One was digging at the base of a wall! The sight of a paw under the wall nearly gave Herb another poo-poo moment. Suddenly quiet. He prayed the wolves had left. But even if they had, would he have the nerve, the courage, the requisite speed and energy to make a run back to the cabin? Herb looked out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves had not left. They were lying down just 10 feet from the door, their fur flecked with snow and flickering in the wind. All eyes were on the outhouse. Herb was under siege. He began to tire. He sat down on the floor, never releasing his grip on the wooden slat. Herb was so terrified he didn’t notice the drop in his body’s core temperature. He had only thrown on a pullover sweatshirt for what should have been a quick trip to the outhouse. He now wished he had researched just how long a body could survive sub-freezing temperatures. He recalled one interesting and hopefully helpful hint from his research. When confronted by a dangerous animal, a mountain lion, a bear, or perhaps a dog, make yourself look big…and scary. The tactic seemed risky to Herb, but he could feel his joints tightening up, and his fingers getting numb. He feared freezing to death, and the writer of the article had impressive credentials. He’d give it a shot. Herb stood up and took a look. The wolves were still there. As soon as he opened the door, three heads in unison turned toward Herb. He raised his hands high and let out a primordial scream. Unfortunately for Herb, the wolves had not read the same article, and snarling, growling, and flashing their teeth, they charged at Herb. They hit the door just after Herb managed to get it closed. Herb assumed his sitting position, holding onto that life-saving slat, and fought to stay awake, struggling to survive. Throughout the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange thoughts, dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations, visited poor Herb. He wished his outhouse were built of stone rather than wood, recoiled in horror as “Two-Socks” turned on Kevin Costner and went for his jugular, and saw himself as Little Red Riding Hood running through the woods. All the while his body temperature continued to drop. Irony. A rooster. Did a rooster somehow appear in the area? Or was it part of his mind flipping around haphazardly from the cold and lack of sleep? They say some people dream in color; maybe Herb dreamed in sound. Either way, it was the morning crowing of a rooster that awakened Herb that day and saved his life. The wolves weren’t in sight, and Herb understood that to stay was to die. Arms and legs grudgingly cooperating with the hazy signals being sent from his barely functioning brain, Herb rose, pushed the door open, and trudged through the snow to his cabin. He hurriedly threw on some warmer clothes, grabbed the keys to the truck, and after a long, wistful look at the cabin, he was headed down the mountain. Herb stumbled Frankenstein-like into Big Bertha’s, disheveled hair and eyebrows covered with frost, his jacket buttoned unevenly, a fur hat tilting sideways on his head. He had the look of a crazed man. “Jesus Christ, Herb, what happened to you?!” “Nothing. I just had a bad night.” “I guess. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” “What do you need?” “Nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to buy a cabin in the mountains.”


