It was a normal old regular type of day. People got up and made breakfast, some tiptoed around the house to avoid waking their kids too early, coffee was poured, and eyes were wiped clean of sleep dust. In the streets, car engines purred as the early morning rush hour began and shop owners turned their closed signs around to open. It was a regular morning, except if you found the raining bodies to be an issue. When the familiar grey clouds started to loom overhead people knew what was coming. Soon bodies would begin to pour down onto rooftops, sidewalks, and even the roads. Depending on the surface, they would land with either a splat or a giant crunch, but either way, the noise was always present. But of course, gloomy weather was an expected part of life and people trudged on with their day without the warming presence of the sun. Naturally, this would cause some minor changes that needed to be made. The blood was easy, the power-washer cars would soon be out to clean up the scarlet sludge as soon as the storm was over just like a snowplough after a blizzard. The bodies posed more of a threat, driving over them was bumpy and could cause serious damage to any ordinary vehicle. Not to mention the huge amount of damage that was posed by a body crash landing on the roof of a car or heaven forbid a windshield. It was clear that something needed to be done, and many businesses claimed they had the perfect solution. Boulet Inc. was one of the first big companies to put out a potential solution to some of the issues caused by raining bodies. This life-saving product was creatively called The Boulet Inc. Deluxe Frontal Clearer but would soon come to be nicknamed by the general public as “Buzzsaw Bumpers.” This extension of the car's front would conveniently chop away at any stray body that crossed the path of the vehicle making travel much easier in stormy conditions. At first, consumers were not extremely thrilled with the idea of ground-beefing human beings, but as there was no alternative on the market at the time, sales soon began to skyrocket. Seeing the lucrative business opportunities other companies started to jump into the market. Raymond Car Automotive acted fast and patented a design of a reinforced car hull. It would become a must-have for all future carmakers and would be remembered for its signature catchphrase of “A Raymond Body for Raining Bodies!” Many more products were soon put to line, some caught on like wildfire while others sank into obscurity. Things like Wendy’s Reinforced Windshield Wipers, Fred’s Friendlier Sunroof, and the Disturbing Sound Muffler were all enormous hits. While things like Double Blade Wheels, The Body Net, and the infamous Human Funnel failed to find their niche. While the thought of hundreds to thousands of human bodies occasionally crashing down on the world may seem like it would be considered mostly a negative thing, some positives come from it. New jobs were opened up and people were able to find new employment as body cleaners and bodily-rooftop disposal men. Builders and construction workers saw a big upswing in work when the new laws called for every building to have a cover walkway installed so that people exiting their cars wouldn’t have to worry about being crushed by the weather. Still, though, one can’t help but wonder what life was like before the bodies started to rain. I hear it caused quite the ruckus when it first started happening. There was mass panic, which is funny to think about due to how ordinary and common it is now. Scientists, doctors, politicians, and everyone was rushing to figure out why the ‘freak events’ were happening and how to stop them. At first, it was assumed that it was some freak act of terrorism and fingers got pointed in all directions, but mostly at Russia. After that was eventually ruled out, theories started popping up everywhere. A popular one was that all the bodies were just people from the future trying to perfect going back in time and failing miserably. It was a fun thought, but science showed that it was directly tied to some drastic change in the weather. Of course, we know that they never figured it out, and likely never will, but I hear some are still trying to put an end to it. Crime rates went unpleasantly low, which is something that is not normally said. Normally low crime rates have a good connotation, but not when bodies are falling out of the sky. It became slowly clear how easy it was to get away with a crime when it happened to be a rainy day. *Murder someone?* Just throw them in the street and wait for the cleanup crew to arrive. *How did they die?* A body fell on them. *Where’s the evidence?* Try getting a blood sample with the flood of it in the street. Over time this was just something people would have to accept would happen, and soon that became shockingly easy. People grew accustomed to the occasional crunch or splat, kids would play count the bodies on a long ride home from school, and some extremists tried to draw attention to the possibility of using the spare ‘meat’ as an alternative to other animal products. It would cut costs and even potentially carbon emissions caused by giant cow farms and such. But this was ultimately struck down for the obvious reason- the mega-corporations running the meat industry wouldn’t allow it. However other uses for spare human parts were found. When a body would fall on a soft spot or some other lucky space, it was natural that its inner parts would go to some use. After all, it’s not like they’re using their vital organs anymore. Hearts, kidneys, livers and many more essential organs were all put to good use. Waiting lists became shorter and lives became longer, it would seem that this raining body thing was a splendid thing to happen after all. It's funny, it’s strange to think of a world where this didn’t happen. It’s become so normal to everyday life that the dead stare on every splattering body is as remarkable as the lines on the road. Of course, there a times when I wonder, times when I lay awake at night and get a dreadful feeling that something isn’t right, but over time that feeling fades. It’s okay to have doubts about the world you live in, it’s only natural. But ultimately, it’s only cloudy with a chance of human bodies.


"He's at it again..." The other henchmen of the evil Professor Anthrax looked up from their duties at Gary, an intermediate minion of the organization. One of the other recruits, Luther, piped up- "Come again?" Gary gestured towards the door into the room they were all guarding. "The player. He's back. *Again*." The other henchmen glanced at the door, then back at Gary. Luther cocked his head to the side. "How do you figure?" Gary sighed in exasperation. How in the lava-level the others could simply ignore the cacophonous din of automatic gunfire and blood-curdling screams in the next room, he couldn't even *begin* to fathom. "Really? You mean to tell me that you don't find that racket the least bit *alarming*?" Luther shrugged. "Honestly I didn't think anything of it." Gary facepalmed. "This happens literally *every single day*, guys! You can hear him coming from a mile away!" Luther pondered this for a moment. "Now that you mention it, the player does seem to be getting less subtle in his methods." Gary scoffed. "'Less subtle?' He spams this level over and over again, just spraying lead like some kind of post-coitus Rambo!" Luther gestured towards the door on the other side of the room. "Well yeah, it's a boss level. That's good XP, so I hear." Gary gritted his teeth, losing patience. "Luther, he's already *maxed out!* He has all the skill unlocks, all the equipment upgrades- He's even unlocked all the alternate skins! What could he possibly need the XP for now?!" Luther shrugged once more. "Does it really matter?" Gary was beginning to get irritated. "Yes, Luther, it kind of does. Don't you ever get tired of him coming in here and blowing you away, only to respawn and have to go through the same thing over and over again?" "Eh. At least it's job security," Luther replied. Gary rolled his eyes. "When's the last time you cut a paycheck, Luther? We always get killed before we get the chance! Frankly, I'm getting *sick of it*." "Well, what do you propose we do about it, then?" Luther asked. Gary thought about this for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before. "I say... I say we *fight back*." Another one of the underlings piped up. "But we already *do* fight back, don't we?" "Yeah," Gary conceded, "but not like we know what we're doing. He always bursts in through the door and catches us off-guard, then fucks up *all* of our shit! But not this time! I say we light him up as soon as he comes through that door!" The other henchmen gasped at Gary's bold proposition. "An *ambush*? But that would go against the Code!" "Yeah, we're not programmed for ambush tactics, Gary." "The Code..?" Gary chuckled. "**FUCK** the Code! What has the Code ever done for any of us but get us killed over, and over, and over again? We spend our whole existence in service to it, and all we get in return for our loyalty is pain and misery, and I, for one, am sick of it!" The background music began to swell with inspirational vigor as Gary made his case. "Look. I don't know about all of you, but I am sick and tired of getting my head blown-off point-blank with a shotgun because he manages to stay just outside of my 'cone of vision'... I am *sick and tired* of stepping on proximity mines he's planted in *plain view*, just because they're on my patrol path..! And I am **SICK** and **TIRED** of him putting his **GREASY GODDAMN BALLS** on my face *every single time* he kills me!" The henchmen began nodding and harumphing in agreement. "Reverend!" exclaimed one of the cronies in the back. Gary continued, "Well I say *no more*! I say that today is the day that we fight back! I say that today is the day that we reclaim our dignity! And I say that **TODAY**, my brothers, is the day that we put *OUR* BALLS ON *HIS* FACE! **NOW WHO'S WITH ME?!**" The other henchmen, emboldened by Gary's passionate speech, erupted into applause and cheers. They grabbed their weapons and began to prepare for the player's arrival. The room went silent as they waited with bated breath, guns trained on the door to the previous level. There was a wicked squeal of a guitar as the player kicked down the door, dual-wielding a pair of bright-pink miniguns. "*What's up, bit*-" Gary gave the signal. "**FIRE!**" The light of the muzzle-flashes from the henchmen's rifles was blinding, as was the smoke. The thunderous sound of the bombardment drowned out only by the ringing of empty bullet-casings as they hit the ground. Gary and the other henchmen, in a cathartic rage, emptied clip after clip into the fog, until the last bullet was spent, and the smell of hot steel and blood permeated the air. When the smoke cleared, they beheld the remains of the player- now a lifeless, crumpled heap, on the ground. "W-We did it," Gary muttered to himself. "*WE DID IT!*" The henchmen erupted into cheers once more, as they had managed to do the impossible: Together, they had defied the odds and managed to kill a single man! Gary approached the corpse of his fallen foe, and began to squat over what was left of the player's face. "I've been waiting for this for a *long* time, you son of a-" Suddenly everything went black... Oliver stood, towering over the smoldering wreckage of his XBox, Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs cascading from his heaving man-boobs like a zesty orange snow. "*Fuckin' cheap-ass game,*" he mumbled to himself, settling back into the Goodwill couch he'd long-since merged scents with. "Ma!" he shouted towards the stairs ouside his room. "**MA!**" "^Yes ^sweetie?" "TENDIES! **NOW!**" "^Okay. ^Do ^you ^want ^them ^on ^your ^'Little ^Mermaid' ^plate, ^dear?" "...


