The water drops from the balcony above were tapping on the hand rails of his patio. They were consistent. Three quickly and then another two, then every three or four cycles they would all hit at once in some sort of perfect storm. He focused on the drippings through the rain and they didn’t allow him to fall back asleep. He stood and stepped out to the balcony to watch and listen to rain drop from the purple tinted sky, trying to watch drops from the clouds and follow them all the way to the ground. The plastic chairs on the balcony were wet and soaked his shorts when he sat down. Sitting he tried to think about the rain. He wanted something, anything to grab onto. There was nothing anywhere he went that held him, that made him want to stay. Some sort of motivation, or reason but it was empty. Maybe if he could capture the aesthetic he was looking at and transfer it onto a page. He thought for about a minute and realized he couldn't. Then spent the next 10 minutes criticizing himself as to why he would even think about trying to capture the beauty of the world for himself. Knowing for sure that he only wanted to do this because he wanted the rewards that would come from producing a piece of art. He thought forward to the talk show he would be on, where they would ask in amazement, when exactly did you come up with this Nobel Prize winning idea. Left leg over right, no, right over left he thought, and wearing something nice but humble. Immediately he felt shame, like he just orgasmed and wished he hadn’t. He thought about the past great writers and artists and how his motives were impure and that it meant he would never reach their level. The thought turned into a fact in the back of his head, I will never find it. He got back in bed with his wet shorts, threw the covers over his head and squirmed for two hours until the sun came up. The sun rose but the rain didn’t stop. The rain hadn’t stopped since he arrived in this town at dusk the night before. The city Shin. This city was unique, everything is based off one main street that runs through the heart of the city. Shin resembled a tree branch. The main street starts at the trunk and ended at the tip of the branch, and each leaf or twig was a side street, alley or road. Shin was a city famous for its rain and buildings. All along the main street building grew tall. And as you moved further away from the main street buildings usually didn’t grew so tall. The bottom three floors of these main street buildings were filled with all different kinds of liquor and grocery stores, one-stop gambling spots, clothing stores, tattoo shops, and lots of places to eat. Storefronts were two or three stories high and the sidewalks in front of them were wide, it gave the effect that you were walking down a huge alley. Above them were mainly lodging and some low-rent apartments. Above those floors are corporate offices or lounges. And the top floors were home to penthouses and very rich clubs. Some buildings didn’t get higher than the third floor, others didn’t get higher than the seventh or eighth and but most reached the sky. Neon signs reflecting blue, pink, green, purple and yellow colors off the rain hung from the first or second story levels advertising their respective trades. Into the leaves and twigs were houses, apartments, tea and coffee shops, more places to eat, bath houses, gambling houses, schools, parks and more hotels or motels, depending if you were on a twig or a leaf. The area outside Shin, and the main street were on very flat land, but the twigs and leaves were sporadically placed on bumps or hills, some tall some short. He was on a hill called Bunker. One side of Bunker rose slowly, and the other side fell off rather sharply. Bunker was a cheap area for lodging, it was on a twig. The lodging he was staying at was built on the steep side of Bunker, and his patio looked out over the neighborhood below. The sun rose at 6:23 AM. He rose as well with a sense of pride, feeling as he was one of the ones who had his life together because he was up and out before seven, forgetting about his fit when he saw the outline of the sun through the clouds. To himself, he thought, “I’m going to walk around my new city.” He began walking down the slow side of Bunker and walked into a 24 hour coffee and tea shop that used a curtain as a door. The shop was nearly filled to capacity with men who were dressed for a blue-collar job, each reading their paper, focusing on either sports, news or classifieds. The tea and toast he ordered were as expected. The tea was piping hot but lacked flavor, and the bread was almost burnt. With his food he began to eat and sip slowly, reading the paper of the man sitting at the table in front of him. The man was reading the classifieds, he was reading the story of a baseball player who died in an bus crash in the offseason taking relief supplies to a country ravaged by an earthquake. What shitty luck he thought. You spend your money and time the right way and you rewarded with death. What a waste of supplies. The bus had driven off a bridge after swerving due to rain, into 30 feet of water. As far as a baseball player he had little success, he was a catcher, with a career .218 batting average and only nine career home runs in four years. But he was noted to have been very active in his and other communities. He was reading about his childhood before the man stood up, folded his paper into his back pocket and walked out. All he caught was that he was from a small island he never heard of that started with a C. He thought to himself that he could have been a decent ball player, he had decent height a good build for baseball. He was right-handed so maybe he could have been a good second baseman. Being a sports writer didn’t seem so hard to him either, it seemed simple, maybe even sports photography could be possible. Then he thought maybe that could be a good story, about an athlete who is a better person than a player. Or the classic fantastic player but horrible person, but throw in some character growth and he’s the good guy. All of these thoughts flooded his mind in a matter or seconds. He found himself almost smirking but caught himself quickly and stopped. Feeling ashamed he shoved down the rest of the toast down his throat and walked out, looking around to see if anyone was looking. The morning clouds were very dark. He threw his hood on and headed to the main street. He reached the main street and had his hands in his pockets. He looked both ways and decided to head for the tip of the branch. Walking he kept his head on a swivel looking at every face and storefront that he passed by. Inside the first liquor store on his route he bought a pack of unfiltered cigarettes and lit one before walking out. The streets were packed at this time. He was pretty sure it was Tuesday, so that would explain the people out and about early in the morning. The sky had lightened but the rain hadn’t. The neon signs were never turned off so the lights were constantly reflecting off the sunlight and the rain making for a very aesthetic view. He wished he had a camera and photography skills. But he had given up on photography a few cities ago. The main street had no street parking. Most of the main street had only two lanes going each way, only in some very cases was there a turn lane. As the stores past by he looked in as many stores did not close and had no doors. The storefront would be open 24 hours a day. Peering in the stores were busy around the clock, and it never seemed as though the faces changed. The same woman at the restaurant, the same man gambling, the same kid holding and passing ads. The last city he was in was far less superior to this one. It was a small town with no more than 600 people. There was no decent lodging that didn't make him feel like he was intruding on someone's home. And very religious, nothing was opened on Sunday, that’s when he took off. A quick bus ride only nine hours landed him here. Now this he thought as he looked around, is a hub, a mecca, a place someone can fit in. here you could just be another piece of the machine. No one to bother you, no one to know your name, no family to guilt you. N. 99th Street is what he looked up to see on the street sign. He had walked 22 streets, with about a half mile in between each one. He decided we would eat, sat at a bench and counted his remaining cash. He had already paid for his room for two weeks, so that was safe, but only had enough money for four days of meals. Paying for two weeks in advance was never his style but the aesthetic of the lights and the rain and the hills made him sure this is where he wanted to be. Maybe he was right but looking at his cash his stomach began to twist. The rain still hadn’t let up. He made his way back to his room through the twigs and leafs, not down main street. The coat was hung neatly in the closet, the bed was made and he was laying face down wondering what he should do. “A job is my only option,” he said aloud, “i’m gonna give this city a fair shake.” He spent the rest of the night going back and forth between reading, trying to draw, contemplating calling home for money, maybe enlisting in the military, back to trying to write about his day, thinking about maybe going to look for a job. Before he knew it, the clock said it was 9:09 PM and he had wasted another day. Brushing, showering, changing and laying down. He slept until around three when the rain woke him up again. “Not again.” He pressed his head between his pillows and forced himself to sleep. The next morning was spent at the same tea shop but without food, or stories of sports, this time it was the classifieds. After two hours searching every ad, paranoid to miss the perfect opportunity the store owners told him to buy something or get out. He left, headed to the main office of Central Allied Security Services. He joined a waiting room full of other potential candidates, he was the fourth tallest by what he could tell, and looked stronger or younger than the rest. The receptionist hadn’t said how many jobs they were planning to fill but he was sure he would land one. He was originally scared he would be late, the ad said the company would be conducting interviews from 9:30 AM- 2:30 PM or when all positions were filled. He arrived seven minutes early and was disappointed to find 11 people already in the waiting room, but was almost immediately relieved to see more than 30 people arrive between 9:40 and 10 AM. A round short women with glasses walked out and announced, “Francisco Miguel Cantor Marinero Jr. ,” in a horrible accent effectively butchering the name. He rubbed his sweaty palms against the arms of the chair, he hated when people said his full name, it brought too much attention to himself. “Here,” he said as he stood up, also halfway raising his arm like he was in school again. “Come on in.” He followed into a room with two men sitting at a table and the round lady joining them “Mister… Cantor? Where are you from?” “Out west but I just got here from a little town called Prosper two days ago.” “And how long were you in Prosper?” “Three days.” “Are you planning on leaving again soon.” “No sir, i’ve paid three months in advance at my current lodging, Shin is where I plan to be.” “Have you done security work before?” “Not officially but I worked in a nursing facility at one point where I was essentially called for any security type issues, escorting things like that.” “What would be your first reaction to a man getting loud or irritated and possibly violent in an area you are assigned to patrol?” “Truthfully sir, I am not familiar with the procedures of this company, so I would rely on my training and make sure I understand all procedures before going on the job to handle the situation correctly.” There was a moment of silence. “When would you be able to start?” “As soon as possible.” “Is 12.00 an hour ok?” “Yes” “How many days can you work.” “As many as i'm needed.” “Fill this out and we’ll get back to you.” After leaving he felt good, he was always good at interviews, he just always knew what they wanted to hear. During the interview each interviewer only took one look at him and only stared down at a sheet of paper making marks. Only the man in the middle asked questions. The round women always brought in the candidates, and the other man didn't do anything but write stuff down and adjust his glasses. He went back to his room and smoked the rest of the cigarettes he had bought the day before and was listening to the rain. He spent the afternoon thinking and wondering about what his first day would be like. Then his second and third. What his first paycheck would read. Thinking of perfect scenarios and situations. At midnight he was still awake and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything but cigarette smoke and two cups of water from the waiting room. Starting down the hall in a pair of medium white socks, his converse, some basketball shorts and a black hoodie sweatshirt, he headed for the small diner up the hill. When he walked out he heard a loud voice saying, “get out,” and saw a large duffle bag fly out of room a 30 feet in front of him. He paused for a second and kept on but slower. A second after a girl came bouncing out, catching herself on the wall opposite of the door. Now he was walking really slow. The door shut and the deadbolt turned. She immediately turned around and pounded on the door once. “Give me my backpack,” she said in a confident voice. While he was 10 feet away the deadbolt turned and she caught the black backpack that was tossed out the door. The deadbolt turned again. “You need some help?” he said it out loud but as soon as it left his lips he felt as though he hadn’t said it. She was checking her backpack and turned sharply towards him and in a soft firm voice she answered, “I think i’ll be good.” He couldn’t figure out why but the way she looked at him had made his head feel light. Like he was inside his own head looking through his eyes. He was suddenly aware of all his movements. He could feel six different parts of his body itch all at once. She had dark skin, but not Yucatan dark. Her hair was naturally black and a little wavy but mostly straight. Her eyes matched. She had a mole under the left corner of her mouth on her chin and another right over the inside of her left eyebrow on her forehead. She was wearing tight spandex shorts, but they were covered by a large long sleeve jersey. He didn’t recognize the team so it must be some generic brand. She had on brown open toed shoes. He couldn't decide if they were sandals or huaraches, he figured they were somewhere in between. Is there even a difference he briefly thought. He was pretty speechless. But the first thing that came to his mind. “Have you eaten?” “What?” she didn’t mean to sound aggressive she was just flustered. “I'm a big girl I can figure out how to eat,” she added. She wasn’t really a big girl. No taller than 5’5 and pretty thin. But the nice type of thin. Skinny but with still something left to feel. She had big feet though. Her toes were painted black but the polish had worn off on some of them. “I didn't mean it like that, i was just headed to the diner on the corner, y-you want to come.” She was digging through her backpack and looked up. “You don't have to get anything if you don't want, I mean if you're not hungry, but it would give you some time to get yourself together, you look a little flustered truthfully,” he added. “Yea, maybe, okay, thanks,” she took only a second or two between words but it felt like an hour for him. They began walking down the hall, he was walking two steps ahead, it just felt too soon to walk next to her in his head. “He turned and said, “Im junior by the way.” “Junior? Thats your real name?” “No, but i am a junior, and I go by junior.” “What’s your full name,” she had caught up to him. “Umm,” he paused, “Francisco Miguel Cantor Marinero Jr.” “Very cool, i’m gonna call you Pancho.” He let out a laugh as they turned to corner to the elevator, “Whatever you feel.” “Im Lizzie.” He gave her a look and she immediately knew. “Ugh fine, Maria Elizabeth Dominguez Perez.” “That's a pretty name, i’ve always liked that name, Perez.” She didn't answer. “I’m gonna call you Liz,” he said. “Eww no i'm gonna sound like a lesbian,” they both chuckled. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Likewise.” In Pancho’s head he was very relieved to know that she was indeed not a lesbian but he couldn’t let her know. They made it outside and walked quickly 50 yards up to the diner. The diner was small, only a bar that held five patrons and 10 booths that could hold a maximum of four maybe five customers. The diner was called Anna’s and the neon sign was in bright pink and aqua blue. The inside played slow trumpet, piano and drum jazz at a low volume. Despite being only a short distance the different in view this diner had couldn’t be any different. The diner windows seemed to show the city like a panoramic photo. All the colors were distinguished and reflected perfectly against the rain. You could see the hills and neighborhoods of Shin and all the lights twinkling. They sat at the corner booth so she could fit her duffle bag. He ordered a cup of coffee and two packs on unfiltered cigarettes. Lizzie was still digging in her bag and passed on anything to order. “You think I can have one of those cigarettes?” she asked. “Sure.” They sat. He drank. They smoked. She dug around her bag for a while and finally sat back. “I’m gonna go change in the bathroom, i’ll be right back.” She came out wearing black leggings, a pair of black running shoes, and a heather grey hoodies sweatshirt that fit her better than the jersey. She put her old clothes in her duffle bag, put her hand in her pocket hoodie pocket and leaned back. He passed her another cigarette and she lit it with the pack of matches. They sat in silence and smoked. They both subconsciously were peering out the window onto the city. He was looking at the hills and the way the city seemed to move like a branch in the wind. She was looking at the windows of all the houses in the neighborhood and wondering what each person or family was doing if anything. “You from here?” he finally broke the silence. “No, i’m from back west.” “Same,” he responded. “Oh yea? Where at?” “The deserts by the beach.” “Im from the ghettos by the beach” “Very cool,” without knowing he had already, within an hour copied her slang. “Why are you all the way here?” She let out a light sigh, “Long story.” “Same.” There conversations was steady but spaced out. Words didn’t come out fast and questions weren’t answered immediately. The pauses were just long enough for the other to know that the conversations was still going on. He was terrified, he was trying so hard to match her. To be on the same level of cool and aloofness as she was. She didn’t seem to overthink anything. She was acting effortless, asking questions and answering them with absolute certainty and no change in her voice or tone. All the while on the fly he was trying to make it seem like they are the same person. He was kidding himself as he knew from the first moment he looked in her black eyes they were not the same. “But maybe that was a good thing,” he thought to himself, “people don’t have to be the same to be able to be in the same space.” “So why come from the desert to this place?” she asked. “I’ve been to a lot of places in between,” he took a small pause, ashed his cigarette, peered out the window and added, “but I have a feeling i’ll stick here.” For the first time she had a moment of vulnerability and her face made an uncontrolled movement. She enjoyed his answer. She loved the mindset, and it was the first time one of them had responded so soon after a question so she knew he meant it. She also knew this wasn’t the first time he said this about a city, but that’s another reason she liked it so much. “I can respect it,” she smirked at put her cigarette out on the ashtray. “I’m gonna order some food, you want something?” “Can we share?” “Pick something.” They spent the next two hours eating eight chicken tenders and fries slowly, going thru almost a pack of cigarettes combined, and drinking four cups of coffee each. The pace of their conversations had sped up quite a bit, but they had shared stories from various cities about different people, jobs and situations they had been in. And when she concluded with, “I’ve just been looking for something to hold on to truthfully.” He knew then and there he would never want to be in any place that she wasn’t in. He had asked the sky and the rain for that very thing two nights before and he couldn’t believe him hearing another human saying the same thing. It made his head feel light again, he couldn’t help but smile. She was what he wanted to hold on to. This feeling he had was unmatched before. He had only read about things like this happening but never believed it would happen to him or that it happened at all. All the years of hidden sadness, stress, anxiety and feelings of unwantedness that manifested into aimless traveling. Once her lips closed after saying that sentence he couldn't remember any of it. All he felt was an undying need be in the same space as her and that she was the one he wanted to hold onto. Junior is not an irrational person, almost immediately he understood very well that this immediate and deep feeling of need and loyalty was probably not healthy and very well may fade, but to him it didn’t matter, it never did. “Who cares about that stuff anyway,” he thought to himself. He paid and they walked out together. He was carrying her duffle bag. They walked thru the rain, too full and tired to run and took the elevator back to his floor. She began to tell him about her friends back by the beach in the ghettos, and all the young hoodlum stuff they used to get into. The openness surprised Junior but by no stretch of the imagination did he want it to stop. He listened and asked questions and related to her stories the best he could until he had set her duffle bag down on the floor and she had locked the door. At the same moment they both realized where they were and who they were with. Neither had even thought about any other outcome than ending here with each other, but they couldn’t remember how it happened, it just did. Junior showered and changed in the bathroom. She did the same after him. He took the fastest shower he had taken in a while, he was paranoid she would leave while he was away. When she came out he was sitting on the edge of the bed starting at the purple sky through the sliding door that led to the patio. She stood outside the door to the bathroom looking at him. She liked the shape of his silhouette. It was defined and lean. He had broad shoulder and his head wasn’t shaped weird. He didn’t have much hair on his face and he kept his hair cut really short on his head. His face was symmetrical and no one part of it stood out over the other. But in a very classic way he was handsome, despite the fact that they had spent the previous three hours in each others company she had just realized it at that exact moment. Sitting on her left leg the the opposite side of the bed, he turned, looked at her and asked, “feel better?” “I do,” she answered. He put his slippers on and wandered to the patio and opened the door, the cool air and smell of rain on concrete hit the room. She wrapped her damp hair in a towel and walked out with him in her bare feet. “Your gonna catch a cold,” looking at her toes curled up on the cold patio concrete. “Ok mom, I think i’ll be fine.” He gave her a sideways look, she looked and laughed out loud. That's the exact reaction she was hoping for. Rummaging through the drawers until she found a pair of his long white socks that went to her knees, she came back out quickly. “You look like such a dork,” he started laughing before he finished the sentence. “Well,” she said as she started walking back inside and sitting on the corner of the bed, “they’re your socks panchito.” Immediately after she exhaled a big yawn that caused a chain reaction that made him yawn, the her again. He walked in and shut the door, stretched his arms over his head revealing his happy trail under his white shirt. She giggled without him noticing. “I think it may be time for me to get some sleep, how you feeling?” “About the same, can I put the TV on though, I kind of have to sleep with it on?” “Yea do what you feel.” She got up, he got under the covers in his shirt and socks, which he never does. She turned on the TV and had to slap the side a couple times to get the static to go away. After she turned all the lights off she got under the covers in a long sleeve shirt and dark grey shorts. He was still awake watching what she had put on. “You always sleep with a socks on?” she asked. “Naw, not usually. Not ever really with a shirt either,” this made him extremely nervous, he didn’t want to push to hard so soon and have her think he’s weird, he wanted it to be natural. Before he could finish thinking through the situation he heard her say, “just take them off, its your room.” Then she looked at him. It wasn’t sly, it wasn’t suggestive, it looked as though she was desperately not trying to be nuisance. He leaned forward and threw the socks out from under the covers, raised up and took off the shirt, tossed it on the chair across the room. She watched the whole thing. She stood up went to the bathroom and came back in a tank top. They both got under the same set of covers. The top of her foot touched his hairy calf and immediately retracted. His heel slid across the side of her ankle before retreating back to his side. She pulled the covers to her side, then he returned the favor. After 15 minutes of periodical “accidents” he turned on his side to face her with his eyes closed. She couldn’t help but stare at his face. It was even, and peaceful, and when he breathed in his nostrils got really big. She started thinking about their time in the diner. And how she liked when he said that this might be the city he sticks to. She had originally thought he had said this in every town he arrived in to every person he met. But the more she looked at his face, and the more she thought about the night, and his words, she started to think he hadn’t said this before, and that this town and this moment and situation was special. “Is he asleep, is he awake, what is he thinking about, has he thought about tonight?” All these questions were flowing through her mind but she had no answers. Before she knew it she was thinking of the room three doors down, and the guy in there. Nothing but a lazy bum. “That guys from this city and lives in a hotel, pitiful,” she thought. He only wanted what she thought all guys wanted, especially from a young borderline vagabond female like herself. She realized that if she didn’t stop thinking about all of this she would never fall asleep, moving slightly towards the middle she put her back towards his face. Slowly but surely they both fell asleep. In that position. She woke up first. Facing towards him with her arms close to her chest, still towards the center of the bed not far from him. She realized after a couple seconds that her leg was trapped in between his two legs. He was sleeping on his stomach and had somehow put her in some sort of leg lock. She tried to twist it out slowly to not wake him, and maybe she would get some coffee or something for them to eat to repay him for the food last night. She looked at the clock and it was only 7:46 AM. She decided to move closer to get more comfortable for her leg and go back to sleep. She inched towards him and closed her eyes in the same position she awoke in, just four or five inches away from him. After tossing the blankets over her shoulders she fell back asleep quickly. He woke up 47 minutes after that. He perched up on one elbow and looked around. 8:33 AM the clock said. He looked over. She was still sleeping and he couldn’t look away. It was the same look she gave him last night when he turned towards her. After two seconds he remembered he had dreamed of her last night. They were on their way to a baseball game and kept picking up hitchhikers, some he knew, some he didn’t until they popped a tire. He never remembered his dreams. He adjusted himself and closed his eyes again and drifted away.