A gray reef fans on the edge of the eastern horizon. Cobalt blue mixed with midnight. An hour until the first fingers of sunlight. An hour back I quit twisting in the bed sheets. Wouldn’t do any good to fall asleep at 4am. Four is a time to relieve yourself and duck back under the covers for another REM cycle before the world starts calling. That’s for the people who can sleep. For those that can’t, it’s a time to surrender and roll outta there. I don’t sleep much lately. You, only when the medication works.               The tea kettle sings. Miniature choo-choo . White vapor condenses on the window above the sink. Violet veins of frost dissipate on the pane of glass where the wooden edges meet. I pour the piping liquid into a quench cup and inhale the aroma of liberated caffeine. I put it to my lips for a microsecond. For that wakeup singe.               Your mother is still in bed but Lucy’s risen with me. Good, old girl. I put down slip-free runners in the kitchen and living room for her – hardwood floors are tough on twelve year-old hindlegs. She nudges the back of my knee with her wet nose; it’s breakfast time. I pour kibble in her dish with a spurt of hot water from the faucet. Life is short. I roll up a piece of bologna and toss that in too. Her head bobs happily in the bowl. I pull on a heavy flannel and make for the garage.               We had you before we were married, but not too long before. We weren’t prepared, not in the least, but I wasn’t worried. Your mother and I were competent people. The world, for how much it says it loves children, is perpetually short on individuals that love them enough to teach them when they don’t know any better. Your mom, she loved kids even before you arrived. So that’s what she did – taught first-grade daisies up the road on Landry street while her belly swelled with you. Always said that’s why you’re such an avid reader and a talented writer. Because you were reading even before you were born.               I kept the books at the supermarket in Ashton and studied for my credential. I passed the test but I liked the business and people more than I did burying my nose in the numbers. They gave me a shot managing and I excelled. Our little grocery acquired the minnows, mom-and-pops who were retiring but wanted it to go to good hands. But then the sharks came for us. The regional business I grew was swallowed by a national chain. Some sad stories here and there, but they mostly did right by us and by-and-large my checks got bigger. And it’s just groceries. Never could understand a man that called a business his child. Well, I guess it never was mine anyway.               Freezing in the garage. Nothing subtle about November’s in New Hampshire. Everything still dark. I strike the light switch and the fluorescent tubes overhead sputter to life. I sip the cup of Earl Grey once more and begin to assemble.               Bright hazard orange vests hanging above the work bench. Yellow stripes along the shoulders. I took you duck hunting when you were six years old with my buddy Ian. Just to ride in the truck and make the silly calls with us. My dad took me when I was about that age. I remember it fondly. Cold New England air. Dad letting me help pack the hunting kit, the gloves and the vests and the boots. The pop, pop, pop of the pellets exploding from the shotguns. Stalking through the growth to find the downed ducks. I burst into the house that night with four dressed birds tied up in a game bag. I couldn’t wait to show your grandma. I thought maybe it’d be the same for you.               It wasn’t though, was it?               Man. That flock took flight in the twilight and Ian and I sprayed and a few came plummeting down. We had Boyd back then before Lucy and when he lumbered back with one in his jaws and set it at our feet, boy did you have a meltdown. You couldn’t stand the sight of it, couldn’t look at the poor thing. You cried in my arms and peeked under my armpit and when you saw it still lying on the ground fresh wailing waves rolled out of you. You asked if we could save it.               “We can’t save him buddy.”               You pounded my chest with your two little fists, hot tears turned angry. “Then you shouldn’t have shot him.”               I had Ian dress the thing away from you and we packed it in early. You wouldn’t say a word the whole ride home, didn’t even leap when I asked if you wanted to stop for a soft serve. Mom asked how it went when we got home.               “Daddy killed a bird.” That was all you said.               Christ it’s messy in here. Useless junk accumulated over the years. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, trembling from the draft sneaking under the poorly insulated door. Two ancient sleds on the wall, the metal runners far too sharp for children but that’s exactly who they were for. Tools in disarray. An armoire with a gash in the oak near its iron handle. Three enormous bins stacked on top of one another. Masking tape labels, undifferentiated, that say simply “outdoors”. I steady a stool and step onto its shaky surface. I unstack the boxes and my lower spine groans.               It was a Sunday I took you duck hunting with me. Mom was in the kitchen fixing you a peanut butter sandwich the next morning, pregnant with your sister, Grace, belly protruding like a bowling ball. I packed it into a brown paper bag while she licked the knife and said I’d take you to school myself. Told her some white lie about getting time off her feet and she should take it easy and have a bath and I’d even pick you up from school at the end of the day. She was skeptical, certainly aware that something was amiss, but offers of solitary hours were far-between and the prospect of a warm bath too enticing to turn down. I called the school from the garage and let them know you’d be home sick for the day.               I shuffled you into the truck and you were still pouting but I kept a straight face and only let myself grin when I pulled you out and we weren’t in the parking lot of the elementary but rather my favorite stream in Willow state park where the trout get fat in the Fall.               “I’ve got something to show you.”               Your eyes two moons. In my hands a fishing rod, a line, and a bright red spinner lure. The only thing brighter: your smile stretched ear-to-ear.               The fluorescent tubes hum overhead. One flickers but stubbornly perseveres. Here we go. Rubber boots and waders. Tangled lines from past excursions. A tacklebox with all the bait and a landing net as well. I click the tacklebox open and organize things a bit. Vests and rain coats I put in the cab of the truck, boots and waders and rods go in the bed. I spread the cover over the back and rest on the stool. Lucy wanders in and rests her head on my lap.               “We’ll try the first few together, okay? So here’s what we do: rock once, rock twice, and then we toss in a straight line, stop with the rod, we follow through, and then once it’s in the water we reel her in slow.” I demonstrated once on my own. Then I stood behind you, showed you how to grip. We rocked together, my hands on your forearms. “One rock, two, then….toss!” The lure flew twenty feet and landed with a tiny splash. “Alright, now bring it back with the reel. Slow, like you’re winding a toy.”               You reeled. I patted you on the back, proud. “That was great Adam! Do you wanna try the next one on your –               No opportunity to finish.               In the stream there was a massive leap. A rainbow trout glinting in the sun, it attacked the bait. How the rod stayed in your hands I will never know because that fish gave a great big jerk on the line but still it wasn’t enough to tug away from you. I hung on with you and we reeled with all our might. It thrashed and twisted violently.               “Grab the net Adam! Grab it!” You relinquished the rod and held the net giggling like a mad man. When there was no line left to reel, I dumped him sideways. You held him high like a prize.               I can hear tinkering in the house now. Lucy plods out to discover who is up.               Your elation becomes near-instant terror. “The hook is stuck in his mouth! He’s going to die! Dad, get it out! Get it out!” Your grand prize has morphed into a grenade. You drop it on the loose sediment of the shore and turn your back to it, hands in your eyes.               “Easy, easy.” Your back still turned to me, palms stemming tears. “Look”.               You turn to see. With small pliers I bend the lure that has twisted into a tangled snare. The metal hook complies, then it comes free. The trout writhes. I grab him and hold him steady with two hands. Your sobbing has stopped.               “Come here, son. Touch him.”               You take a few timid steps. Your eyes swollen and red looking into mine. Then, with three fingers, you touch him just below the fin. A smile on your face. I feel your nervous system exhale.               “Now what?” You ask. A wood pecker hammers away high above.               “Now, we put him back.”               We place him in the water together and his dorsal roars to life. A large splunk as he motors away.               I turn off the garage lights and return to the kitchen. First light is illuminating. My breaths are tiny clouds in its radiance.               “Hey, son.”               “Hey, dad.”               Your mother and I were blindsided when you enlisted. It was never on our radar. I suppose neither were two jets barreling into the twin towers. Patriotic fever in those days. Our little community and those adjacent sent a lot of young boys to the middle east.               Your mother, distraught, tortured with grief. Her special little guy.               “Smart boys don’t go to war Adam. People with any type of future don’t go to the desert to shoot other scared, lost boys.”               You calm and understanding. “I’m not going to shoot anyone mom. I’m going to take care of scared boys who have taken bullets themselves.”               “Please”, she sobbed. “Please don’t do this.”               But there was no convincing you, and no matter how frightened I was for you I was also immensely proud. Eighteen months later you were in Fallujah. Ten months on the ground. You tore shrapnel out of infantry muscles. Applied pressure to wounds you knew were fatal, carmine splotches seeping through sheet after sheet of heavy gauze. Made tourniquets for limbs blown to bits by roadside IED’s, jagged bone fragments poking through skin, tibia chiclets lost in the dirt. And then an IED came for you.               “I was thinking about taking a drive this morning.”               You’re pouring coffee. Rose quartz light invading the kitchen.               “How about it? Wanna come with?”               Your eyes are buried in the back of your skull. Dark bags beneath the sockets.               “I don’t know dad. I haven’t slept at all.”               I give you a sheepish smile. “Ditto.”               You smile back. “Sure.”               An emergency evacuation. A life-saving surgery that amputates above the right knee. Your eyes in Germany, groggy, in-and-out of consciousness. Your mother and I terrorized, gasping for news back home. A complicating infection and a resulting fever that wouldn’t quit. Two days of silence. Finally, a phone call.               You were going to make it.               Nine more surgeries to follow over the next two years. Physical therapy and insomnia. Night terrors. At four o’clock I was up this morning. At two you were screaming murder in your bed. Endless pharmacology. Pills for pain. Pills for PTSD. Pills for insomnia and night terrors and anxiety. You, fading away. Your personality an infrequent visitor I rarely glimpse. That’s something I could never say out loud.               The leaves are all down. A galaxy of colors a month ago. Now it’s all rotting on the coniferous floor. Brilliance comes and goes.               A psychiatric review and mandated six months at the V.A. clinic when a character in the novel you’re writing embarks on a mass shooting. They changed your dosage. I removed anything with a firing pin from the property to be safe. I believe you that it’s fiction.               The tires rumble on the gravel road. Forty-one degrees on the dashboard. It’s warmed up. The trailhead is barely visible. Overgrown brush and branches swoop over its demarcation reclaiming the flagging efforts of an underfunded forest service. I park on the side of the road and get to unloading all of the gear.               “It’s freezing dad.”               I give him a playful bump on the shoulder. “C’mon, just a few casts.”               We wade into the current and alternate lines. Silence is good conversation for now. Cathartic. Birdsongs chorus down upon us. Time slips away.               “Hey dad.”               “Hmm?”               “You remember when I caught that trout when I was a little kid?”               “I do.”               A deer guides her fawn on the opposite shore.               “Dad.”               “Hmm?”               You pause. “Will things ever be the same again?”               The fawn and the mother are gone.               “Ya know son, I don’t know if they ever will.”               A splash on the end of your line.               “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make ourselves new.”