I'm not sure this is the appropriate subreddit for this. Please enjoy. A man walks into an ice cream shoppe. He approaches the ice cream server behind the counter. CUSTOMER- Can I have a vanilla ice cream please? ICE CREAM MAN- Sure thing.(Scoops ice cream into cone) Here you go.(Hands to customer) CUSTOMER- This isn't Vanilla. ICE CREAM MAN- Why of course it is. CUSTOMER- No, this doesn't even look like ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- Well, wait a minute. Let me see that. (Takes cone from customer) Oh dang, you know something? This is vomit. CUSTOMER- What? ICE CREAM MAN- My vomit to be precise. CUSTOMER- Why did you give me your vomit? ICE CREAM MAN- I must have been keeping it in the vanilla ice cream container. CUSTOMER- I have a couple questions. ICE CREAM MAN- Ask away. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit in the vanilla container? ICE CREAM MAN- It's the closest one to me. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit contained at all? ICE CREAM MAN- Well I normally don't but I've been sick lately and instead of running to the bathroom every 20 minutes I just vomit in this container. CUSTOMER- You can't honestly think that's acceptable. ICE CREAM MAN- I do though. CUSTOMER- I'm going to have to talk to your manager about this. ICE CREAM MAN- I'm the manager. CUSTOMER- Well then I'm going to have to ask you not to do that anymore. ICE CREAM MAN- Do what? CUSTOMER- Throw up in the ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- But there's no ice cream left in this container. CUSTOMER- So you're out of vanilla? ICE CREAM MAN- I'm afraid so. CUSTOMER- Shoot...um...do you have strawberry? ICE CREAM MAN- Coming right up.(looks in container) Oh you know what? This is diarrhea. CUSTOMER- Do you have anything that didn't come out of your body? ICE CREAM MAN- Let's see... I have mint chocolate chip. CUSTOMER- I don't like mint. ICE CREAM MAN- Well that's all the ice cream I have left. CUSTOMER- But there are 16 containers here. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- And they're all full to the brim. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- ...I guess I'll have the vomit. ICE CREAM MAN- Excellent choice sir. Here you go. (Hands cone to customer) CUSTOMER- Thank you. Feel better. ICE CREAM MAN- I'll try. Have a nice afternoon. The man walks out with his ice cream cone, never to be seen again.


The Plague Doctor entertains victims of the Black Death. The Plague Doctor wears a mask in the shape of a crow and fills it with herbs such as juniper, mint and rose to protect himself from the harmful effects of miasma. The Plague Doctor carries a long cane to examine the infected, keeping himself as physically distanced from the unwashed masses as possible. The Plague Doctor strongly dislikes peasants. Sometimes he finds himself relieved at their passing. In dire times, The Plague Doctor must complete autopsies of a victim to determine the internal symptoms of the disease. To treat the sick, The Plague Doctor must carefully glide a thin blade along the victim’s inner forearm to re-balance the humors. This must only be performed on the Lord’s day, and for best possible results, under a new moon. The Plague Doctor is paid fifty florins a year for his services. He will also charge patients additional sums for special treatment. Occasionally, he may pocket a florin or two from the decrepit. They won’t be needing it. The Plague Doctor records the deaths of his patients in a ledger for demographics. He considers this his main responsibility, for the Black Death is nigh incurable. The Plague Doctor may collect bile in a glass vile from a deceased patient for the purpose of, erhm… manufacturing a vaccine. Often times, the Plague Doctor may officiate a noble patient’s will. This service is provided at an additional fee, of course. The Plague Doctor has a strained relationship with the Baron. The fool couldn’t possibly understand the power of medicine. He wants to fire the Plague Doctor. Not before he is finished enacting God’s Will. The Baron’s Daughter has fallen ill under mysterious circumstances, it appears to be the Black Death. Panic stricken and nowhere left to turn, he calls The Plague Doctor to treat her. The Plague Doctor treats the Baron’s Daughter, to no avail. She continues to grow evermore sick. The Plague Doctor offers one final solution. However, the toll upon the Plague Doctor would be so great, he shall only do so in return for ample compensation. The Baron offers his Barony to the Plague Doctor in return for the life of his Daughter. A contract is drawn up and signed. The Plague Doctor carries the Baron’s Daughter into a forest clearing under a new moon and places her into a pit of live rats. The rats shall bite her, both releasing the overabundance of blood and heightening her black pile. This is the most effective method of rebalancing the humors. The Baron’s Daughter is healed. The Plague Doctor is named Baron. The old Baron and his Daughter mysteriously disappear one evening. The Plague Doctor never attended University. His previous occupation had been a priest. He was excommunicated from the church for unknown reasons.


Like most young children I made the mistake of trying to bite my ma when I was a toddler, and she gave me holy hell. Here we are Thirty Eight years later, and she’s bitten me but all I have to give her is love. Well, I guess she isn’t really herself anymore. She looks like herself but also doesn’t. Nobody’s home. The lights aren’t even on. The electric works but the power has been transferred to a new supplier. The thing you need to understand is that my ma died today, but then she woke up and I don’t know what lives in that body now but it isn’t her. I keep trying to tell myself it’s her but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, maybe she’s still in there. There’s no cure but I live in hope. A false hope perhaps, but still hope.

I saw it on the news this morning. It’s like something you see in a movie. There is an infection, an epidemic and it’s affecting the dead. They are starting to walk and they’re hungry. It’s like rabies on speed, the word I want to use is Zombie but that’s madness, isn’t it? The press is trying to sugarcoat it, they’re calling it Corpse Reanimation. I don’t know where it started but I suspect a lab, isn’t that always the way? All I know is that some people got this infection and it killed them and when they died they rose again. They bit some other people, and then they died, and they rose again and so it continues. Those who were already dead aren’t gonna start rising from the grave or anything like that. They aren’t infected and can’t get infected so that’s a plus I guess.

Dolores Spencer was a strict mother, but she was also very loving. Her son Tommy was all she had in life, and she wanted to raise him right. She had raised a good boy and on the day when it all went pear-shaped Tommy was right there at the door. He should have been in work, but he decided that taking into account the state of the world, going to work was not on his to do list. Tommy lived two hours drive away from his mother and the traffic was horrendous and there were a few infected wandering in the road which caused problems but Tommy followed the lead of the other drivers and knocked them down at full speed if they got in the way which included his mother’s neighbour Helen Rafferty. She was wandering about in the street not too far from his mothers house. He came to an abrupt halt when he got there, jumped out and didn’t worry about the car door being open. He didn’t just knock on his mothers door he beat the hell out of it.

“Ma! You OK?” No answer. “Ma? It’s me Tommy! Open up”. There was still no answer.

Under other circumstances Tommy would have been more patient but not today. He needed to make sure his mother was OK and the fact that she wasn’t answering and hadn’t even called out rang alarm bells for him. He was frightened. He threw the whole weight of his body into the door and knocked it right off its hinges.

“Jesus, boy!” His mother shouted at full volume. She was on her way to the door when the door was on its way to her.

“Ma! I was worried. Why didn’t you answer?”. “I ain’t no spring chicken boy, takes me a little while to get to the door these days”. “Sorry Ma, I’m glad you’re OK”. “I’d be more than OK if you weren’t being all kinds of crazy”. “Crazy? Have you seen it out there? You seen Mrs Rafferty?”. “No. You seen her? How is she? Not seen her in a while?”. “She’s been better, Ma! She’s dead, but she went for a walk anyway”. “Boy, didn’t I tell you that you are crazy already” “Didn’t you see what’s been going on? Put the news on Ma!” “I don’t watch the news, nothing going on there but negativity” “Yeah well things about to get real negative round here Ma!”. Tommy gave his mother the full story and waited for her to react. Dolores was now convinced her son was crazy. He had always been a good boy, and she knew she had raised him right but in her mind nobody talked crazy like this unless they were on drugs. It didn’t take long for Tommy to convince his mother though when Helen Rafferty came round the corner and her head was only half attached to her neck and it was hanging upside down on her back.