Another in the 100 two-minute myths I'm writing here:  It was early July and the young people in Baie Verte were drinking so much, they had to post blurry pictures of themselves online, or their friends wouldn’t recognize them. The only person under 25 immune to the fever was Maxine Payne, who worked at the Legion where she moved behind the bar like she was acting out poems about water. Her hair cascaded down her back and broke over her hips as she walked away from Bill Downey, who sat at the corner of the bar, as far away from Maxine as he could get without leaving the place. Like all men over 30 on the Baie Verte Peninsula, due to zinc levels in the water, Bill suffered from venustraphobia, a rare disorder which left his nerves unable to bear the weight of beauty. A side effect of the affliction was being scared stiff in the company of single women. So, small capelin of fear teemed here and there just under his skin at the thought of the unthinkable – actually having a conversation with Maxine longer than a drink order – but he had no choice if he wanted the $25,000. That was what Viagra, a pill for men who suffered from erectile dysfunction, was offering as the prize for whoever came up with the best advertising campaign. His idea was to show a woman and man in a hotel room where, just as he starts to take off her sweater, she stops him, goes into her purse, as though looking for a condom, and pulls out a Viagra pill instead. The camera would then pan out to show a waterfall through the window with the words, *Take a Second Honeymoon in Viagra Falls.* Bill knew his idea depended on getting a woman for the ad who was so beautiful that men would have no choice but do what she said and he knew that the woman had to be Maxine Payne. To build up his nerve, he’d been coming to the legion for 18 straight nights, but even when he was playing pool with friends he still couldn’t find the balls he needed. But, the contest was closing and he could no longer avoid the conversation, so he’d been sitting at the bar for two hours pounding beer and dying in his seat. When she came back with his beer, words base jumped off his tongue and fell to their death on the bar top. In a liquid voice that came from a small spring and flowed over her tongue as she spoke, she told him his idea was so lame it needed a crutch. What men had always wanted, she explained, was both an easy way, as well as hard, and offered to meet him the next day to kick around some ideas. Within an hour of that meeting, Bill was so captivated by the breadth of her mind that he had forgotten she was beautiful, and the two laughed the afternoon away as they drew stick men and women on napkins in the corner coffee shop. Three weeks later an image of them being presented with a giant $25,000 check went viral. Six months after that a billboard appeared on the lip of town showing a couple, blurred in the background, behind a spilled bottle of Viagra pills on a hotel room night table. Over the image were the words, *One pill. One hour before,* and underneath, written in an unassuming font, *Viagra.