[This story contains sex, violence, abuse and swearing] “The joke’s on you.” “The joke is on you all.” “I’m not fucking around. Things are going to be different around here. I’m different. It’s not like it was. It’s never going to be like it was.” “There’s a new clown in town and he’s here to stay!” “I’m The Clown!” HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa!

OhgodhelpmewhathaveIdone… Mummy? Where are you, Mummy? I miss you so much. Come back. I need you! Mummy? Mummy! * No one knows about his place. Everyone needs a place of their own. Doesn’t matter what they call it or how they choose to dress it up. It’s a lair. Pure and simple. That’s what it is. Not a boudoir or a crash pad or a crib and certainly not a home.

Never a home. Home is where the heart is and he was born without a heart. This place was his lair and he wasn’t into sharing, but he had no choice when it came to a certain someone. That certain someone had come along one day and chosen to stay rent free. You could call him a squatter, just as long as you never called him that to his face.

Never do that to his face. Or anything else for that matter. He’s a deceptively sensitive soul and he snaps all too easily. You won’t like it when he snaps. Not one bit will you like it.

The anonymity and sanctity of this lair was safeguarded in a great many ways. Layer after layer of protection and defence.

The lair and him both. * Boris had come into the world in the same way every other soul does. Painfully, red raw and screaming. The transition from the claustrophobic confines of the womb was a shock to the system, more so the cold air that he was forced to breathe in order to survive. There was no going back for Boris, but that never stopped him dreaming of a return to a place that was free from the violence and pain that was a constant throughout his life. Boris was a mistake. Mummy told him as much. That was another constant in his life, Mummy reminding Boris that he was a mistake who got in the way and cramped her style. Her style helped ensnare her clients. Boris loved her style. He always thought her beautiful. Her style paid the bills, but there was never enough money for Boris. Mummy needed that money and Boris owed her more still. It didn’t take long for her to co-opt her clients into helping her punish Boris for his unwanted presence in the single room she rented from one of her clients. At first, the punishment took the form of harsh words. Boris knew no different and the words didn’t hurt all that much really. The problem was that Boris had this bad habit of growing and that enraged Mummy all the more and she shared this rage with some of her regulars. Mummy and client egged each other on and discovered new ways to make their point, punishing Boris in more innovative, but most importantly increasingly painful ways.

Cigarette burns were particularly painful, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was when Boris saw a change in Mummy and after that change there was a change in her clients too. Boris became a part of what was on offer. He was a toy that Mummy used to keep her clients entertained. Once she talked to Boris about that change, “I get money for you now, you little shit.” Boris had smiled hopefully. This was a positive development. Mummy needed money and he was keen to help her. He wanted Mummy to be happy. If Mummy was happy then he was happy. “It’s still not enough,” she added, “you ruined me and you ruined my life. It will. Never. Be. Enough. You will never be enough.” Something had imploded within Boris then. You wouldn’t have seen it, even if you had been there to witness and had a program explaining what was going on inside the boy. That made it all the more terrible. The Boris that was, was no more. An important part of that little boy had buckled, bent and then snapped.

Nothing would ever be the same again. Only it was. No one noticed any change in Boris at all. They didn’t even notice the ceaseless unending sameness of a boy who was no longer little. Not that they cared. Not his Mummy nor her clients. They neither cared for Boris or themselves. That was the world that Boris grew up in. Unfortunately for those clients, a lack of care also meant a lack of attention. This dulled them and blunted their survival instinct. That would prove costly for them all in the end. Boris may have been bent out of shape and broken, but that suited him fine. From the wreckage he resided within, he understood the world a little more and found ways to cope with it.