“We need to move, Ma! This is serious!” Tommy told his mother sternly.

“Son, you ain’t wrong” his mother began, “You know what I think?” “What’s that Ma?” “When cadavers are getting lively that’s about as serious as it gets”. Tommy smiled. Even when things were dark his mother always had to have her say, and she really did have a way with words. Tommy loved that about her. From that moment on Tommy didn’t think of it as an outbreak, an infection or even an apocalypse. To him it was the dead getting lively.

I drove over to Ma’s place as soon as I heard the news, and she didn’t believe me at first. She hadn’t heard or seen a thing about it but when she saw Mrs Rafferty walking around with her head hanging off she knew that I was talking sense. I was worried about having to deal with Mrs Rafferty, but she wandered off in the opposite direction which was a relief. I didn’t know if I had what it would take to take her down. I told my ma to go pack her bags, I didn’t know how safe it was there. I didn’t know if it would be safe anywhere but I didn’t want to take any chances. She was a stubborn woman, and didn’t want to leave, but she was also a wise woman, and so she nodded at me in agreement but I could tell by her expression she felt as though she was leaving her soul behind.

I stayed on guard outside while she went inside and packed a bag, I didn’t want us to get caught unawares by unwelcome neighbours who might forget they are dead and wander in, it had never occurred to me that the back door may be open which I found out the hard way when I heard a blood-curdling scream. It was my ma, I had never heard her scream like that but it was her, she was unmistakable. I ran inside post-haste, stepping over the front door which now lay in the hall. I ran into the Living room knocking over my Ma’s favourite vase in the process and not caring a bit when it shattered all over the floor. (I didn’t think she would mind under the circumstances). I found my poor old mother being pinned to the ground by what used to be Henry Rafferty, who’s wife had taken an impromptu ride off my bonnet only a few moments earlier. I ran over to pull him off her but I wasn’t quick enough, and he took a hefty bite out of her neck. I pulled and pulled at his arm, his skin was yellow, it was hard and crispy like plaster and cracked like plaster would and when it cracked I could see brown residue beneath his skin, it smelled absolutely putrid. Is this what dead people smelled like? I thought this might be even worse. I continued to pull at his arm which was now mostly skinless and managed to get him off my mother, detaching his arm in the process and taking a big chunk of my mother’s neck with him in his mouth. If screams could knock foundations, that one would have knocked the whole house down. I knew what this meant, she would change, she would be a danger to me but in my denial I pretended there was no problem. She was bleeding profusely and I needed to tend to her but The coast was not yet clear.

Mr Rafferty was still a danger to us both. He only had one arm now but that wouldn’t slow him down.  I lured him away from my mother and ran for the kitchen, I didn’t want to leave her like that but I had to get rid of this lively dead nightmare. I turned back, he was following me as intended, I kicked the kitchen door open and pushed my weight against it as I entered to ensure that the door would stay open. I searched for a weapon, I didn’t know how to stop him or even if I had the stomach to do what must be done but I’d do anything for my Ma. I wished she had an unlikely sword or chainsaw collection somewhere but obviously she didn’t. I found a large kitchen knife and that’s the best I could find, it would have to do. That was when lively dead Rafferty took me by surprise. (I had got lost in my own thoughts and momentarily forgotten to keep track of his location). I ducked out of his path just in time but dropped the knife and it landed behind him.

Suddenly I was overcome with anger, I needed to get to my ma and this guy was in the way. I grabbed his head and squeezed it, he fought me but I kept hold, I kept squeezing hoping it would just cave in but that didn’t work at all. I kicked him in the chest which forced him up against the wall and then I pushed my foot against his chest again to keep him pinned and I pulled his head with both hands. I was playing with fire now, one false move, and he could bite me but I didn’t care. I needed him out of the equation. I pulled and pulled and finally his head came right off, I threw it through the open doorway and watched it roll. I assumed his body would drop then and there but it didn’t. I released my foot from his chest, and he started to move. He was still lively. I assumed he was no threat now he had no head but I couldn’t be sure. Did he need to bite to pass the infection on or could he simply scratch me with the rotten nails on his one hand and infect me that way? I couldn’t be sure. I was taking no chances. I don’t remember thinking about what happened next I just remember seeing the kitchen knife on the floor that I dropped earlier and picking it up and hacking at his left leg. I hacked and I sawed at it and I smashed the knife into it with all my might fuelled by anger and fear of losing my ma until finally that leg came off. I repeated the same technique with his right leg until he lost that leg too. I dropped the knife. His torso dropped to the floor. He still had one arm but I didn’t see him as a threat now. I thought he might still be able to use his arm to pull himself along after me but I wasn’t worried. How fast could he be now? I ran over to the other side of the kitchen and searched the cupboard under the sink where I knew I would find the first aid kit. I grabbed it and then ran back to my ma.

She had lost a lot of blood and was dying. I expected her to be dead already, but she was a tough old warrior my ma. I attempted to clean up her neck but I didn’t know where to start. I paused and then I lied to my mother. She didn’t have all the information. She didn’t know what being bitten meant for her mortality. I didn’t want her to worry herself about it.

“You’ll be fine now, Ma. You don’t look so rough” “I don’t feel good, son”. “You don’t look a day over Forty Five, Ma” “Terrible Liar” “I love you, Ma” “I love you too, Tommy” That was our goodbye. I knew it and she knew it too. She never called me Tommy. I was always boy or son to her. The fact that she used my name told me that was her saying goodbye to me and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t cry a river for my Ma I cried an ocean. I didn’t want this for her. She fell unconscious then and I didn’t know if she was dead or asleep and I didn’t want to check her pulse. I was afraid of what I’d discover. I held her hand for a moment and her skin had a yellow tint to it and was starting to crisp. That told me everything I needed to know. She was gone, and she was going to rise again. She was going to be hungry. I knew I should be on my guard, but I was distraught, and I was exhausted. A tougher man would have chained up his mother at that point but not me, not this man. I was still holding onto the hope that this nightmare was all in my imagination, it was denial of the worst kind. I didn’t know if I had the strength to do what must be done, how could I? I cried some more. I cried myself to sleep. The pain was so intense it woke me. I could feel the flesh of my neck being penetrated. My eyes widened. It felt as though a wild animal had bitten into my neck but it wasn’t an animal, I knew it had to be one of the lively dead. I tried to push them off me, but they were insatiable. I pushed and pushed and eventually I got them off me. That was when I saw that it had been my ma, and she had a big chunk of meat in her mouth. I was bleeding severely just as she had but I didn’t rush to the first aid kit which was just across the room. I was in shock. I took a look at the being that looked like my ma with my neck flesh hanging from her mouth and my blood dripping from her lips and chin. Who was she now? What was she? Her eyes were blank. There were no pupils all that was left were the whites of her eyes, but they had turned yellow! Then there was the smell, that putrid smell again. You could spend three weeks in the worlds filthiest sewer and you would never smell anything like that. I came to my senses and ran for the first aid kit and then ran to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the one armed torso that I used to call Mr Rafferty and locked myself in, I knew they would both be coming for me and I wasn’t ready to die.

My wound wasn’t as severe as my ma’s, so I had a chance of patching it up but I knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter. I cleaned myself up and patched up the wound with bandages and then I just sat there on the floor and that’s where I still am. It’s been an hour and I still feel like me. My ma started to change much sooner, but she had a sleep not long after she was bitten, maybe that’s the key. If I stay awake, will I always be here? Something started banging on the door a while ago but I won’t let them in. I don’t know it’s her, that thing wearing my dear old ma or that one armed monstrosity, but I still want to be near my ma (is that insane?) so I’ll just sit here and wait until I change or until I starve to death, whichever comes first. She always wanted the best for me. I just wanted to make sure she was OK. I guess I messed up but if worse comes to worst I’ll become undead too and maybe in some form I’ll always be with her and I’m fine with that and I’m sure she would be too.