Just three days from leaving Afferton, Armin saw the tower built by old King James puncturing the horizon like a hundred-foot needle. Its long shadow cast the final leg of his day’s journey into darkness. One hundred soldiers call it home, guarding the kingdom of Peccothia from the foul beings that haunt the waste. Armin had heard the stories of scorpions with claws that could cut a man in two, and worms that could swallow a horse whole, he supposed they were little more than stories. As they approached, a guard hailed them from atop the battlements, liveried in red emblazoned with the golden eagle of House Thorebourne. ‘Halt! What business do you have this close to the waste?’ ‘Hello there! I am Armin of Jakai, and these are my men, Asad and Kadeer, we’re on a mission of exploration.’ ‘You must be mad!’ ‘Many have said the same, but I still breathe! I bring with me some of Averleon’s finest vintage. I’m sure your comrades would appreciate a drop?’ ‘Well, when you put it like that!’ His head disappeared below the parapet. They heard shouts from behind the wall, before a great groaning of iron hinges as the gates swung open to reveal a small courtyard. They entered through the barbican into the darkening ward and the guard introduced himself. ‘Watch Sergeant Jon Berrington at your service. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had guests here.’ ‘The men of the border towers do us a great service, for which I am extremely grateful. It only seems fitting to share a little drop of something with you whilst I’m in the area.’ ‘Most kind sir, follow me and I’ll take you to the sergeants mess.’ Jon led them inside the tower and up the circular stone staircase. Men in the same red and gold uniforms rushed this way and that, sergeants strutted around like peacocks, barking orders. Armin looked at the chaos in the tower, surely the military was supposed to be organised. A young soldier of no more than twenty years approached them and addressed Jon, looking worried. ‘Sir, a report has arrived from Seawatch, they’ve had numerous attacks on their patrols today. They request assistance from us at first light.’ ‘Very well. Tell tomorrow’s Patrol Sergeant he can have half of my watchmen. If they ride at first light they should get on top of the situation.’ Jon seemed unflappable, a rock of calm in the tempestuous ocean of the tower. ‘Very good sir.’ The young guard sped off, dodging between other men on his way downwards through the tower. Jon shook his head at the group and proceeded to an unremarkable door in the corridor. He opened it and stepped back to allow them to enter. The room was large with a fireplace at each end, to one side stood the beds of the sergeants, each with its own nightstand and chest. The other end was the sergeants mess, a large round table in the middle dominated the space, a few armour stands and dressers stood against the walls. On one dresser there were full bottles and empty glasses, Armin doubted the sergeants were ever short of a drink. ‘Please sit, take the weight off your feet.’ Jon said, pulling chairs out from under the table. Armin sat between Kadeer and Asad, the two guards he’d hired in Elvia. Kadeer was tall and lean, muscles rippled under his shirt, Asad short and stocky, but deceptively quick. He’d been assured they were the very best. His intention was to prevent them drinking too much, there could be fighting tomorrow when they crossed into the waste. Jon poured them each a glass of red wine he retrieved from a dresser. ‘I believe I can uncork this since we have guests.’ Armin sipped the wine, it was excellent, if a little dry for his taste. ‘That is fantastic, where did you find that little gem?’ ‘Some of the men returning from the crusades brought it back. Say what you like about the Teyans, but they produce a fine vintage!’ Jon smacked his lips and filled his glass again. ‘How goes the crusades? I’ve been away in Jakai and news doesn’t travel so far these days.’ ‘Ah Jakai, wonderful city I hear. If only I could visit one day, I would dearly love to see the coliseum.’ Jon began with a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid the crusades don’t go as well as they ought to. Rumour has it that the Teyans are looking east for aid, Gelgarand and Elon-Gar have sent troops.’ ‘What does that mean for the northern armies?’ ‘I couldn’t claim to know the mind of Lord Wedderburn and King Tristan but I expect his highness to want to meet force with force. He needs to calm down if he’s to be remembered as fondly as his father.’ Armin noticed Jon’s glass was again empty. ‘Asad, fetch the cask of Averleon red, our host needs a refill.’ Asad poured another drink for Jon, making sure his glass was full. Much to Armin’s delight, Jon approved of the wine. ‘What is it about Averleon that means they can create such a fine drink?’ Jon mused, slurring his words ever so slightly. ‘It must be the warmer climate in the south, the grapes grow bigger and juicier. I’ve seen their great glass houses where they grow all manner of queer fruits. There’s one that’ll grow as big as a man’s head, bright yellow they are! They call them melons; can you imagine such a thing?’ ‘Ha! I’d love to try one, what are they like?’ ‘Juicy and light. Refreshing on a warm summers day!’ Armin was keen to get some more wine down the man and gain more information of the world. ‘A top up for our gracious host!’ He called, ignoring that his wine glass was still half full. Asad poured another full glass for Jon, careful not to spill a drop. It was bad manners to spill in your host's hall. ‘How fares King Tristan? He’s not been on the throne more than a few moons now, surely?’ ‘Three or four now, I think. He’s bright enough and wants to do the right thing, but he needs better people around him. Between you and me, I’ve never liked that Khoran fellow who leads the army. Slimy and manipulative that one. Hell of a swordsman though, some reckon he’d even best Luthar Shoresmith. Shame we’ll never see that, it’d be a battle to end all battles.’ ‘What’s wrong with his advisors?’ ‘You hear there was a dragon sighting over Myllyria last year? Well, Lord Hanford travelled personally to Threftall to report it, and asked for money to build scorpions and other defences. Anyways, Lord Andron, steward of the realm, told the king that dragons have been gone for hundreds of years and Lord Hanford couldn’t trust his eyes. This is all third hand by the way, but I hear there was nearly swords in the court! Khoran had to step in.’ ‘That doesn’t bode well for King Tristan! If he has lords nearly fighting in the court, then it’s going to make his reign a troublesome one.’ ‘Aye, and we don’t need any of that! Well, it’s nearly dark outside and I’m full of wine, so bed it must be! I’ll show you to our guest quarters.’ ‘Just one thing before bed, sergeant. I was wondering if we might join a patrol tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to see the waste and would feel much safer with the men of Peccothia at my back.’ Armin hoped he’d plied the sergeant with enough wine to wash away his inhibitions. ‘Of course! More the merrier. We often have the warrior’s guild sending their men and squires. Be ready at first light and I’ll get you on patrol.’ Jon’s face had turned a bright red and his speech was ever more slurred. Armin doubted he would be doing much in the way of patrols tomorrow. As he stood up, Jon swayed and grabbed the table to steady himself. Armin could see Kadeer stifling a laugh out of the corner of his eye. ‘We’ll see ourselves to the guest chambers, you need some rest sergeant. If you could direct us, please?’ ‘Of course, up one flight and it’s the only door there. Here, take this key to let yourselves in.’ He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, all fingers and thumbs. Eventually he retrieved a key and held it out to them, Asad took it from him and put it in his own pocket. ‘Good night sergeant, see you tomorrow for a day’s adventuring!’ Armin called cheerily before retreating out of the room in search of bed. The guest quarters were sparse, but comfortable enough. Straw mattresses lay upon wooden beds, a trunk at the end of each. A rectangular table big enough for six men occupied the other end of the room, along with washing bowls and one great copper bathtub. A fire had been lit in a hearth on one wall, keeping off the autumn chill that attacked the room, Armin laid on the bed closest to it, straw stabbing at his back. This could be worse he mused. Before long, his eyes became heavy and began to close. The next morning was bright, but cool. Armin, Asad and Kadeer met with Patrol Sergeant Tomos Bevyn near the gate, but there was no sign of Jon. Tomos was a tall, lean man, stern of face with a thunderous voice, but he shared the good humour of Jon. Armin noticed that Tomos occasionally fiddled with a string around his neck, adorned with what looked to be teeth. ‘Does Jon not join us this morning?’ Asked Armin. ‘He’s a watchman, so not assigned to a patrol. Plus I think he’s unwell, wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’ He smiled as he asked Armin, presumably this had happened before. ‘That’s an interesting necklace you have there.’ He said to Tomos, changing the subject. ‘Aye, made it myself. Most of the lads here have them too. You see these?’ He held two particularly large, curved teeth in his fingers. ‘From the rock worms, big nasty bastards. Wouldn’t take one on with less than ten men. Might see some today if you’re lucky.’ ‘I think Lady Luck would keep us as far away from them as she could!’ Armin had no intention of doing battle with a rock worm. ‘Sergeant, the men are saddled and ready’ A middle aged soldier had approached from behind Armin and spoke to the sergeant with a confidence that oozed experience. ‘Thank you corporal.’ He nodded at the newcomer who swiftly departed back to his own horse. ‘Gentlemen, if you’d like to ride with me?’ Armin fell into formation next to the sergeant, Asad and Kadeer followed on behind. The sergeant had a fine horse, at least fourteen hands tall and muscular; she was a beauty. Tomos seemed to have a real affinity with her, treating her with respect as an equal, he caught Armin looking sideways at her. ‘She’s a fine animal, what’s her name?’ Armin asked. ‘Breeze. King Harold bought a load of horses from the Alarston plains not long before he passed. A few made their way over to us out here, I was lucky enough to be on duty at the right time.’ He patted Breeze’s neck as he spoke, clearly seeing her as a friend. They walked along the border between Peccothia and the waste, setting a decent pace. The men of the towers clearly looked after their horses well, not one seemed to be flagging. To their right Armin could see the great cliffs jutting out from the scorched, dry earth. Not even a bird circled over that cursed place. They’d rode a couple of miles before a scout riding on their right flank caught their attention. ‘Tunneler ahead!’ He pointed with his sword to a small mound of earth about a hundred yards in front of them. ‘Men, dismount!’ Roared Tomos as he leapt from his own horse. He turned to Armin, Kadeer and Asad. Stay back with the horses, don’t come too close unless you’re ready to fight.’ Armin dismounted as smoothly as he could, adrenalin coursed through his veins, half excitement and half fear. He retrieved his whip and sling from his saddlebags. ‘We don’t mind a bit of rough and tumble, do we boys?’ Asad and Kadeer were already on foot, scimitars and bucklers in hand. They didn’t look the part compared to the well armoured Peccothian soldiers, but Armin knew their looks were deceiving. Both former coliseum champions in Jakai they were more than a match for anything the waste could throw at them. ‘Very good.’ Tomos commented before approaching his men, already in a square. ‘Shields!’ He roared. The soldiers each lifted their large, rectangular shields to cover the sides of their formation. The men in the middle lifted theirs and held them above their heads, making a shell around them. Armin had never seen such organisation from soldiers. ‘Water!’ Tomos now commanded. A slight movement in the middle of their shell was the only sign of activity, a couple of shields moved briefly to allow someone more room. Armin couldn’t work out what was going on, until a puddle of water began to emerge from the gathered soldiers. It spread out in all directions, faster and faster, before coming to an abrupt stop about twenty yards away from them. Armin looked from Asad, to Kadeer, none of them knew what to say or do. They each gripped their weapons, ready for whatever might come next. The earth began to rumble beneath them. Before Armin could open his mouth to ask the question, the earth erupted before the soldiers, showering them with mud. Stones, roots, and sickly plants bombarded their formation, bouncing from their shields onto the ground. Behind the shower of mud followed a worm as big as a carriage. It was a sickly pale brown, mud clung to its long thick body and a great yawning chasm of a mouth opened at the head. Rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth glistened in the sunlight, curved inwards to trap its prey. It flopped to the ground in front of the men, slithering across the wet earth towards them. ‘Spears!’ Was the next call from Tomos, watching eagle eyed from the back of the formation. Spears slid through the gaps in the shields, thrusted firmly towards the worm. One pierced its skin above its mouth. The worm screamed an awful, high-pitched cry, making the bile rise in Armin’s stomach. ‘Archers!’ A handful of men withdrew from the rear of the soldiers, bows in hand and arrows nocked. ‘Loose!’ The arrows whistled above the men and planted themselves in the body of the screaming worm, it writhed in agony, showering yet more dirt over the soldiers. ‘Advance.’ The men advanced to the worm, spears now driving at the animal and piercing flesh several times. Blood so dark it was almost black spilled out of a hundred cuts or more, stark against the pale, dry ground. ‘Break!’ The formation broke, men with spears still jabbed the worm as it desperately fought to escape. More men circled it, armed with short steel swords in one hand, rectangular shields in the other. They unleashed a ferocious barrage of strikes upon the worm, not ceasing until it moved no more. Armin, Kadeer and Asad all approached the soldiers, many of them breathing heavily from the exertion. Inspecting the bloody mess that had been a rock worm a few minutes ago, Armin could sense an unseen evil about its body. The corporal that had spoken earlier prised apart it’s jaws with another man, revealing those fearsome teeth again. A third, armed with a short knife stuck his arm inside the mouth, seemingly cutting away at something. After a few short moments he held aloft a great tooth, dripping blood on his hand and down his arm. ‘My first!’ He called, to a few cheers from the other men. The corporal handed him a string he retrieved from his pocket. ‘You’re one of us now son.’ He clapped him on the back before retreating to the worm to take his own trophy. Each man took their turn as a dentist, removing more and more of the beast’s teeth for their own necklaces. Finally, Tomos retrieved teeth for his own string, he shouted ‘Number twenty.’ Before approaching Armin. ‘That’s what we do to keep you safe. A nasty business to be sure, but a necessary one.’ He explained as he slid the tooth on to his necklace. ‘Is that really the twentieth of them things that you’ve killed?’ Armin could scarcely believe a man would continue doing this for so long. ‘It is. The more, the better. Keeps them away from the outlying farms and villages. The gods forbid that any should reach Lorez or Afferton. Hundreds could be killed if they did.’ The smell of the dead worm began to sting Armin’s nostrils. The foul beast decomposed quickly in direct sunlight, even if it had passed high summer. The men all mounted up once again, ready to move on with their patrol. ‘Sergeant, where is the easiest place to pass into the waste?’ ‘About three miles south from here, there’s a gap in the rocks.’ Suddenly suspicious he frowned at Armin. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘It’s where our adventure leads us next my good man. Lead on!’ Tomos looked at Armin, confusion rising in his face. He clearly though Armin was mad. Shaking his head, he stuck his heels into Breeze and proceeded on their southward journey. As he followed, Armin looked westward over the waste, dry, scorched earth gave way only to rocky outcrops and the occasional shell of a long dead tree. The former kingdom of Isiliar seemed to have killed the very earth it stood on.