Mostly he acted.

He acted like he was fine and he watched and he waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he waited all the same. He knew it was important to wait because something was coming, and so he waited until it came along and then everything fell into place.

One of Mummy’s clients found violence to be an aphrodisiac, or maybe it was a sort of foreplay. Possibly both. Whatever it was, it worked for him and it paid well for Mummy. One night he was in a particularly savage mood and he beat Boris half to death before straightening up, licking the blood off his bruised knuckles and turning his attention to Mummy. Mummy had watched the show and smiled a genuine and encouraging smile. She had to be into it or it wasn’t going to work for Jimmy. Jimmy worked for the mob and was well connected. Mummy had designs of getting out of this shithole and going some place exotic with Jimmy. Jimmy had other ideas, but he didn’t share those plans with her. He got a bigger and bigger discount while she mooned over him and he liked having that edge, looking forward to the day he would dump her and leave her in a complete mess. He got off on that too. He was a purveyor of pain and he got a buzz out of its effects. As Jimmy was about to start in on the main event he paused and turned around, “stop looking at me kid,” he growled at Boris, “what is it with this kid and the staring?” He shook his head and then seemed to remember something. He reached into the inside pocket of his sharp, pinstripe jacket and pulled out a comic, “here, hide that ugly mug of yours behind this while the grown-ups play.” “Ank oo,” Boris said as he fetched up the comic that had been thrown in his face, it was painful for him to try to speak, but he knew he had to remember his manners, even with a broken jaw. That moment was to change everything. In that moment Boris met The Clown and The Clown met Boris. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, some matches are made elsewhere.

* Boris entered his lair at night. Always at night. That was when The Clown came out to play. The Clown danced and played and spread his own brand of cheer in the world. Boris loved The Clown. Except for his Mummy, The Clown was the only other person Boris would ever love. The nature and manner of that love differed markedly and this was not helped by the animosity between the two objects of his love. This was an enduring animosity that had existed from the very get go. Boris always cast his mind back to those early days with The Clown as he took his seat and prepared for the rituals. He talked to The Clown and reminisced and as he went through each and every step and stage of his transformation they would relive their partnership, The Clown chuckling regularly at their exploits. He’d killed Jimmy first. But then, Jimmy had it coming. Jimmy had hurt Mummy, and he’d done it more than once. He’d split her lip, then he’d blacked her eye. It was only going to get worse unless someone stopped it. Boris had talked it over with The Clown. They would wait until Mummy fell unconscious after one glass of gin too many, then they would plot and plan until Boris knew exactly what it was that he needed to do. Only, it wasn’t Boris who killed Jimmy, it was The Clown. Boris was fine with this. The Clown knew what he was doing. The Clown was

good

at this. It helped that he enjoyed it.

“It’s going to be fun! Fun! Fun!” said The Clown gleefully and Boris had smiled. He hoped The Clown was right. He didn’t hold out too much hope though. His life had been a series of disappointments and he found he wasn’t all that bothered with fun anymore. Wasn’t even sure fun existed. Fun sounded like a lie that grown-ups whispered in your ear just before they started hurting you all over again. On the night of Jimmy’s untimely demise, Boris used the make-up he had stolen from Mummy to bring The Clown into the world. There was really only one room in the place where Mummy and Boris lived, but that wasn’t a problem because Mummy had learnt to ignore Boris so completely that she no longer saw him unless she wanted to say something mean or hurt him, and as that was a lucrative deal, she saved that for when there was someone paying for it. Mummy wasn’t in the habit of giving out freebies. Jimmy noticed though. He was half way through taking his snazzy jacket off when he saw the warpaint on Boris’s face, “what’s this?” he said, “it ain’t Halloween for another four months you little freak!” Boris never said a word, but then Boris wasn’t Boris, not anymore. He had been. He’d heard Jimmy well enough, but it was The Clown who responded. It was The Clown who unfurled and showed himself to the world in all his glory for the very first time.

The Clown was not little. Freaky maybe, but not little. He stood at his full height and Jimmy’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in the first expression of fear that Boris had ever witnessed, and Boris was still there, only he was no longer at the controls. He was riding shotgun with The Clown and felt both enraptured and fascinated at what was unfolding before his very eyes. “What the hell…” Jimmy managed to say this as he saw Boris become something he had never seen before. There was something terrible and very wrong about the boy’s face, and Jimmy had seen that face mashed into a grotesquery by his very own hands. The boy had applied make-up in smears and swatches that at first looked like it had rained and he’d dragged his face along a raindrop coated window, but as Jimmy stared at that odd face he saw it pulse and move and something came forth. Something very wrong. Something evil. Something that just did not belong. Not here. Not anywhere. Bravely or stupidly, Jimmy remembered himself and took a step forward to confront the boy and end whatever was happening here. It was an instinct that had served him well and got him noticed and inducted into the mob. Never back down, always get your retaliation in first and do it decisively. Hit the problem hard and keep hitting until it ain’t a problem no more. Jimmy didn’t even get around to raising his hand to Boris. Only it wasn’t Boris. Not anymore. The Clown was the one that wielded the knife that plunged into Jimmy’s guts. Jimmy looked both dumb and stupid in that moment. There was a comical vacancy in his expression as he looked down at the knife handle jutting out of his stomach and then back up into the grinning and gleeful face of The Clown. The Clown barked an odd and clipped piece of laughter, then with his free hand, he encircled Jimmy’s waist, pulled him closer and danced a perfect waltz. Throwing Jimmy around like a weightless ragdoll. DAH! DA! DAH! DA! DAAAH! The Clown sang a wordless tune as he danced with Jimmy, a tune that was completely out of step with their dance, and at the end of Jimmy’s final waltz, The Clown took a half step back and with a theatrical flourish he brought the knife up through the middle of Jimmy with inhuman strength, gutting him like the proverbial fish, and just like that fish, Jimmy made sad little gulping movements with his mouth, blood dribbling down his chin in pathetic little pulses. The Clown leant in to Jimmy’s mouth as though Jimmy was imparting the most important of secrets. “What’s that?” “I can’t hear you, Jimmy!” “Speak up, man! We’re all friends here!” But Jimmy collapsed to the floor to a chorus of The Clown’s laughter. He’d never solve a problem with his fists again. “What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What…” Mummy was stressed. Boris didn’t like seeing her like this. Thankfully The Clown covered her mouth with his bloody hand and stopped her repeating the same nonsensical question over and over. It was so very obvious what The Clown had done. Anyone could see that The Clown had bestowed upon Jimmy his just desserts. The Clown had reaped what Jimmy had sown.

