A honeyed breeze carried the chatter of finches as Azi lay on the green lawn. She stared above, deep in thought, her eyes tracing the honeycomb structure of the dome. The sound of footsteps padding snapped her out of her daze. She turned to see Ascot marching over.

“Good afternoon Miss!” He announced himself and stood to attention in front of her, moustache bristling in the breeze.

“Hello Ascot.” “I’ve come to inform you that dinner is ready.” “I’m reading at the moment, I’ll eat later.” She gestured vaguely to the book cast aside on the grass. “Your father would like a word with you before he leaves, if you don’t mind.” “And if I do mind?” Ascot said nothing. Azi shot him a sideways glance, then smiled and got up.

“Fine, let’s go then.” Azi walked along the hallway, the marble floor cool on her bare feet. Ascot’s footsteps echoed behind her. Streams of light cut through the kitchen, shining onto a long dining table where her father sat scribbling in his leather dossier. Azi sat down and took a plate before he glanced up, as if noticing them for the first time. “Thank you Ascot.” “Sir.” He turned and left.

Azi began arranging food on her plate and her father went back to his dossier. After a few minutes he flicked it shut, sat back and stared at Azi.

“Good afternoon Azi.” “Hi Dad.” He rested his chin on a fist. “How was school today? Interesting?” She pulled a face. “Oh yes, another fascinating day learning about hydroponics.”

A glimmer of a smile passed across her father’s mouth. “Now, sarcasm isn’t going to get you very far in life. Besides, you might need that knowledge in the future - we always need more biochemists.” “Hmm, think I’ll pass on that. How about the Senate?” “I wouldn’t recommend it sweetheart. Long hours.” He smiled at her. “In fact that’s what I wanted to speak to you about - I won’t be home for a night or two, there’s an event on in town, unavoidable I’m afraid.” “So? You’re always away.” He paused and looked out of the window. “I wanted to make sure that you’re comfortable with Ascot watching the house, I know he’s only new. I could arrange for some others to come if it’d make you feel more secure.” “Dad, he’s been here for months. Besides, what do you expect to happen? Literally every house in this neighbourhood has guards. We’ll be fine.” “Two months. And Azi, I'm not sure you’re aware but there’s been some serious trouble from the dust lately. A man of my office naturally has a target on his back, and that unfortunately extends to you as well.“ “Would you get over yourself? You act like you’re in the Inner Circle already, you’ve only been a senator a couple of months. I’ll be fine.” He sat scrutinising her for a moment, then rubbed his chin, picked up his dossier and stretched. “Fine, we’ll leave it for now. I’ll see you on Sunday.” Azi closed her bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. She paced the room, rehearsing the plan in her mind. After a while she heard the front door slam shut - her father leaving. She glanced at the clock - 6:45. She had an hour to wait. She went to her window and opened it, trying to relax. The sun was almost down and dusk appeared a greyish pink from behind the dome. She watched the evening sky descend into night between the metal beams and the air grew cool and moist. Birds stopped chirping, and it was just the rustle of leaves, or the occasional car driving outside the garden wall. She checked the clock again, it was almost time. She went back down to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. On her way back she stuck her head into the security room. “Heading to bed Ascot, having an early night.” “Sleep well Miss.” “Thank you Ascot.” Azi had to refrain from running up the stairs to her room. She went to her wardrobe and lifted out lengths of rope. She checked the clock again - 7:45 on the dot. Time to go.

Azi crept down the stairs and tiptoed to the garden. She ran along the side to the back corner, where the sycamore tree and elderberry shrubs gave some cover from the cameras. Then, tossing the rope ladder over a high branch she heaved herself on top of the wall. She checked that the road was clear, let the ladder down and quickly descended, tossing the rope back over the wall. She threw her hood up and walked two streets over. Only then she allowed herself a deep breath. She smiled with raw adrenaline. Suddenly she felt someone grab her shoulders and spin her around. A kiss on the lips.

“Jesus, you scared me.” Azi laughed. Kam beamed at her.

“What did I tell you?” Azi smiled back.