A high pitch rustling causes my eyes to open. It’s not daylight yet so my cousin’s living room is dark. The rustling continues as I look around for the source. I am expecting to see my cousin or his girlfriend walk beside the couch I’ve chosen as my bed. Are they getting up for a bathroom break? Maybe a midnight snack? Who knows? This is the first time I have stayed with them so their habits are unknown. My focus is directed at the sour feeling in my stomach reminding me of last night’s vodka, until the rustling ends with a brief jiggle. I feel a blast of cold air even though my body is covered with blankets. My eyes scan the room towards my cousin’s bedroom. All I see is the faint outlines of furniture. The house gets silent. I lean my head off the pillow to get a better view. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence. I stretch my neck to see above the back of the couch. I notice the front door ajar. Then I hear steps. The steps are light but loud enough for me to hear over the heat blowing through the vents. A large figure walks past me. My fingers tighten around the blankets laying on top of me. I pull my head below so only my eyes and hair remain exposed. The figure walks through the living room and down the hall slowly opening doors as he progresses. Bathroom. Next. Closet. Next. Home office. The figure stays in front of the door but doesn’t open it. I know my cousin always locks his office door. I’m not sure what he does I just know he works from home. I hear the rustling again. My phone sits next to me on the side table. I know I can grab it but what would the consequences be? The screen light may alarm the intruder. Would I be able to hide it under my blankets or would the light escape? Am I too scared to even call 911? I can barely feel my arms. I hear a brief jiggle then the intruder disappears into the now open home office. I know my time is now. I moved my hands up closer to my phone. I grab my phone and text 911. They trace my location and immediately send police to my cousin’s home. The intruder walks out and approaches me. I jump from the blankets in a surprise attack and perform a choke hold on the intruder. Using a nearby cable I tie up the intruder’s hands and feet. The police arrive and everyone says I’m a hero. I move my hands up closer to my phone.The plan in my head was set. I just need to initialize it. Grab your phone. Grab your phone. GRAB YOUR PHONE. I can’t move. My disobedient body remains hidden under the blankets. I start to shake knowing my window is closing. My heart pumps. Instead of adrenaline it pumps doubt. The window is slammed shut as the intruder walks out carrying a case. The intruder pauses in the living room and stares at my cousin’s bedroom door before setting the case down. As the intruder quietly enters the bedroom my throat prepares for a scream. I rip through the silence with a loud scream. Suddenly my cousin pushes the intruder out of his room and wrestles him to the ground. Punch after punch makes contact with facial tissue until a crunch renders the intruder unconscious. A quick phone call and the police are on the way. My throat prepares for a scream. Nothing audible leaves my mouth. Not a scream, a yelp, or even a whisper. My voice has left. My throat closes up making it difficult to breath. I focus on my breathing to concentrate on something other than the screams. Even with the door closed they are barely muffled. I can hear objects, once used for something happy, being used as weapons. I only hope they are being used defensively. My breathing intensifies as the intruder returns to the living room. After picking up the case the intruder walks out the front door and a blast of cold air hits me. The sour feeling in my stomach returns but I doubt it has anything to do with a hangover. A small burst of gurgling noises come from my cousin’s bedroom before the house is as silent as it is dark. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence.