Simple. Boris could never remember much of the next bit. The Clown comforted Mummy in the only way they both knew how. Neither of them knew much of anything else. The Clown did this each and every time he took care of a client. Mummy never stopped him and Mummy never said no, but then she’d never stopped anyone or said no to them for as long as Boris could remember, except perhaps him. Boris was the exception. Boris was different.

But now he wasn’t. Now he was special. * It was always going to happen. Boris knew this. There was an inevitability to how this was going to go from the moment he saw that comic and had come face to face with The Clown.

“You gotta crack eggs to make an omelette!” The Clown had told him just before it happened. Boris was a passenger at that point and could do nothing to stop him. Nothing at all. He didn’t even utter a word of protest and neither did he cry when it was done. * Every time he took his seat and readied himself for The Clown’s appearance he always did this one thing. Before he opened the make-up box and said the words that were an incantation to summon The Clown forth, he would always lean forward and kiss his Mummy on the cheek. Her cold skin felt strange against his lips, but then he’d never kissed her before The Clown came along, so he didn’t really have anything to compare it with. The lifeless uncaring eyes were a constant and reminded Boris of his childhood with this woman, how that had shaped him and brought him to this. He tried not to think about that night, and he was thankfully spared most of it, but he could not erase the moment that The Clown had handed him Mummy’s head. She’s yours forever now, buddy! And so am I! Then there was the laughter. The unceasing laughter. Always the laughter. The Clown had not been joking. Boris had The Clown with him always and forever now, and he had that infernal, endless laughter. As he painted his face and stared into the mirror he let go once again. It was quieter when he did this. It was better this way. The Clown was better at all of this. It was best for Boris to retreat and watch from his safe place.

And let The Clown have his fun.


It was pretty alright, fucking a dealer. She liked talking about her work, and I think it made her happy. She'd call herself a "white collar" dealer because she only ever sold to upper management and trust-fund kids (oh, and because she sold most of them coke, she's punny like that). But yeah, low risk, high payout, got to hang out in big houses and nice flats in the middle of the city. She was sensible and didn't take any class A's. Nothing stronger than hash, actually, and she didn't even get that from a distributor, she bought it from her fucking *dad*. It was like some bizarre fairy tale written by Guy Ritchie. So Monday rolled around, and I had to go back to the shop. Not usually much business on a monday morning, but I had to do some, paperwork, check the rat trap, you know #justsmallbusinessownerthings. So yeah, we walked out together and... I hadn't really thoughut about, like, what to *do* when we said goodbye. Hug, kiss, handshake? And because I'm a fucking moron, I thought the best thing to do was just stop outside the front of my building, ask if she wanted to get together again, when, where, and everything... then... just wait. But that didn't happen. I turned to face her and... just... I couldn't speak. I stared at her for just long enough that it looked like I wanted her to leave, but she knew. She can see in your eyes when you want something from her. She tilted her head down a little, kept eye contact, did that kind of half-smile and brushed her hair behind her ear again. "I think you're supposed to kiss me now." Which was about the worst thing she could have said, because my chill went *straight* out of the window. I reached up to her cheek with my left hand and lunged forward. It was supposed to be this lovely passionate embrace. I was going to sweep her off her feet like some prince charming with shit hair, but that didn't fucking happen. I headbutted her. No two ways about it. I hit her in the head with my head, and immediately went "Ow, what the fuck?" Like it was somehow her fault. Then I started laughing because it made me think of "Are you fucking sorry?" This is where I fell absolutely, helplessly in love with her. We both recovered, looked up at each other, and without missing a beat, she laughed back and said "Okay, so you could use some practice." I tried again, a little more cautious this time, and I mean nobody got hurt, so that's good. I was going to ask if she wanted to do something again another day, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she kind of blurted out "When do you get home? I could come round again." I must have looked pretty startled, because her eyes immediately opened wide and she fumbled a bit and said "Or, I mean, if you don't... uh... we... we could-" I kissed her again and said "7 o'clock". She giggled a little and we wandered off our separate ways.


Fruit picking. One of my favorite things to do. Picking blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, anything. I don’t know why I like it so much, it’s just interesting. ~~~~~~~~~~ “So are you coming or not?” Michael asked me. “I already said no. There’s no way my mom will let me go with you. She’ll think we’re dating or something,” I said. “There has to be some way I can change your mind.” “There is none. I can’t come. Go invite someone else.” He sighed. “Fine Sara. Your mom always has to be such a party pooper,” he mumbled. At that moment the bell rang. It was time to go home. Everyone ran to the busses. It was Friday and they were all ready for the party that was happening on Saturday. Michael kept inviting me, but I couldn’t go. He was right, my mom really was a party pooper sometimes. “Don’t leave! The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!” the teacher yelled to the class. Of course, no one listened. I headed to the bus and boarded it. Michael didn’t ride my bus, but my friend Jayla did. “So, you going to the party tomorrow night?” Jayla asked as soon as I sat down. Ugh. Why was everyone so interested in that party?