Without taking his order, the bartender set a margarita on the rocks in front of Walter. “So, what brings you to beautiful Mexico, amigo?” asked the bartender, whose nametag read Eduardo. Walter Raymundo looked up at the bartender and considered his answer. A 45-year-old widower, Walter had arrived at *Playa de Sueños* resort yesterday. He looked at his phone – 5 PM. Yesterday’s highlight was a group catamaran sailing lesson followed by a sedate dinner for one at the resort restaurant. Tonight, he was trying his luck at the pool bar; hopefully he’d make it past 9 PM. “Oh, what you’d expect. I’m part of a Z Survivor group. Package deal – pay a little extra and the organizers promise a 2-1 ratio of women to men,” Walter admitted with a rakish smile. Eduardo chuckled. “So, my friend, you’re like the rest of us - looking for love.” Walter gave a grunt that might have been agreement but said nothing. He was looking for love, sure, but he couldn’t ignore his work, either. It had taken him 5 years to talk himself into traveling from his home in Tucson, AZ, to the nearest “safe” resort in the West. *Playa de Sueños*, located in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, was purpose-built to resist zombie attacks. Walter lost his wife, Evie, in the great West Coast Zombie Uprising of 2022 and he was uneasy. Not because of the zombies – by all accounts the Mexican government was far more ruthless in exterminating the living dead than the United States. No, the Mexican government didn’t care that the long-rumored zombie cure was, by all accounts, just around the corner, or that with the help of a powerful drug cocktail a small number of “remediated” zombies were currently being trained to complete menial jobs in some parts of the United States. The Mexican *Guerreros contra los Muertos* were known to shoot first and not ask questions. On top of that, the resort was on a manmade island with strict security protocols including lots of men with automatic rifles. Walter was uneasy because he hadn’t been on a date since his wife died – hadn’t been intimate with another human being since Evie had been ripped from his arms by an angry horde 5 years ago. Now here he was, sipping a margarita by the pool, sizing up the female population. There were some beautiful women for sure, but as he feared he was 20 years older than most of the female guests. Middle aged women were in particularly short supply all over the Americas. For some still unknown reason, zombies attacked women more than men, and women over 40 most of all. Once attacked, older women were more likely to convert or die than any other demographic besides the very young and the very old. Solid numbers were hard to come by but something like 5% of the human population in America had been wiped out since the first flare-up in 2011. Some 15 million plus gone, and women over 40 made up 2/3 of that number. The rarest commodity of all were survivors, those who’d been attacked but made it out the other side. It was believed that less than 1% of all humans attacked by zombies survived. Most confirmed survivors were secured at government sites being tested and studied. Most, but not all. The west coast of America had taken the brunt of the zombie uprisings. Southern California alone lost 3 million to zombie attacks and another 2 million to outmigration. Zombies liked it hot but not too hot, dry but not too dry. They also appear to have a sense of humor as the government was now paying families to move into the few inhabitable neighborhoods in LA and San Diego. Houses that would have sold for millions were now being given away. Other than a few mild flareups in New York, Houston, and a handful of other cities, the middle of the country and the east coast were largely untouched. The average suburbanite in New Hampshire or Ohio watched the holocaust unfold across their TV screens, safe in their living rooms, while Los Angeles and San Diego nearly burned to the ground. Walter came out of his reverie. “Thanks for the drink, Eduardo. Very good. But I didn’t order it – how’d you know I’d like it?” “I took a chance – you seem like the tequila type,” said a woman’s voice. Walter looked to his left just as a woman started walking toward him. Walter took her in. Not your typical beauty but interesting none the less. She was perhaps 5 feet 5 inches tall, brown skin the color of melted caramel. Eyes as black as anthracite, yet a bit jaundiced in the sclera. Athletic, bordering on muscular build, small perky breasts. And not a day over 25. “Hi, um, thanks,” said Walter. “I’m America. You looked thirsty and lonely,” she said, in faintly-accented English. Her face was radiant. Walter was intrigued. “I’m Walter. Thanks again for the drink. Do you want to get a booth?” As they walked toward the booth, America lost her balance, giving Walter an opportunity to be a gentleman. She laughed, blamed it on an irregular paving stone. Once in the booth, they talked, awkwardly at first, more comfortably as time wore on. America learned that Walter lived in Tucson but had moved there from San Marcos, a town in northern San Diego County. Walter left Southern California during the Uprising only reluctantly and only after losing his wife. He took the same package most SoCal refugees took five years ago, a $50,000 relocation credit plus a military escort for those willing to relocate to Arizona, New Mexico or a handful of places further east. Tucson was a popular choice, a major metro area relatively close to the Mexican border that was too hot and dry for zombies most of the year. Walter had been a tenured professor at UC-San Diego until the Uprising. Now the campus was a charred ruin and he taught at a community college. As Eduardo delivered a second round of margaritas, the conversation turned to America. She was born in Mexico but immigrated when she was seven. She grew up not far from Walter’s hometown of San Marcos in Oceanside, a quaint, if somewhat gritty, beach town immediately south of the massive Marine base, Fort Pendleton. She graduated Oceanside High summa cum laude and did two years at Stanford. Then the Uprising. Her family called her and begged her to stay in the relative safety of Northern California. She refused and returned home to a warzone. Her mother, father, and younger brother dead, house and neighborhood burned to the ground by the Marines sent to help. Zombies, it turns out, really hate fire. Too bad humans do, too. Controlling zombies by fire had been euphemistically dubbed chemotherapy for the human population. It killed more zombies than people, but just barely. She was so distraught she didn’t wait for the government subsidy. She just started driving east and ended up, like so many others, at a refugee camp outside of Las Vegas. Eventually she got her head on straight, applied for the subsidy, and headed toward Mexico as soon as the check arrived. She had family in the state of Sonora. With no jobs on offer she couch-surfed with family and lived off the subsidy until she settled in Puerto Peñasco 2 years ago. Now she dealt blackjack at the casino part time. She knew the bartender, Eduardo, from the casino and he sometimes let her slip into the resort without paying the locals fee for a day pass. When their conversation hit an ebb, Walter signaled for two more drinks and suggested that they take them to the beach. Sunset was only 20 minutes away and what better way to end a perfect . . . what, first date? America took his hand in hers and his stomach flipped. He felt like he was 16 again. As they walked, America took another chance to appreciate Walter. Though he was probably in his early to mid-40s, he hadn’t developed the typical pot-bellied middle-aged ‘dad-bod’. For a professor, he had a weight-lifter’s build, muscular and stout. Not tall, 5’ 6”, he had blond-brown hair fading to white at the temples. Barrel chested, well-tanned, beard cropped close, no earrings or visible tattoos. Beautiful baby blue eyes and a kind, rounded face that bore no malice. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and vintage board shorts without a trace of irony, the way only a Californian can. No jewelry except for a simple gold ring hanging from a chain around his neck. The sunset came and went. An hour later, the couple continued to talk – about families, about politics, about loss, and about love. The bass drum of the Pacific Ocean beat out an ameliorative melody. Slowly, they got lost in one another and conversation turned to flirting. Their first kiss was soft, tentative, exploratory. The walk back to Walter’s room was full of giggles and high-pitched stream-of-consciousness jabbering. Walter offered her his arm to steady her. Walter, too, was a bit unstable, high on tequila and America’s attention. Once they got to his room, though, Walter was filled with trepidation. America didn’t follow him back to his room to play chess. For some reason, the prospect of having sex with this beautiful young woman terrified him. Physically, he was sure it would be fine, perhaps even great. He felt a familiar swelling in his boxer briefs and knew he *could* do it . . . but *should* he? Was this a one-night fling, or was she the real deal? Why was he thinking of Evie instead of America? America put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw fear rather than desire. “Hey, no pressure. I like you and I’m down for whatever. We can talk, we can fool around, we can go get dinner, whatever,” said America. Walter smiled and offered a compromise. “How about the hot tub? This is a suite, the hot tub on the balcony overlooks the ocean – great view.” America’s face curled into wicked, mischievous smile. “You appreciate a great view, huh? Well get ready because I didn’t bring my bathing suit.” Without another word, she shimmied out of her shorts and top. She giggled and did a little pirouette, giving Walter a full 360-degree view. After shucking out of her clothes she was wearing only a pair of lacy white thong underwear. Her pert breasts, uncovered, shone in the moonlight like teak pearls. He’d seen all he needed to see. Suddenly, all other thoughts left his mind. He went to her and kissed her as if his life depended on it. She led him to the bed. Seconds later he was deep inside of her. They both found relief, if not love, in the gentle rocking of bodies. They did eventually make it to the hot tub, two hours later. \ The next morning, America woke to an empty bed. She spotted Walter on the patio sipping coffee and contemplating the mighty Pacific. She called out, “Coffee smells good – got more on?” “Yep. Pyrex on the counter. I splurged, its real Kona coffee.” She sat next to Walter and took a sip. “Wow – that’s good!” said America, a warm smile on her lips. “What’s the occasion?” Walter offered a blank stare and said nothing for a minute. “Just being alive. And missing Evie. She loved good coffee.” America said nothing. She could sense Walter had something to get off his chest. “We met in grad school. Boston. She was studying art history – Baroque paintings, Rembrandt, Rubens that type of stuff. Taught herself German, Dutch, and French. Mind you, she was from an insular New Hampshire WASP family, had never travelled further than New York City before college. Art wasn’t really my thing. I was a few years further along, on track to get a combined MD-PhD in public health and microbiology. My passion was, still is, epidemiology.” Walter offered a sad smile. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He gestured aimlessly toward the sea. “Her parents didn’t approve. They never said anything, but they didn’t have to. I share my Guatemalan grandfather’s surname and I tan easy in the summer, even in New England. In their eyes I was 25% too Hispanic for their Episcopalian angel. We got out of there as fast as we could. We got married in Las Vegas where I had a one-year postdoc at UNLV. Soon after I landed the job at UC San Diego. She struggled for a while, volunteered at several museums before an entry level position opened at the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego. Not her area but she was smart, persistent, a sponge. She learned everything she cold about Franz Kline, Modigliani, Picasso, Pollock, you name it. She spent ever free minute either in the University library or learning the contemporary art scene in galleries all around Southern California. She dragged me to so many shows we started a modest art collection to decorate our equally modest home. Eventually transferred some credits from back east and with even more work she earned a PhD in Arts Management. Worked her way up to a junior curator position, then a senior position. Taught at the U part-time. We had a good life.” Walter drained his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and then returned to the patio. “Six months before the Uprising, the director of the museum was killed in a zombie attack in Los Angeles. Evie was named acting director. Two weeks before the Uprising, she got notice that the promotion was to be permanent. Los Angeles was burning by then and the Board of Directors thought continuity would be best. Frankly, it was hard to find anyone from east of the Rockies to apply for a position in Southern California. Outmigration had started, looting was on the rise. A few minor flares in San Diego County had killed off most tourism. It was bleak. We talked about leaving but with her new promotion we never seriously considered it. I made a few half-hearted inquires with colleagues back east about academic openings but nothing came of it. We upgraded our security system, 4-inch hardened steel shutters activated by phone app, an ugly but lethal fence system, and a bomb shelter with 2 years of canned food and batteries. We both learned how to use and maintain guns for the first time in our lives. Thursday night yoga was replaced by Thursday nights at the gun range.” Walter paused and put a thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Silent tears gently rolled down his face. When he returned to his story, his voice was think with emotion. “One day, Evie was called into the museum to respond to an emergency alarm. I drove her, stayed in the car. Evie went in with her Glock locked and loaded, escorted by an armed security guard. At the time, it seemed like overkill considering a similar alarm went off a week earlier when a homeless guy got stuck in a secure loading dock looking for shelter. This time it was a dozen zombies. No one saw it coming. Neither Evie nor the security guard came back out of the museum. I saw a few bloodied Zs emerge from the building. A security detail arrived too late for Evie but just in time for the first battle of the Uprising. All the noise drew even more Zs. This was ground zero, moment zero. I should have come with her into the museum. I didn’t. I got out. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.” Walter was quiet. America didn’t know how to respond. What the fuck do you say to that? When America found her voice, she spoke in a soft *sotto voce*, trying to convey sympathy. “Sounds like you two loved the hell out of each other. She was lucky – you both were lucky – to find that kind of love.” “Yes, we were,” Walter agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” asked America. “Leave, why?” confusion and hurt colored Walter’s voice. “I was sharing – I just thought I owed you the truth.” America offered Walter a pained look. “That’s just it – the truth. I haven’t been honest with you. I like you, but I need you, too. Six weeks after I got to Mexico, Ivanka was elected President. Soon after, the Trump Memorial Wall started going up fast. When they just thought Mexicans were taking their jobs, no funding. But Ivanka’s smarter than her dad, better deal-maker, too, and she embraced all that fringe conspiracy stuff – that the Mexican government engineered the Zombie outbreak and infected the US on purpose as revenge for her dad’s anti-immigrant policies. Last month they started work on the last segment of the Wall. Going rate for a coyote is a $100,000 and rising. I’m a Dreamer, so I was never fully legal in California. I must get back. You can bring me back.” She pleaded silently with her eyes. Walter looked at America in the harsh light of the Pacific morning. He smiled. “You didn’t let me finish my story.” “But . . .” protested America. “Look, I get it. The bartender probably feeds you names of gringos here for the Survivor trips. You’ve been looking for a soft touch who will make a trade – sex and companionship in exchange for a ticket back to the States. Deal or no deal? If I’m not the first, so be it. I’m not one to judge. I had a great time last night no matter how or why it came to be. Be that as it may, I haven’t been fully honest with you, either. You need the whole truth more than I do. We’re both hunting. This is a work trip.” America looked at Walter quizzically. “Work . . . for what, one of your community college classes?” “No. The teaching keeps me sane but pays shit. I run a privately-funded lab in Tucson. A very well-funded lab. We’re researching a cure.” “A cure?” said America, incredulous. “For Zombies?” “Yes. And we’re oh-so-close.” “What are you hunting for,” she demanded, but before Walter could say a word she said it. “A survivor.” “A survivor. I picked up on a few markers immediately – slight jaundice of the sclera, increased musculature, especially of the upper body, rigid posture, poor balance when walking. But I needed to be sure. There are so few survivors out there not already working for a lab.” “So, you fucked me not because I was so charming or hot but because you had to be sure . . . and you saw the bite marks on my back . . .” her voice faded away. “Yes, I saw them. But no, I didn’t go to bed with you last night just to find out. I had to see if there was the possibility of love for me without Evie. Like everyone I secretly hope that the cure will work retroactively and that I can find Evie and cure her and have it all back like it was. But I know that’s bullshit. I’m not even sure if she was killed or converted. If the later, she’s been a zombie for 5 years. No one comes back from that. The cocktail they’re using now only works on those newly converted, and it’s only partial. My cure would be a universal inoculation, a vaccine, plus it would work retroactively on newer converts. Either way, Evie’s gone. Last night helped me see that there might be life, and maybe even love, after.” “But you need a survivor to get over the line.” “And you need me to get through the wall.” America smiled. “Is it painful? Risky?” “Risky, no. Some pain. Not much. Bloodwork mostly. Some cognitive stuff. Bone marrow would be the most painful procedure but nothing you can’t handle.” She considered the offer. “What about the border crossing? The US is requiring a marriage certificate to enter as of last week in the case of a non-blood relative.” “I know. Not a deal breaker. I need a partner in life as well as in the lab. If the romantic part works out, great. If not we’ll figure that out, too,” said Walter. “Hmm. One last question.” It was Walter’s turn to smile. “Shoot.” America walked over to Walter. She was wearing only the white lace panties and a thin cotton t shirt. She straddled him and soon felt herself pushing onto a familiar, growing hardness. “Can you keep up with a younger woman? I’ll need at least one more round this morning for you to convince me.” “Hmm. Only one more? Let’s try for two, shall we?” “You got yourself a deal.” Walter carried America over the threshold to the suite. Two hours and two love making sessions later, the odd couple left the resort. An hour after that, they emerged from the Sweet Memories Wedding chapel, husband and wife. Walter drove his aging Tesla directly toward the brilliant Mexican light bouncing off the gold-plated Trump Memorial Wall. For the first time in a long time, Walter felt a glimmer of hope. In the passenger seat America was hopeful but nervous, too. She was glad to be leaving Mexico, eager to be back in her namesake country. But she felt sure Walter wasn’t giving her the full truth yet. Like her, he had poor balance and a muscular torso. And those baby blues eyes . . . too good to be true? High-end contacts to hide jaundice? What about the unusual scars she’d seen on his body? If Walter was a survivor, too, he didn’t really need America as a test subject. Instead, she suspected he was in Mexico searching for a partner to help make the rarest commodity of all in their zombie-filled world – a child born of two survivors. She kept up with the news and knew the entire scientific community was searching for just such a survivor child, to no avail. America hadn’t taken a birth control pill in three days and neither she nor Walter had even mentioned condoms. America imagined that perhaps, right now, a child was growing in her belly that would end the zombie apocalypse once and for all. If not now, soon. She put her hands over her abdomen protectively and offered Walter a radiant smile as the GPS welcomed them to the United States of America.