You're on auto-pilot when someone pokes their head into the cubicle. "Hey," he says, sort of stepping in but not quite entering. "Hey. Hey." "Neigh," you mutter. "There's no hay here, little horsey. You clop along, now." "Hah. But, hey, uh . . . ." You tell him your name. "Oh, right. Hey, you know, uh, you know you're breathing, right?" "What?" Your fingers almost stop typing. "Yeah, you're breathing right now. And you can see your nose, too, uh, and you can feel where your tongue is in your mouth right now." "What?" He smiles, shakes his head as if you're a lost cause (and maybe you are, so what?), and leaves. Auto-pilot activate. Well, not quite; just what was he blabbering about then? You might have seen him before, might have even sat across from him once during a break or meeting, but you never caught his name, or if you did, you forgot it. Is that what that was about? Were his words some kind of oblique insult? So what, you tell him and yourself right there in your head, people forget things all the time. Still, his words, however juvenile, appear to have left something in you. Yes, you are in fact breathing, so much so that it's a wonder you don't have to do all that manually, consciously, by yourself, as you are being forced to do right now. And it is true, too, that you can see your nose ever so slightly, and who could forget that tongue of yours resting in your mouth, never in the same spot for too long like a worm? Quit it. It is time for work. Spreadsheets, numbers to crunch, rows and columns. The clock. Soon enough, you make it through the day. When you arrive home and stand there for a moment's silence, you take in a breath of air. Then another. Then another. Do your nostrils gape? Oh, shut up. But even numbing your skull with videos after videos, each purporting to be more hilarious than the last, does nothing. In fact, leaving yourself open like this, cross-legged on the mattress like a monk seeking enlightenment, seems to invite thoughts rather than prevent them. You heard somewhere that the stereotype tin-foil hats conspiracists are often depicted wearing actually attract radio-signals. Something to do with the metal. God, how long ago was that? What other things have you overlooked? How many things have you, without even thinking about it, filed away? Your birthday is coming. Okay, but what else? Nobody really remembers their birthday until it is time. Once you went to a playground, or something like a playground, and made friends with a kid you never saw again. You've lost your keys at least once before. And, as if it is the most appropriate step to take next, your mind says, "One day you will fall asleep without waking up." Well then. That isn't so bad, you try to counter. But, just how long has it been since you last thought of the one thing that WILL to happen to you, to everyone else? You can't even think of when you first learned of death. It feels like something you just knew, like how people just know that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father and so on; even people who've never seen Star Wars. People just know. You don't learn how to breathe. If people just know, your brain decides to think up, then what is something big people don't know? It sounds like what one of those Chinese fortune cookies would say. Except wrong. You can't put your finger on it. A sound pulls you out of yourself for a moment. Beeping? Ah, it's your food. Much needed after such a dumb conversation with yourself. Its scent teases your nose. It feels warm in your mouth, and your tongue brushes against it. You can almost sigh. That night you dream something big is going to happen. In the morning, as your car glides through the same route, a bird flies across the sky in the windshield, perhaps to relay a message. Trees shake their leaves, the shadows of those leaves dancing quiet dances on sidewalks and buildings. The light changes. A jogger can be seen in the window to your right, before he, too, is lost with the blurring scenery. Eventually you park your car in the lot which is in the lee of your workplace, step out and step on something. The ground is bare, and so is your shoe. You have your wallet with you, you check, and inside are your cards and cash. Your keys are in one of your pockets, your phone in another. Nothing else, but there is something. Something you dreamt? Something you see. Right now, in the parking lot. The cars are empty, of course they are. On your way to the entrance, the air around you glints. Cars are drifting along streets with clutters of stars on their roofs. Your workplace has them as well, in rows after rows of shining windows. The few shop windows you can glance from here have them on display, beside their mannequins and other products. Those stars, if that's what they are, move along with you. It's glare, you dimly realize. It sounds familiar to you. Glare from the sunlight. Far down the street, where the cars (are they empty?) shimmering in the heat are devoured by a steep incline below, something is hovering. The back of a traffic light? You rush inside like a child turning off the lights. That's it, something has turned off or on, one of the two. Something big is going to happen. A few of the people stalking about or talking to one another might be looking at you, thinking you're a loony, so you slow down, but not too much, you want to be ready. There he is, what's-his-name. Your feet carry you there, as if you're strolling over to a friend, and you say, "Hey, there." He turns his whole body to you. "Oh? Do I know you?" You tell him your name. "Well, it's nice to meet you. What's up?" There's no other way to ask it. "Oh, nothing, really. Um, what have you've been thinking about?" He appears to seriously consider this, but then he says, "Lately? Not much. Work, you know, but!" Your heart rises. "I am gonna go with a couple buddies to see the big game this weekend." "Right," you manage. "Right. That sounds fun." You make sure to not be too obvious as you shuffle toward the cubicle, facing backwards. Nobody smiles that much, do they? He's not even talking like everyone else. You bump into someone and they hold you by the shoulder. You turn, ready to scream at the cubicle wall. Your face burning, you huddle inside. Hopefully no one saw that. A blurry dark figure approaches you and seats itself as you do the same before the black screen. As the screen powers on, the figure is engulfed by blue light and the computer login greets you. A note has been stuck to the edge of the screen. It reads: "SOMETHING BIG IS GOING TO HAPPEN!" Around it are little drawings of confetti, party poppers and a party hat, all done neatly in colorful markers. You toss this in the wastebasket. Think about. There's nothing to think about. Stare at the screen, the words and numbers and symbols, the pixels, the light. Don't you do it. Keep your head straight, eyes looking ahead. Like an exam at the eye doctor's, and maybe you need a doctor right now, but all you need to worry about right now is doing your work, getting through the day, and maybe looking up some help. Those are just coworkers passing by. Those eyes are yours. Yet that reflection in the screen is not. And this time you do scream, you scream your head off for all to hear and you run and shut a door behind you, any door, and you pace around in the small white-tiled room with lines of sinks and stalls and a big window. No windows. You lock yourself in a stall and there are voices crowding at the door. It opens. "Hello? Are you—" *"Leave me ALONE!"* The door shuts, murmurs to other murmurings. Footsteps, going away or here, you can't tell. And all the while, something *is* approaching. Something big is going to happen. You know this and there's nothing to listen for. Just don't think about it, that's it, think something else, think about your ragged breathing and your snotty nose and your dry tongue in your dry mouth, and sooner or later it'll leave. It'll disappear. You'll forget about it for good. It's in your head and you control your head damn it, you can think by yourself and not think, just stop it stop it stop it stop *it*! He put something in your head, didn't he? Mr. Mystery. Some psychological trick he read about, probably. There he is, right one cue. His footsteps clacking along the tiles, stopping before your stall. He'll open it and gloat about it all and it'll be some big prank the whole office threw together, ha ha, just scaring one of our loyal employees, a little hazing don't hurt . . . . Slowly, very slowly, almost without making a sound, it gets in under the stall door.


Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home. All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there. He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour. And Caleb knew it was now or never. Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the wind moaning through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night. “You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon, and then you can cry yourself to sleep remembering the flowery smell of her long soft brown hair.” But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses– the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast– was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery filled with evil spirits would be easier, he reasoned. Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute? Only this ghost, when he calmed down and listened more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from that of the breeze, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway. In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission. Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop. There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering loudly, as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate. The anger exploded in Caleb’s head like shrapnel from a bomb. Who would do such a thing? Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, slowing everything down even more. Finally, his fingers forced the pin in the lock to come loose. Swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back. Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges. The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her. “I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?” Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter. Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea. The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka. “Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.” “Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it.” His lips formed an o shape around the sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green lollipop at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.” Tamping down on his anxiety, Caleb tried to think hard and fast on the fly. “You’re right,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect.” The teenager was speechless. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful. “Yeah jackass,” the boy exclaimed, “you should respect me, so you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.” “Thanks Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike’s on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot.” Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something that’s much better.” Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner. “Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “it better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river.” Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag next to him and said, “go on, tell me, pinhead.” Caleb said, “you let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.” He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “right on, show me the dough.” With trembling hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock. Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few black ones, sent Caleb’s mind sailing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain. “You better not think about running before handing me that cash.” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “that runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?” Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to breathe until Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out. Free at last, and seconds after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face. As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s dead.” Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time. With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, he drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Blood gushed from Richie’s face. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire. Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight. But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt sick when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark. Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight. Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell. And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home. He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Darlene, his new foster mom, put on, was worthy of an Oscar and good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift get-away, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night. As soon as the woman drove away, Darlene grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me boy?” Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later. “You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, shit,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet and shower here and that’s all you need. Got it?” Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his heart, and, unable to stop himself, the moisture began seeping into his underwear, spreading through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell. But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “you’re old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.” Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at the tender age of ten. Missing her was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights. But Midnight had changed something, soothed some of the hurt, like a cool salve applied to a burn. He had to find her. But then things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible. There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she lost her dog, Ivory. Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the metal pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there sobbing into his hands. In the cold autumn night, something slammed into his legs. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury. Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her. But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster? Digging a quarter out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone across the street. Maybe, he rationalized, he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought. One ring, two rings, three rings, … what would he do if the answering machine came on? On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected. The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home. And Caleb’s world suddenly felt different. With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike towards Donald and Darlene’s place. At least he had blankets in his room along with some hidden food for both of them. But when they got there, the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes. Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, and Caleb suddenly remembered the six hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner once overlooked his age and rented him a room. And where the vending machine had the best sandwiches, he’d ever tasted. “Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear. From now on, he would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe even for himself too.