“I can’t go,” I said. Seeing I was frustrated, Jayla left me alone. For the rest of the bus ride, no one else talked to me, and I was happy about it. When I got home, my mom was waiting for me in the kitchen. “How was school today?” “It was good,” I lied. I had a horrible day. Everyone was pestering me about that stupid party, even my best friends. “Did you meet anyone today?” she asked me. I knew what she meant. She was very protective of me. My mom wanted to know if I met any boys. No matter how many times I assured her that I wasn’t dating anyone and wasn’t ready to date, she was always suspicious. Why would I date anyone in the first place? After all, I was only in eighth grade. Everyone else my age was in a relationship but honestly, my mom and I both agreed that eighth-graders are too young to date. “No Mom, I didn’t meet anyone,” I said. I hurried upstairs to my room before she could say anything else. I stayed up there and watched TV until it was time for dinner. “Dinner time!” my mom called. I washed my hands and went downstairs. My dad, who had just gotten home from work, was already there. “Hey Dad,” I said. “Hi, Sara.” For dinner, we ate meatloaf with macaroni and cheese. We made small talk as we ate. The whole time we pretty much just talked about the things that happened that day. I avoided telling my mom about the party. Even though I wasn’t going, if I told her, she probably wouldn’t let me out of her sight for the whole weekend. After dinner, I went straight to bed because I had nothing better to do. When I woke up the next morning, breakfast was already ready. After I dressed, brushed my teeth, and washed my face, I went downstairs to eat. No one else was there. My mom, who had already eaten breakfast, was up in her room and my dad already left for work. There was a stack of pancakes at my spot and I dug in. I spent the day staring at my wall and sulking. It wasn’t fair. I really wanted to go to the party. At seven-thirty, thirty minutes before the party started, I heard something hit my window. I looked through it and saw Jayla waving her hands. I opened my window and let her in. “What are you doing here?” I asked her. “You’re going to the party. I’m going to help you sneak out,” she said. I would usually reject that offer, but I really wanted to go to this party. Everyone else was going. This was my chance to become popular. Jayla helped me pick out what to wear. She gave me a makeover and we stuffed some pillows under my blanket. We climbed out of the window and walked to the house of the party, since it wasn’t far.

When we walked in, everyone was surprised to see me. “Isn’t that the lame girl?”

“Isn’t that the one who never shows up to anything?” I could hear them whispering about me but I didn’t care. I would prove them wrong. I was anything but lame. I looked around and saw Michael. He saw me too and started to come my way. “Hey, Sara. I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. “Jayla helped me sneak out,” I said. “Well then let’s make this the best party ever! We wouldn’t want to make your only middle school party lame,” he said. We danced, ate, drunk (but only soda), and talked. We were having such a good time and no one was talking about me anymore. I bet they all thought I was cool. That is, until one thing happened. My parents crashed the party. They knocked on the door and someone opened it, probably thinking they were a late guest. “Sara!” my mom yelled.