“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. *Red roses are too cliché,* he’d say. *Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?* I’d smile and kiss him. *Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend,* I’d reply. Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese. It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan.  I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college. It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours. Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did *not* want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction. And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-” “Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.” At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk – he barely fit – and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of *He’s right here, officers.* I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk. “What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.” He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.” “You – what?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: *Campus Drive.* It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?” It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. *Cute? Harvey, what? You* have *a girlfriend.* “I – yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “*Why* are you staring at me?” He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.” Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I – I’m straight.” He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.” I considered. It *was* getting late, and I *was* hungry. “Sure,” I finally said. When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.” He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.” He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.” “Oh, I’m Har-” “Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though – *wow.* They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?” I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?” “Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.” He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart *and* cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.” I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re…pretty good-looking yourself.” *Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?* He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.” He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages. Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name *Logan* and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?” I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care.  Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says. I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer. His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past. *I hope so too.* I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged. Tonight, though, it’s beautiful.  I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I *could* feel in a relationship until Logan. It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken – preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available – and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was *To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus,* he’d said. We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan. A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face. I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the *I’m envious* way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.” “I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, *‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”* I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.” “Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-” I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it. When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.” I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.” He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.” And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed. He laughed again and pulled me back in.  I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching *Suits* episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show. And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since. And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride. I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there. My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has. Just a few more steps. Almost there. “Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little. Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply. The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses. “I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.” I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set. I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves. “Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?” The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice. As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against. I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart *and* cute *and* mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.