There was an old owl that I used to see around my apartment. I always found him strange–owls did not belong in the city, I thought, and he’d be much happier making a home in some drafty barn with a hay loft and broken shutters and mice to eat. But he was here, and he often sat perched on a high branch near the trunk of a tree that grew outside my bedroom window. I had to almost press my face against the window glass to see him–but there he’d sit, just watching, waiting. Normal owl activities, I suppose. One sunny day in spring he left his post and flew up to my open window. He was startling up close–almost overwhelmingly painted and detailed, eyes that stared through me and seemed to glow. Far away he was mysterious, revered, stately–up close he was almost frightening to look at. We stared at each other for a moment–it felt as if we weren't supposed to be here, but I could not look away. His gaze felt almost human. It felt even more human when he spoke to me. “Hello,” he uttered. I dropped my jaw and my water bottle. It rolled toward the window where he sat. I did not move. “You dropped something,” he told me. Our stare did not break as I moved slowly, finally, towards him, to get my bottle and sit on my bed. I sat, slack jawed. “You can talk?” I asked him. “You’re an owl! How are you talking?” “I don’t know,” He replied. “How are you talking?” I almost laughed at such an absurd question, but paused. Then: “Well, I’m, well, a human. We’re supposed to talk.” “Yes,” he said, a tone that sounded almost irritated with the obvious nature of my statement. “But says who? Did someone grant you permission to speak one day, or did you just start?” I mean, he had a point, I guess. I said nothing. “Well, same thing happened to me,” he continued. “I just could. Can.” “Oh.” I finally broke our stare, and looked down at my hands. I almost felt bad for second guessing him, but then remembered the absurdity of my situation and rejected any guilt I felt for holding disbelief that I was having a conversation with an owl. I looked back up, half expecting him to be gone, for me to have made it all up. But there he perched, glowing eyes darting around my room, no longer cutting through me. He spoke again. “So, if we can both talk, what do you think is the difference between you and I?” I had to laugh. “What kind of question is that?” “What do you mean?” “You’re an *owl*, I’m a person. How are you asking what the difference between us is?” He looked back at me. “Thank you for stating the obvious. But I can talk like you, and I can think like you. I can’t drive a car or cook a pot of pasta, but you can’t hunt mice, or fly.” True, owl. “And we look, well, very different,” he continued. “But what is *really* the difference between us? If we have the same brain, what other than our outside makes us different?” “Can all owls talk like you can?” I replied. “Because if they can’t, and it’s just you, then that makes you a very special owl. I’m just a normal person.” He was quiet for a moment. “You have a point.” I expected him to continue, but he did not. I broke the silence before he could fly off. “So they can’t?” I asked again. “You’re the only one that can talk?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know any other owls.” A feeling of cold washed into me, and I suddenly wanted to go open the window and give my owl friend a hug. I don’t think he’d have liked it much, but his simple, matter-of-fact declaration of loneliness and alienation instilled a deep ache in me. He must have seen my smile drop, because my internal anguish over the thought of my new friend being all alone in the world was interrupted by his continuing. “But I never have, so I don’t know the difference,” he said. Stoically. “Aren’t you lonely?” I blurted. I felt ashamed for asking him something that seemed so painful to answer or admit. I wanted to take it back but I could not, of course. He seemed unmoved by the question. Nonetheless, I found myself holding my breath, praying he would not fly away before answering me. “I think that I don’t feel lonely because I don’t know any other way,” he finally began. “I just exist in my world and observe and wonder about why I’m here. And if that’s lonely, I guess I just thought that was what life was. And I don’t mind it, not at all. I don’t even wonder too hard, really. Because I think that it’s this way for a reason. I don’t have anything to miss–which I’ve heard isn’t so nice–because I didn’t ever have anything to begin with. So I just have things to wonder about. Nothing taken, nothing to mourn. Just a life to exist in. Which to me, isn’t a bad life. Not at all.” He looked back at me. His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter, now. And then he flew away. I stood up and rushed to the window, but he was already out of sight.