My dad was right behind her and I could tell that they were not happy. Trying not to make a scene, I just went with them. They yelled at me the whole way out and back home. “Why would you do that to us? We were so worried about you! We came in to check on you and noticed the pillows. Then we saw all the lights and heard the noise coming from the party. DO you know what could’ve happened to you? You could’ve gotten kidnapped, or maybe even worse,” yelled my mom. My dad just walked behind her the whole time, saying nothing. I could tell by his silence that he was mad at me. That’s what my dad did. When I was in trouble, he didn’t say a word. He let my mom do the talking while he silently stared at me with an emotionless expression. When we got home, I was sent to bed. That night I tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. I felt bad about what I had done. I should’ve just listened. I wondered what my punishment would be, or if I would be punished at all. The next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, as usual. My mom was sitting at the table, waiting for me. “Good morning Sara. You’re father and I have decided on your punishment.” This was just like my mom. She always got straight to the point. I wasn’t too worried about my punishment because I thought it would just be extra chores or no TV for a week. Instead, it was far worse than I expected. “That boy Michael you like to hang out with, you can’t talk to him anymore,” said my mom. “What?” I yelled. “You can’t stop me from talking to my friends! It wasn’t Michael’s fault! He didn’t do anything!” “If I find out from anyone that you’re talking to him, you’ll be punished even further,” she said firmly. “That’s not fair! At least let me hang out with him one more time!” “Fine, you get to hang out with him one more time. Go ahead and call him after you eat,” she said. I ate my food quickly and then called Michael. When he picked up, I started talking to him. “Hey, Michael. You wanna hang out today?” I asked, not wanting to tell him about my punishment yet. “Sure,” he said. “How about we go apple picking?” “Okay. I’ll meet you at the apple orchard in an hour.” I started to get ready. I dressed, putting on a tee shirt and jeans. Forty-five minutes later, I began to head to the apple orchard, which was within walking distance. When I made it there, I was early so I had to wait for about ten minutes for Michael to get there. Eventually, he did. “Hey, Michael. You ready?” I asked. “Yeah, let’s go.” We walked into the orchard. We paid at the counter and began to pick apples. At first, we picked them in silence. After a while of silence, I tried to make conversation. “So, you got anything planned for next weekend?” I asked Michael. “No. Do you?” “I don’t either.” We went back to silence. As we picked, I debated telling Michael about how this was the last time I would talk to him. I decided to tell him because he deserved to know. “Michael, I’m so sorry for not telling you about this earlier. This is the last time I’ll be able to talk to you. When my parents found out that I snuck out, they banned me from talking to you.” Michael looked shocked. This was a lot for him to take in. “Why me? I didn’t sneak you out!” he said with vexation in his voice. “You should run away with me.” I was shocked. Why was he so serious about hanging out with me? I mean sure it was sad that we couldn’t talk anymore, but it wasn’t something to run away about. “Why would we run away? It isn’t that serious,” I asked him. “If you stay, your parents won’t let you do anything. They’ll run your life, and when you disobey them, they’ll punish you more, until you can’t talk to any of your friends,” he said. I thought about this. What he said was probably true. “I’ll go,” I said. “I just need to go back to my house and grab a few things.” I left Michael standing there. I ran out of the orchard and to my house. When I made it there, I peeked through the door. My parents were nowhere in sight so I climbed up the stairs to my room. I quickly grabbed my backpack, emptied it out, and shoved a few of my belongings in there, including my phone, some clothes, some pictures, and etc. I ran out of the house and back to the apple orchard. Michael was waiting for me. “You ready?” he asked me. “Yeah. Where are we going?” “I don’t know yet, but we have to get as far away from here as possible. We walked down the street and eventually, night came. Michael and I walked in darkness. When we got tired, we went to sleep on a bench, as if we were homeless. Actually, we kind of were. In the morning, we went back to walking. We were starving, but I had forgotten to bring food. “How are we going to get food?” I asked. “We could beg.” “I’ve got a better idea,” said Michael. We walked to the nearest store. When we got there, Michael told me about the plan. “We're going to steal. Grab as much stuff as you can and stuff it in your bookbag,” he told me. Usually, I would never be on board with stealing, but there were a lot of bad things that I did lately. I was starving, or at least it felt like it, I would do just about anything for food. We went into the store. I walked to the canned food and snack aisle and stuffed as much stuff as I could into my backpack. Michael walked around the store, pretending he was interested in buying toilet paper. When my bookbag was full, I exited the store, trying not to look suspicious. Michael came out soon behind me. When we were far away enough, I sat on the bench we slept on and emptied out my bag. Michael looked through everything I got with me. I got some Debbie Cakes, canned beans, canned ravioli, and other canned goods. Michael and I opened a pack of chocolate brownies and dug in. Cars passed by us with their drivers staring at us. One man walking by even gave us some loose change, thinking we were homeless. After eating, we continued walking and as we did, I thought. I wanted to go back home. I regretted running away. Back home there was food, water, shelter, and my loving, protective parents. No matter how bad their punishments were, they loved me. We walked all day. When night fell, we had a conversation. “Tomorrow, we’ll be far enough to find somewhere to stay,” he told me. “Where will we go though?” I asked him. “I told you I don’t know,” he said to me, clearly frustrated. We talked some more, but we couldn’t think of any place to stay. We decided to just sleep on it. That night, I waited for Michael to fall asleep. When he did, I took most of the food out of my backpack and left it on the bench for him. Then I took the bookbag and left. I was going home. I walked for a few days, until I was nearing my home. I was almost there when I passed the apple orchard. The police were there and they saw me.

“Are you Sara Akodoa?” they asked me. “Yes, why?” I asked. As soon as those words left my mouth, I felt stupid. My parents probably called the police when I didn’t come back. Now they would question me and I would have to tell them about Michael. “Sara Akodoa, you are under arrest for theft.”


Charlotte wondered if she should ask him to stop. She saw her little sister Megan struggling, failing to get his hands off her mouth with her tiny hands. It was Megan’s third birthday today. They had just finished unwrapping all the presents and settled a fight over a tall Elsa doll their dad had gifted them. Girls had agreed to keep the doll between their twin beds in the shared bedroom. Charlotte looked at the doll and decided to get Olaf for her birthday. 'Megan would love that too', she thought, her eyes back on her sister. Megan had stopped struggling. ‘Daddy, is Megan okay?’, she asked her dad. ‘Yes honey. She is. She is sleeping’, he said as he waked over to Charlotte’s bed. ‘But her eyes are open and…’, she paused, something was different about her dad, his face looked like the ‘scary man’ from the park who stared at them while they played on the slide. ‘Her eyes are open, and she is staring at the ceiling’, she said pointing at Megan. Megan lied motionlessly on the bed; her hazel eyes wide open, pointed straight at the ceiling. ‘Yes Cherry, she is okay. She is with Mommy.’, he said looking around for something. Charlotte sensed that something was wrong, ‘Daddy, are you okay? Are you going to do the same thing to me like Megan?’. Startled by her question, he looked at her and moved closer. Kissing her on forehead he slid her in the bed. Her fragile presence was dominating. 'Stay here sweetheart, Daddy has to finish some work downstairs. I will be back in few minutes', he said as he got up from her bed. His wife’s severed head rested on their coffee table right next to the couch. Her body was lying on floor, headless. The expensive rug was soaked in a pool of blood spouted from her neck where her head was once attached. He didn’t remember cutting her head off. He didn’t even remember getting a knife. He looked at her head, her golden hairs flowing on the coffee table. She deserved what she got, he thought. Bending down, he picked up the sharp knife covered in blood from the soused rug. He had the whole plan ready to dispose of the bodies and then file a missing persons report. He no longer has to worry about taking care of the unworthy. The images of the guy from the park standing at his door with a letter in his hand flashed in front of his eyes. The letter lied there, next to his wife's head on their coffee table. The letter. He remembered, blacking out with rage and never reading it. Hurriedly, he opened the letter. As he read, his rage turned to despair. He had done a mistake, a grave one. ‘Daddy, is everything okay? Where’s Mommy?’ Charlotte called walking down the stairs. ‘Yes. I did a mistake but I am always going to be with you’, he said with an eerie smile. Charlotte was standing looking in the living room, her face full of fear and terror. Looking into her dark eyes for a moment, he slid the knife across his throat. Charlotte screamed as blood splurged out her dad’s neck. His body fell on the ground with a thud right next to his wife’s headless torso. The letter, still in his hand soaked in their blood from the carpet. ‘A five-year-old was found hiding in her bedroom closet, alone and scared, in a home with three dead bodies. The bodies were discovered by the girl’s biological father, a cop, who was at their house this morning to speak with the parents. The biological father said in his interview to us that he will continue to fight for custody of the surviving child. Police also mention that 'a letter' was recovered form the crime scene.