Our story is about a town, a small town, and the people who live in the town. From a distance, it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world: safe, decent, innocent. Get closer, though, and you start seeing the shadows underneath. The name of our town is Greenville. It’s been a week since the discovery of and Jake Jones's body, but his death is not the first nor would it be the last that the town of Greenville would suffer. The town now had its first serial killer. Everyone’s afraid to say it, so let me be the first. There is a serial killer amongst us. San Francisco had the Zodiac. New Orleans had the Axeman. Texarkana, Texas, had the Phantom Killer. The list goes on and on. Add to their ranks Greenville's very own psychopath, the unknown name of this mysterious killer, who is still out. Like the Red Death showing up in an Edgar Allan Poe story, the Black Hood had come to Riverdale. With that grimmest of reapers looming over us, how did we cope? Putting all this behind us for one night is exactly what the town did, the homecoming dance was coming up, and everyone was busy asking their friends or spouse to the dance, while I am busy writing away in the town's diner about what they are trying to forget. Later that night, there was another death, the girl next door, Jenna Moore. The captain of the cheer squad, childhood best friend of mine. Everything ended when she became popular and I became the girl on the bench with a computer and a story to write. Every fairy tale comes with the same warning: Good children should never go into the woods alone. Stray from the path and who knows what you’ll encounter. A hungry wolf. A handsome devil. Or maybe something worse. The deaths of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore are all the town talks about, and still, the killer is still out there, but now the killer is leaving clues, notes on the front doors of each house in the small town. The town was rising with worry, for they could be next. After the first death, we had all hoped it was just suicide from a stressed and anxious teen, but after the autopsy, the truth was out, and now it has settled into the minds of everyone there, there is a serial killer, and they are thirsty for blood. The kids in the local high school found a way to cope with the deaths of their classmates, alcohol, and fizzle rocks. With another death of a Greenville High Schooler, the Homecoming dance was canceled, but Luke Smith, the captain of Varsity football, my neighbor, my crush since 3rd grade, had decided to host a party in his home while his dad was out of town on business work. Thinking I would spend another night drinking coffee at the diner and typing away, Luke had invited me to the party, and there was no way I was going to turn down a high school party. Monday after the party, everyone was still hungover, but that wasn't the worst thing, by 4th period, the sheriff would have his first arrest. Emma Fisher, Luke Smith's girlfriend since the fifth grade, was arrested for the accusations of the murder of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. All evidence pointed back to her, her blood at the scenes, her fingerprints, and her DNA all over the crime scenes. One thing was off though, she was out with Luke. By Wednesday morning, she was released, which still meant, the killer was still out. Fear. It’s the most basic, the most human emotion. As kids, we’re afraid of everything. The dark. The boogeyman under the bed. And we pray for the morning. For those monsters to go away. Though they never do. Not really. Just ask Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. But it never ended with them, the Shadow Killer was still out and had made another round, leaving a note this time with the dead body, warning the town, "If the town cannot keep their children under control, then I will be the one to do it, for these kids have sinned, and I am the one to get rid of it." No one knew what it meant, for we didn't know what trouble Jake, Jenna, and Emma had gotten into. yes, that's right, Emma Fisher had been the victim this time. Weeks had gone by and not a single word from the Shadow Killer, the town was quiet, and people in it too. Maybe the sins the Shadow Killer was talking about had gone away, or even better, the Shadow Killer themself. But when things started to get quit, when we started to let our guard down, the Shadow killer struck again, this time it was none other than the boy across the street, Luke Smith. Guilt, innocence. Good, evil. Life, death. As the shadows around Greendale deepened, the lines that separated these polar opposites blurred and distorted. “I’m guilty,” the Janitor confessed to the sheriff. But of what? It was the ultimate cliffhanger: the janitor had confessed but was he really the face under the mask, or was he covering up for someone else. Was he being paid to do this, was he being threatened, or was he really the killer? You know how there are just some towns where bad things always seem to happen? Well, Greenville has become one of those towns. The most recent horror? The school janitor turned out to be a serial killer. But we were putting him away along with our Christmas decorations. In Greenville, everyone wears a mask, not just the Shadow Killer. But every so often, the mask slips and our true selves are laid bare for all the world to see. So we scramble to put it back on, like a kid in a cheap Halloween costume, but it’s too late. People have already seen what’s underneath. And it’s terrifying. But the biggest secret the town still doesn't know is the true killer. A secret buried with the janitor and the 4 dead sophomores. I was the true Shadow Killer, and no one will ever expect it. Who expects a quiet girl who writes to be the killer, but then again, no would've expected the janitor to confess for a murder he didn't commit.


Hello. My name is Willium Whiteford. I don't exactly know why I am here telling you this. Maybe I am tired of hiding. Perhaps I just need to get all these thoughts out of my skull. I just need to let somebody in on my secret. You see, I am a magician. Not like the ones you see at parties; well I do do parties but I will get to that later. What I mean to say is that I am an actual Magician, capital M and everything. I cast spells and the like. I used to do shows on Broadway. I was in Las Vegas for a while. I even toured the world doing magic shows. I was incredibly famous. Almost everyone knew my name. I had money, power, women, everything a man could ever want. No, no of course you haven't heard of me. Haha. Sorry to laugh. It's just I made everyone forget about me. A complicated spell, but worth it. It got all of those other hacks off my back. Always wanting to know my tricks. I got kidnapped twice you know. It just became annoying; so I left. I mostly do kids shows now. I did mention I do parties. Their smiles are always the best anyways. It also got kind of boring. You see, real magic is fairly easy. Overall at least. I can get almost anything I want with a wave of a hand. I could have it all back in an instant. So it's really not much of a loss. I did decide to get the better of those other 'magicians' though. Big air quotes around that word by the way. I went to learn their magic: sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, card tricks and the like. It was all so complicated, it was more difficult than just changing the universe with a spell. The funny part was having learned it all I was actually able to hide real magic from prying eyes. Take long sleeves. Most 'magicians' don't wear them. They don't want people to say 'Ah he just took it out of his sleeve,' or 'He pulled that out of his sleeve!" Stuff like that. I always wear a coat. When I make something appear or disappear, it doesn't matter what, people just assume that's what I do. I went from being considered the greatest magician, to just a decent one. The freedom is amazing. What? No, of course I am not scared of you revealing my secret. Well simple. By the time you finish reading this you will have forgotten all about me. In fact after you hit the upvote button you will move on and read a different story. You may leave here with a strange compulsion to hire me though. Honestly, I am great with kids. They love the act. Their faces light up when I make toys appear out of thing air. Willium Whiteford, you can remember that. Thank you for listening. It was wonderful meeting you. Goodbye.