There are a lot of things I can’t remember. Things that anyone should be able to mutter out in a split second from a simple trigger in their brain would take me hours of recollection and piece together. Parts of my childhood that others remember clearly are still vague to me even after so many years. Bits and pieces of memory come to me when I think real hard, but that’s all they are -- memories. When I first arrived in this world, I was with a family that loved me from day one. I was happy. Happy with the parents I had, even happier with my siblings. I remember being the youngest of five; I was always loved, unconditionally. My older siblings were over protective of me but the parents could care less. After having four children before me, they had grown accustomed to having a toddler in the house. Things that were important for the first four weren’t so much by the time I’d arrived. I remember the protective covers on the electric sockets were no longer needed, knowing that the previous kids had survived and none were brave enough to stick their fingers in. I remember the cabinet where the cleaning supplies were kept, was no longer in need of a padlock for the safety of a kid who could care less about the cabinet drawers. Most of all, I remember by the time I turned ten, I was the happiest kid in the world. I remember one summer evening after a baseball game we came across an abandoned bicycle left in the corner of the field. The chain had come off the roller sprocket and dangled from its place. I remember a few of us tried putting them back together so that we could take it out for a joy ride. “You hold the chain against the rolling plate” said Matthew looking at me, “I will rotate the plate by moving the paddle forward until the chain is locked in.” I remember getting my tiny fingers caught in-between the chain and the sprockets, and remember the scream. I remember playing with my friends at a nearby construction site the same year when school was out. We must have been ten or twelve then. The neighborhood was a part of a “rebuild” initiative that the locals have voted for. The abandoned buildings were ordered to be knocked down to build duplexes for the low income families. The site was packed with building materials from sheet rocks to plywood, from bricks to metal rods. I remember playing hide and seek with Matt and the neighborhood kids where I was the seeker. After counting down the numbers when I began to look for my friends, I remember feeling hopeless and abandoned. When I made an attempt to run and find a kid who I spotted hiding behind a stack of woods, I remember bumping into the corner of a stack and splitting my head wide open. I have very few memories of me when I was a teenager. I remember getting together with my friends for a Halloween bash on a Friday evening that everyone talked about for years to come. I remember at that party Michael dared me to jump into the swimming pool that was covered off with plastics for the winter. I remember ignoring all of my instinct and common sense that I had and diving right into the pool. I remember the plastics wrapping my body around in the bottom of the pool and keeping me down for the longest time until Matt jumped in to rescue me. I remember my first kiss that was revolting and repugnant all at the same time. It was with my biology teacher Mrs. Johnson that lasted only a few seconds. She was an old hack and a widow of several years who longed for affection and human contact after many years of loneliness. I didn’t resist or report; I didn't see a reason to do either. I remember her talking about her dead husband as if he was still with her after passing away so many years ago. The way she would speak about him only revealed how badly she was hurting inside and how deep her love was for him. I don’t remember much about my college life, but I remember the dorm room and the roommates at the Hedrick Hall of UCLA. I could still taste the red bull and ramen noodles after so many years of not touching a single junk food since I’d left college to be an adult. I remember so little of so many things that made me wonder if I was real. I remember getting married to a sweetest angel from Pasadena and leaving the busy state behind to be somewhere quiet. I remember her wanting to move away from the crowd and be with me to spend the rest of her life in peace. I remember her like it was yesterday. Her death came in as suddenly as she came into my life. We met at a very late chapter in our lives but we were happy. It was not long after my 50th birthday when I started noticing the changes in her behavior. I remember that she was not laughing at my jokes as much as she used to. It took an extra step of explaining the joke before she would get the punch line. I remember that she would not take a second look at anything she had done before she was satisfied with her work. Baking was very natural to her up until recently. She wouldn't need to guess if she had the right ingredients for the pecan pie she was making, or wouldn’t think twice before pouring the oil straight from the container into the flour bowl without a measuring cup. But at the end, I remember her being agitated more and more, doing things once and being done with it instead of taking an extra step to review what she had done. Behavior such as this was very uncommon, even for her. I remember the last days, her memories pierced deep into my heart like the sweet sound of a symphony that could only play when I was awake. I remember moving to New England in early fall a few years back and being mesmerized seeing the true nature for the first time. Watching the leaves turning to multi-color in days or the green grass beneath the feet turning brown right before your eyes was not something I had experienced in the past. I remember the fruits on Crab-apple trees covering the branches like Christmas ornaments. I remember the loud colors of a maple tree that could only brighten up a dark soul if not too careful. I remember being someone in need of a soul.


The snow covered everything in our tiny town. My friend and I sat huddled together in the homemade tree house. The oak planks were the only thing that held us from falling. Our big winter coats rubbed on each other. We had the tin box lying in the middle of us. No one wanted to touch it. No one wanted to see it. It had too many memories attached to it.

… “Come on Jimmy! Don't be a baby! Lets go!” My lungs shoved out. I was trying to keep my head above the murky water.

“Jimmy?!...LETS GO!” Billy shouted beside me. His voice was much louder than me.

“If you don't jump soon I will come up there and push your pale bottom off!” I threatened, and with that a 5’7 pail blob went sailing into the eerie depths. The brown water ate him whole with a splash while me and Billy wailed with excitement.

“YES!”

“WOOP!” We sang. This was a moment we would never forget; Jimmy's first jump from the high pier. Me and Billy waited for Jimmy’s red patch of red to come emerging from the water any minute.

“Now where they heck did Jimmy go?” Bobby’s hazel eyes scanned the water. I could tell fear lurked in the back of his mind.

… “You boys sure you won't be scared of the 12’ beast that lurk the murky depths?” my father said in his dark mysterious voice. The boys and I quickly exchanged looks. Our eyes were wide with fear and excitement buzzing through us.

“We aren't scared!”

“Ya. Crocs don't scare us!”

“Ha. Alligators and crocodiles shall cower in my presence. Little do they know I’ll be eating them!” Jimmy proclaimed as he rubbed his stomach. We all burst into laughter,

and with that we finished loading our gear and whatever else we thought we needed, and were off.

... “Your turn,” Billy said as he passed me the tin box. My hands began to shake as I took it. My new found realization seemed to pierce my heart as I grabbed the cookie tin. When I did, the cold metal stung my fingertips. It went crashing on the wooden planks. As soon as it did, tears filled my eyes. I just couldn't hold them back anymore. I used to be able to shove them down like when I watched a sad movie, or scrubbed my toe; but lately they have been filling bottles. Especially today. The tears were warm on my cherry cheeks. My lips were cracked and hurt when I moved my mouth. I finally looked up and even with my blurred vision I could see my friends hunched over crying. We were supposed to be the cool kids, but since everything happened we’ve been really pathetic.

… “AGHH!” Something came spinning from the water behind me and latched on my body. I was spinning and twisting trying to release it, but it held on. At first I feared a croc or snake was trying to eat me, when I realized my lack of pain. The only thing I was fighting was fear. I looked at Billy whom I found dying of laughter. I stopped to the sound of laughter also on my back.

“Jimmy?! That better not be you!” I shouted with anger rising from my toes. I almost could see the water starting to boil. Then with that I heard a splash of water behind me and with a quick turn I found Jimmy with his mouth open wide bursting out laughter.

“Yo...u...you screamed...like a little girl!” and the boys laughed even more. I felt my cheeks turn red as my dad came running to the pier.

“You boys okay? I heard a scream?” He tilted his head ever so slightly. I glared at the boys in hopes they wouldn't share my embarrassment with others.

“Well…” Billy started, and when he did I couldn't stand it. My body went flying toward him.

… “Hey man. It's okay,” Billy leaned over and hugged me. I felt vulnerable and useless lying my head on his shoulder as I wept. I could hear him breathing. He was crying and hurting like the rest of us. I just looked at the box and wanted to take back the past.

… “Man these are the best years of my life. By far the best day ever!” Billy said.

“Ya. When we get home everything will feel so dull and boring.” Jimmy agreed.

“Man; I wish we could live here forever. Just stay in this moment.”

“Ya.” The boys said in sync.

“Gross man!” I realized “aren't we supposed to be “cool” and “ruff” boys? The touchy type? No.”

The boys smirked at me and I shoved them off the pier.

… “I just want to hug him again.” I took a deep breath. “I never hugged him.” Billy let go of me and looked in my eyes.

“The best things in life are taken from us too soon.”

… “Night!” I called.

“Night!” Billy sang.

“GOOD NIGHT MY MERY MEN!” Jimmy yelled as he zipped up his tent. “He is a strange one.” I whispered under my breath and zipped my tent.

… Billy moved and sat beside me. I inhaled and built up the courage to take the box off the ground. I held it in a death grip. I wouldn't let this leave me too.

… “TYLER!” A screeching voice came from above me and woke me up. “Billy...leave me alone! A man gotta sleep too.” I squinted my eyes to see him. His face was red and he was breathing heavily. His eyes were bloodshot and his face wet from tears. His oily brown hair was whipped in a mess on his head. “Billy.” I sat up quickly. Fear made me stop breathing for a minute. Billy wasn't the crying type. None of us were.

… I popped open the tin lid. Billy put in a dead butterfly Jimmy found. He was going to give it to his crush. She gave an origami heart to add to the box. Billy also added a leaf from this oak tree. It was a tradition to add one every year. Billy put in his report card, and so did I. We slipped in Jimmy's. They gave it to us even though it wasn't finished. I added a flower from Jimmy's funeral, and with it his memorial card. A picture of all three of us. And finally an alligator tooth from Jimmy's room.

… “Where do you want to go for your birthday?”

“I want to go to Florida!” “Florida?”

“I want to catch alligators.” “Very interesting.”

“I love them. They are misunderstood. And how cool would it be to see their eggs hatch at night. Like turtles.” “Do they hatch like turtles? At night?” “Honestly I don't think they do, but hey. Let me dream.” “Fine.” “One night when we are there; the best night. I want to go outside and watch the moon. See the wildlife.”

“Then you do that.”

“I will.” … I closed the lid on the box. The lid clicked into place and we climbed down the ladder. We walked to the spot. Billy had the shovel and he dug. We gave the box one more look and then we put it in the cold frozen ground. We buried the tin box grave and we left. Leaving apart a part of our childhood and Jimmy behind. Until next year.