'May l please have today's special'. said undercover solo food critic, Treasure McBright after handing back the menu. Treasure McBright. She is the world renowned food critic whose reviews make or break a restaurant’s global image and she's a solo traveller whose image is not known by most people. It was her first time in that restaurant, she was open to exploring the country's cuisine and had seen that restaurant through a TripAdvisor blog. The menu of the day suggested that she would be tasting the best spaghetti Bolognese in town. She was taken back to the spaghetti Bolognese she tasted in Italy, it was the best ever! She started salivating when thinking of the delicious aroma of the mixture of ingredients in that Bolognese she tasted years back. Her throat muscles were condensing and expanding even before the food came, one would say it was the body’s preparedness mechanism when one is anticipating a great sensation of some kind of taste. Thirty minutes passed not even water was brought to the table, she started looking around and waving her hand to try draw the waiters or waitresses towards her table but none came, she could not understand her predicament as her imagination of tasting the Italian dish was being distorted by the conduct of the restaurant staff. At first she didn’t really put much to it as it seemed to be a busy lunch hour rush. A man minding his own business across the table to Treasure's asked the waiter serving him to assist the lady waiving, but he ignored her and went back to the kitchen. Treasure started to feel infuriated by the treatment she was getting as a black person in a commonly white restaurant, she noted that almost everyone wo entered after her was being served while she was waiting for her turn. She grabbed the next available waiter passing by and demanded to see the manager. It took the manager almost thirty more minutes to attend to the matter claiming he was busy, worse he didn't see why Treasure was making it a big deal but the man opposite Treasure’s table interjected by first introducing himself as Bob. He told them to give her all she wants or she will be sending his recording of this mistreatment. He mentioned that for a while he has been seeing how the lady was being ignored by the staff, or was it they got an instruction from higher to act in that manner towards her as it was strange how they were all following same pattern of pretending they didn’t see her waving and calling out. The manager seemed to be apologetic in front of the Bob, who was well dressed in a black bore tie suit. The manager then ordered staff to attend to Treasure.  Treasure told the waiter that she needed lemon iced water to calm her down…Imagine of thinking of the iced water’s calming effect then you get tap warm water, she asked the waiter serving her, what was that he brought. “Ma’am it’s the water you requested’ said the waiter. Bob told the waiter that if they continued he would post the recording of their misconduct. In as much as Treasure wanted to grab her bag and leave, now she had something to write about in her reviews but at the same time she had some glimpse of hope that the spaghetti Bolognese would erase all the mishap of that day. It was almost two full hours of misconduct, finally the dish she had been waiting for arrived. What struck her the most was the presentation, seemed a little uncanny to the eye but she gave them the benefit of the doubt that they just might wow her taste buds regardless of the appearance, of course it was nothing to write home about but the glimpse of hope made her to dive in. Treasure choked and asked what acidic substance was added in that dish, she is normally a healthy person without any known allergies. Bob across her table was disturbed by this and asked Treasure’s consent to post the recording but Treasure thanked Bob and told him, she will deal with it her own way but would need his number in case a witness is needed to support. Bob shared his number with her. Treasure called for the manager again who for some reason came promptly unlike the first time when he was discriminating her in full view of other customers. Treasure told the manager this was the worst she has been treated and the worst meal she has ever tasted, it was even more toxic and deadly, thank God she didn’t swallow any of it though her mouth was a bit inflamed from the strong acid in the dish. The manager told her that was their special dish of the day and didn’t know why it made her choke. Treasure asked him to taste it himself but the manager refused, so there were a lot of assumptions racing through Treasure’s  brain cells at that juncture, “could it be they deliberately tried to poison her and get her type not to enter that restaurant again, was it that the chef was under pressure and accidentally added too much acid to the Bolognese, was it that they didn’t like her casual dress code in the almost formal restaurant, what is it really that made them mistreat her the second she sat and ordered, if they didn’t want her type so bad, they could have blocked her from coming in the restaurant than to humiliate her in public, were this people who showed no remorse to their misconduct worth forgiving?, if so how will others learn as every human has the right to choose where to eat and needs to be treated equally despite one’s skin colour or race as long as you have money to pay. What was also racing through her mind was Bob’s attitude towards her ordeal, it gave her hope that no matter where you are in the world, someone or maybe you can say there is always a guardian angel in human form who will stand up for you and look out for you when others shy away without confronting a misconduct. So in short Treasure deduced that if one supports a misconduct being done on another it means that person supports the wrong doing by turning a blind eye to wrong doing. Treasure’s predicament was more of a lesson as she had spent time travelling and being treated with decency than this time around where her emotions were challenged in all aspects; Physical, mental and spiritual. Treasure’s review was simple. “If you are black, make sure you don’t go past Pete’s Italian cuisine restaurant commonly shown in the TripAdvisor’s blog, from manager down to waiters and waitresses, they will bend you and break you emotionally such that you might even leave through a stretcher from the allergic reactions you will get from the food they will serve you, and yet you joyfully entered the restaurant walking to explore the country’s cuisine. Go at your own risk black brothers and sisters, I got the worst meal l ever tasted.” Unapologetically signing off. Treasure McBright your undercover solo food critic.


It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications… Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping it in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up.