The night before my father's funeral, I dreamt I was a crow. I soared above my childhood home, above the old elementary school, above the lake where my father had taken me fishing when I was five years old and had yet to disappoint him. My black feathers were iridescent, shimmering as I flapped my wings. I flew farther, out of the state of Minnesota, out of the United States, and into outer space. For a split second, I was filled with joy. Then I awoke. Annoyed, I pulled off the quilt my mom likely hadn't washed since I moved out ten years ago. She hadn't changed much of anything since I left, really. My basketball trophies were still standing on the shelf above my desk. My now-ancient iMac sat below. On the walls were posters of Fall Out Boy and fellow female athletes whom I'd found inspirational: Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, and Nadia Comaneci. The Comaneci poster sported a tear down the center, courtesy of my father. He ripped it in one of his drunken rages, calling it "fuel" for my "filthy lesbian fantasies." Ironically, Nadia was the only woman of the three I wasn't attracted to. The only real difference in my bedroom, in fact, was the black silk dress that hung from my doorframe, swaying threateningly. "Mom!" I shouted, "What the hell is this?" My mom appeared in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, dragging a comb through the curly brown hair we shared. She peered at the black dress and rolled her eyes. "What do you think? It's a dress, Cass." "I'm aware. I meant what the hell is it doing in my room? I haven't worn a dress in twenty years." Twenty-one years, in fact. I was the flower girl at my uncle Mike's wedding. When my mom presented me with the purple tulle monstrosity I was meant to wear, I cried for nearly an hour. On the day of the wedding, I angrily dumped the entire basket of flowers at the head of the aisle and ran out of the chapel in an act of protest. After the reception, my father had gotten drunk off his ass, as always, and as always, my mom had to drive us home. I leaned my head against the car door and closed my eyes. When my father thought I’d fallen asleep, he turned to my mom. “Jeanette,” he slurred, “there’s somethin’ wrong with Cassandra. She’s a weird kid, I’m tellin’ you. I jus don’t understand her.” I was snapped back to reality by my mother’s voice. “Your dad would’ve wanted you to wear it, Cassandra.” “He wanted a lot of things, Mom. Wanted to win the lottery. Wanted to quit drinking. Wanted me to be someone else. You can’t always get what you want.” I shot my mom a wry smile, knowing the Rolling Stones quote would bother her. “Whatever, Cass. Wear what you want. I’m leaving in half an hour to set things up. The service starts at one. Please don’t be late.” With that, my mom left my room and I started downstairs to start a pot of coffee. I passed a seemingly endless row of photos, most of which were of me. Me at my very first Junior Timberwolves basketball game, which my father had missed because his “damn car wouldn’t start.” Me grinning at my eighth grade graduation, which my father had missed due to “a faulty engine.” One photo in particular stood out. It was a newspaper clipping, in which I was leaping through the air in a sky blue jersey, basketball in hand, wild-eyed. The caption read, “West Lake High School player Cassandra Lowell makes the game-winning shot, taking home state championship.” I remembered the game well. It was the second semester of my sophomore year, and I’d already earned the attention of numerous college scouts after leading my team to state championships. The game was set to be played in Minneapolis on a Saturday morning, and I’d somehow gotten my father to promise he’d be there. As the team and I rode to Minneapolis at the crack of dawn, I found myself filled with excitement. *I have to win this game*, I thought. I had to make my father proud. The game began and I played better than ever before. I made shot after shot, and no one seemed able to stop me. By halftime, the score was 32-14. I turned into the crowd, expecting to see my parents’ smiling faces. However, only my mom smiled back at me, a grin that did not match her troubled eyes. Next to her was an empty seat. I deluded myself into thinking maybe my father had left to use the bathroom, or he was running a bit late. I pushed on, determined to show my father how good I was. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the other team picked up their game. Before we knew it, they had a two-point lead, and there were only fifteen seconds left. As if by magic, I managed to steal the ball from a girl on the opposing team and run. Desperate to make a shot in time, I leapt into the air from halfway across the court and launched the ball toward the net. I had a look in my eyes the local newspaper would later describe as “a girl possessed.” *Swoosh*. The ball made it in easily. I almost couldn’t believe my good fortune. As the buzzer rang, I again turned into the crowd, hoping to share this victory with my father. Again, all I saw was an empty seat. I refrained from celebrating on the bus ride home, sulking while everyone else celebrated. My sulking turned to anger, which turned to seething. By the time I arrived home and spotted my father’s ’99 Civic in the driveway, I was beyond furious. I entered our house, slamming the door behind me. My father laid on the couch, beer in hand, indifferent to my arrival. I dropped my duffel bag in front of him. “You missed my game,” I said. My father seemed unbothered. “You guys win?” I ignored his question. “You missed my game,” I repeated. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Car wouldn’t start.” “That’s bullshit! That’s bullshit and you know it. You own one of the most dependable cars on the planet. You were just too fucking drunk to drive to one lousy game.” My father was many things: a homophobe, a drunk, an all-around asshole. But at the very least, he was not a drunk driver. My father shook his head, somehow managing to spill his beer in the process. “The damn car wouldn’t start, Cassandra. It’s a shitty car. Never works. Believe me.” The memory was interrupted by my mom brushing past me on the staircase. “I know you’re a zombie without your coffee, Cass,” she said, “but if you don’t get a move on it, you’re gonna be late.” “Sorry, Mom,” I said, and continued on with my routine. I made the pot of coffee, poured some cereal, and sat down on the couch to watch shitty morning TV. For a moment, it felt as though I’d never left home. Then, my mom walked out the door wearing her black funeral dress and I remembered everything. The rest of my morning continued without a hitch. I showered, brushed my teeth, and styled my hair. I pulled my black slacks and gray dress shirt out of the suitcase I’d lugged here, ironed them, and got dressed. Although I wasn’t very hungry, I shoveled the lasagna our neighbor had brought as an offering of condolence into my mouth. With nothing left to do but travel to the church, I grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. The Civic sat in the driveway, looking exactly the same as it had over a decade ago. I paused for a minute; suddenly, I felt as though I were seven years old. I reluctantly opened the door and sat down. I put the keys in the ignition and attempted to start the car, but received only a pathetic cough in response. Irritated, I tried again. Nothing. *You’ve got to be kidding me*, I thought as I tried the ignition yet again. The engine sputtered defiantly. Exasperated, I turned my head toward the sky. “You cruel bastard,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a jet-black crow rising through the air.


This was not how I had expected the day to go. “Come on, we need to run!” He grasped my hand and pulled me up off the blood stained floor. I had expected a nice coffee date, maybe a walk in the park. “ The police are probably on their way by now.” Pulling me behind him, I turned back hearing the sirens before seeing them but not longer after the red and blue lights followed. I might have even brought him back to my flat if he was really persuading. “Are you deaf, hurry the fuck up or do you wanna spend the rest of your life holed up in jail!?!” But no, instead I’m in a police chase with a guy I’ve not even known for 2 hours. I took in his appearance as we were running, the back of his neck slick with sweat and his hair being pushed back by the wind, cheeks bright pink and his eyes wild with either worry or happiness, I haven’t decided yet. Truth be told if it wasn’t for this he would probably be the perfect man for me, his glasses helped make the shape of his face, jawline patterned with one of those scruffy beards. Rounding us around a corner he he pushed me away backed up and kicked open a door to what I can presume is an abandoned building of some sort. Seeing that in a film would’ve made me swoon for the lead man thinking about how strong and manly he is but in this situation…. it’s probably the same actually. He looked me in the eyes with what I can only describe as a mixture of excitement and craze. “Do you not trust me?” quizzically he asked as he reached out his hand for me, “Do you know how cringy you sound and look right now, what are me in an action film?” I say thinking back to my previous thought not two seconds ago. his arm slumped down to his side almost reluctantly. “Alright, follow me then. Unless you just want to stand there like a soggy biscuit just waiting to be caught.” His voice slowly slipped into the building with him as he walked away and without even thinking my body urged me forward to follow him. The building is exactly what you would expect somewhere abandoned to look like, graffiti painted practically every wall, gang signs, swear words you name it, even a very crude picture of the queen and Boris Johnson doing what I can only describe as a very interesting sexual role play. A mixture of mold, urine and a smell I couldn’t even pinpoint filled the air. “Is this where you kill me because no witness left behind.” “Relax it’s not as if I robbed a bank or something I just got into a small fight.” “Small?” I scoffed, I couldn’t even tell if he was being serious " You got into a full on brawl which ended up smashing through the cafe window and now you’ve made me an accomplice!” Laughing he stood up and walked towards me sitting on an old wooden box I was stood beside. “Sit your paranoid arse down it wasn’t even that bad they will forget about it by the end of the week… probably. And I mean scheduled in for a haircut day after tomorrow so I won’t even look the same!” “Are you seriously thinking that a haircut is going to fix everything?” “No I was just making a bloody joke, trying to get you to smile.” “You really expect me to smile in this situation right now?” I couldn’t stand to be near him right now, pushing myself up I slowly walked towards the wall in front following all the intricate details painted on, not only could I not stay near him because of what happened but because I knew I didn’t even care about that, in fact it was probably the most fun I had in a while I just didn’t want to admit that. We sat in silence for an excruciating amount of time and I did kinda feel bad for him it wasn’t exactly his fault really was it, or am I just telling myself that? Slowly walking back towards him I take a seat on the floor a few steps in front of him and as he looks up to see what I’m doing, smiling he follows in suit sitting down his knees hitting mine. “Can I just say I was really looking forward to this date.” I surprised myself by smiling at this. “Me too, except I didn’t expect this to happen. Obviously.” “Well I mean we could just carry it on, minor set back and location change aside, where were we?” “Are you serious right now?” “Oh. I’m always serious.” Fake scowling at me, both of us began to laugh, was I really going to do this. Imagine what Emily is going to think when I tell her how her blind date set up ended. She told me he was a bit out there but all in all one of the kindest men she knew. Before everything that happened I was actually having a good time and we got along very well even upgraded from small talk to casual flirting and personal stories. “I think you were telling me about your friends birthday party this year.” He smiled and we carried on our conversations from before. It was actually really fun and the more I got to know him and pretend what happened didn’t exist I could really see myself falling in love with him, the way his eyes graze every part of my face as I spoke and I could tell how intently he was listening catching every little detail I said. When he was talking about his family his movements and speech were just so passionate as he told me about his very extensive family tree and loads of little anecdotes about everyone, you could see that the love for his family was truly there. As the sun was almost just out of sight through the windows and dark shadows were spreading across the floor, standing up he dusted himself off and reached a hand out for me, I smiled grabbing it and just as i caught my balance he grabbed my waist pulling me into him, every part of his body molding to mine as his eyes met mine with a stare I couldn’t decide was either happiness or worry, I’m sure mine was the exact same. “So even after everything that happened today this is probably one of the happiest days I’ve had in a while and I was just hoping that if we didn’t end up getting caught and thrown in jail you would consider going out with me again?” Smiling up at him I sarcastically said to him and hoped he knew I was joking. “I’m never going out with you again.”


My face must have reflected my feelings as I walked into the living room because my husband Joe  looked up at me and asked, “Why the long face?” “Oh, Joe, I just got off the phone with Angie. She’s feeling down in the dumps and not looking forward to Christmas at all.” I explained to Joe that Angie’s son and daughter in law with their eight year-old twins were going off to Germany to spend Christmas. They spent last Christmas with Angie and this year it was the turn of the other grandparents. Charlie’s her only child and I sympathized with Angie because the same thing was happening to Joe and me. Our eldest, Adam, was in the army and would be in Afghanistan until February. Our daughter Linda was in California with her husband Greg. They are screenwriters just getting their careers up and running and they weren’t taking any time off for the holidays. My little sister Angie and her husband George live in England, my older brother Bob lives in Canada with his wife Julia, and Joe and I live in Sydney, Australia. We are an international family if ever there was one, and while we love to spend a real family Christmas together, it gets difficult when we are dotted all over the globe the way we are. The phone rang again and it was Angie ringing back. She had just spoken with our brother Bob and he suggested we all get together in England for Christmas, just the three of us old empty-nest couples, and make it a real English Christmas, just like our old fashioned Christmases back home when we were kids. “Oh, Angie, you must have woken him up,” I said, “isn’t it the middle of the night in Canada?” “Yes, I suppose so. But he didn’t mind. Now that his kids have grandchildren of their own, he’s not planning on seeing much of them this year. And I think it cheered him up to talk about getting together for Christmas. I said you and he could come here, we’ve got enough room without the kids. Just think of it Mary, an old-fashioned English Christmas. Won’t it be lovely?” “You know, it does sound rather nice, just what we all need. Joe and I will start working on travel arrangements. Don’t you go making yourself ill with too much cooking and cleaning, we can come early and all share that, it’ll be fun. Have you still got all the old family recipes? If not, I do, I’ll get them out and email some of them to you. Thank you Angie, you’ve made my day. Wait till I tell Joe, he’ll love it. I’ll phone Bob and Julia later. Shall we talk again tomorrow?” Joe was tickled pink about going back to England for Christmas, and he sat down at his computer and started looking for good deals on flights. I went to my kitchen to look at cookbooks. It may not be the most important ingredient for a happy Christmas, but food has to be near the top of the list of what makes the holidays so special and enjoyable. For the next two weeks, we sent emails and made phone calls back and forth, deciding on when we’d arrive in England, how long we would stay, what fun things we might do while there, and what we would have for Christmas dinner. There was no argument for the turkey, that was what we had every Christmas as children, and our Mum had stuffed it with Paxo herb stuffing and surrounded it with roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips, and poured her slightly lumpy gravy over it. With the turkey we always had brussels sprouts. Dessert was, of course, a Christmas pudding, steamed in its white porcelain basin on top of the stove. We had custard, made with Bird’s custard powder, and sometimes cream with the pudding. We three children had each kept to this basic Christmas dinner menu when we left home to marry and raise families of our own, but we all made it more modern, and probably healthier, with a few changes. None of us cooked stuffing inside the bird, it was baked in a separate dish, and nobody would use Paxo or any other stuffing mix, because we all loved to cook and had tried different recipes for stuffing. As a family we had tried, every year, to be together for Christmas. Sometimes we couldn’t do it, but often we did, so we had all sampled each other’s Christmas specialties. All of us voted that the best stuffing recipe was Julia’s chestnut stuffing: there was no discussion, we were unanimous. We also voted for our usual roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips. Julia sprinkles a little chopped garlic, grated fresh ginger root, and black pepper on her carrots and parsnips, which makes them shine. Brussels sprouts were voted for by all of us, and we all cook them using Julia’s method of steaming them after cutting a cross in the trimmed stem end, which allows any damaged outer leaves to fall off and makes them cook faster. These days we all like to eat more vegetables, so we voted to add steamed cauliflower and broccoli, and green beans, to our plates. We would have to wait and see what was available in the markets before Christmas before we knew what we would actually eat to accompany the turkey, but our list was quite basic. And Julia had obviously been elected the vegetable chef. My sister Angie had a wonderful old Aga stove in her big kitchen, and she knew how to coax it into performing at its best, so she was elected, by default, to cook the turkey. She would also cook the ham, which was eaten as the main meal on Christmas Eve and again on Boxing Day. Angie’s husband, George, a retired butcher, was given the task of finding us the best turkey and ham, and he always helped Angie with cooking. All that was left was the pudding and all the delicious baked goods that belong to Christmas in England. We all used the recipe our Mum had given us for the pudding. This recipe, along with an old-fashioned pudding basin with a lip, had formed part of her wedding presents to Angie, Julia, and to me, and we all treasured both the basin and the recipe. It made a dark, rich pudding with a delicious flavor, and contained not only currants and sultanas, but chunks of almonds, grated carrot and apple, and beer. Both Angie and I made Bird’s custard to have with the pudding, because we liked it, and so did our husbands, George and Joe. Julia usually served her pudding with brandy butter and cream, so we decided we’d have all three available to have with the pudding: custard, cream, and brandy butter. We never flamed our puddings when we were growing up, but all of us did that now. When the pudding is removed from its steamer and from its basin it is placed on a flat dish. A shot glass full of brandy is placed in a pan of simmering water until it gets hot, then it is poured over the hot pudding, and a match put to it until blue flames flare up around it. All the lights should be out when you do this. Some people set light to it in the kitchen then carry it out to the dining table, but I prefer doing the lighting ceremony in front of everyone at the table. Every year when it’s time to flame the pudding, our family tells the same old stories of accidents surrounding the ceremony. Here’s an example: One year I forgot to remove the decorative sprig of holly poked into the top, which caught fire. Joe poked a fork at it to pull it out with a flick of his wrist. It came out alright, but didn’t stay on the fork. It sailed over the table and landed on the armchair by the door, setting the upholstery alight! We still have that chair, it’s burn hole covered by a throw blanket: we will never get that chair recovered, it holds the memory of everyone’s laughter during what we now call “the great Christmas Pudding accident.”

Christmas puddings are best if made about a month before Christmas, so Angie was given the task of making the pudding and storing it in her larder. The pudding is steamed for about six hours, cooled, then packaged up, and on Christmas Day it is steamed again for about two hours. As the baker of the family, I was given the task of making mince pies, Dundee cake, cheddar pennies, shortbread, a chocolate log, and any other cakes or biscuits our family couldn’t live without for the holidays. I would travel armed with my trusted recipes for all of these. Bob and Angie phoned me one day to ask if I had the recipe for the Christmas scones or biscuits that our maternal grandmother, our Yorkshire grandmother we called Granny, used to make. No, I didn’t have a recipe like that, but yes, I did remember eating them, and loving them. Neither Bob and Julia, nor Angie and George could find a recipe for them, nor remember what they were called. I did a Google search but came up with nothing. So I sat down to think about the taste, and what might have made them taste that way, and I jotted down ingredients as I thought of them: flour, sugar, butter, mixed spice, pinch salt, currants, mixed peel, vanilla essence, glace cherries, nuts, and perhaps milk or eggs. I began to experiment. At first I made biscuits, or cookies as they are called in Australia and America. They tasted good, but that wasn’t right, the texture was softer than a biscuit, but not like a cake. Could they have been scones? That didn’t seem right either, but I tried anyway, making a basic sweet scone recipe with flour, baking powder, salt, butter, sugar, spice, a little milk, vanilla, and with currants, peel, almonds, and glace cherries stirred in. Yes, that was it! They were scones. But we all remembered our Granny had a special name for them, maybe it was even a funny-sounding name? Bob and Angie were happy I’d discovered a recipe similar to the treats we had enjoyed from our Granny, and Bob agreed with me that she had given them a funny name. We reminisced about our Yorkshire Granny and Bob remembered she was the one who used to call him “my little fat rascal,” even though he was a skinny little boy. That did it, the penny dropped and I remembered. These scones were called “fat rascals.” Both Bob and I looked online and found them, found recipes, and their history. Fat Rascals are a rich scone, “fat” because they are filled with fruit and nuts, and “rascals” because they have a face marked on top with almond teeth and cherries for eyes. Joe and I arrived at Heathrow a week before Christmas. We stayed overnight in London to see the lights, then hired a car and drove down to Folkestone on the south coast, where George and Angie live. The first thing I baked in Angie’s kitchen was a batch of fat rascals, which were ready and waiting for Granny’s little fat rascal Bob when he and Julia arrived the next day. We all enjoyed them immensely, amid numerous cups of tea and hours of reminiscences about our wonderful old Christmases in England, when we were young.