“You were right, it was just that easy. How did you distract him?” “I rang him and told him I was outside the front door and needed money.” “Our front door?” Azi laughed. “How did he take that?” Kam grimaced. “Not well. He told me not to come to his “place of work” , I just played dumb. He’s gonna kill me when he comes home I’d say.” His face erupted into a smile again. “Oh well, worth it! How does freedom taste?” “Mhm sickly sweet. Think I need to wash this taste out of my mouth.” They laughed, linked hands and walked down the quiet, leafy streets of Department 1. They strolled through upper-class suburbia in the direction of the night district. Large walled villas gave way to storefronts, and bright street lamps were replaced with warmer yellow ones. More people appeared on the streets, milling from bar to bar. Kam took Azi into a quiet looking spot and they sat at a booth in the corner. They talked and laughed and drank, but as the night went on Azi couldn’t help but glance around the lowly lit bar. Kam touched her wrist. “You okay?” “I’m fine. It’s just a bit overwhelming - I’ve never been in a bar before.” “You don’t say?” “Shut up.” She pushed him, laughing. “I just keep imagining Ascot going to my room and finding it empty.” “He won’t - how many times has he ever opened your door?” “Okay, never.” Kam peered at her from over his glass. “You don’t like him very much do you?” “I do! He’s just a bit.. wooden. You’re not very alike, you and him.” “He’s just like that around you lot. Takes his job very seriously.” “Well he doesn’t have to be, not much happens in our house.” Kam looked away, picking at the rough wooden table. “I don’t think you get it. Guarding a senator’s house - that is a good gig. A hell of a lot better than going outside.” Azi’s finger circled the rim of her glass. “Dad was saying there’s been trouble.” Kam took a sip. “There’s always trouble. They don’t tell you how much trouble. Half the guys in my intake know someone who's been killed.” “Doesn’t that scare you?” Kam swallowed the rest of his drink. “It doesn’t matter. It's the best option so I’ll do what I have to.” “You don’t have to be a soldier Kam, you could be -” Kam slapped the table and shook his head. “No. You can’t just go and do whatever you want. I’m lucky I can be a soldier. A lot of people would kill to be a soldier.” He sighed.

“I know it might not look like it from Department 1, but some people in this city are just scraping by.” His eyes trailed away, Azi gripped onto her glass tightly. “Okay, so show me.” Kam’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you mad? It’s bad enough I brought you here.” “You sit here and lecture me cause I don’t know anything. So show me. I want to see it, I want to know what the city’s really like.” “No way, Dad would kill me.” “I think we’ve already crossed that line.” Kam exhaled and checked his watch. “You know what - okay fine. It’s early. We’ll go for a quick walk around the Lip.” He pointed a long finger at her. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The noise struck Azi the most. Noise from every direction. Revellers roared aimlessly and swayed across her path. She glanced down dark alleyways from which escaped sounds of heated tones. She heard lives being played out above her in the screams and laughter that reverberated down from yellow bedsits. And all along the road engines rumbled hungrily as they belched out diesel fumes into the hurried night. She stumbled through, stunned, gripping onto Kam’s hand for guidance. They rounded a corner and walked away from the frenetic mainstreet.

“Satisfied?” She nodded her head. “I think I need a drink.” They looked across the road to a bar with low purple lamps hanging above the entrance. A burly man stared back at them. “We’ll chance it.” Kam took her arm and they crossed the road. He whispered something to the bouncer and Azi saw him slip money into his hand. The bouncer raised his eyebrows and opened the door. They walked through and down a set of stairs. Loud music vibrated through the basement. The air was heavy with dim smoke and people drifted through a labyrinth of rooms. They found the bar and looked around, Azi grabbed Kam’s arm. “I don’t like it here.” She mouthed it at him as a scantily clad thin woman with sunken eyes glided past. Kam nodded in agreement. “Me neither, we’ll go somewhere else.” As they turned to leave some figures drifted out of the mist. Azi felt her heart plunge, a jolt through her nerves. She saw two young hollow-eyed girls gripping the waists of a man she did not recognise, and her father. His head turned in slow motion and she saw his face drop from laughter to shock and then guilt. Azi spun around and heaved Kam away. They ran upstairs into the night and back towards her house.

They were panting by the time they reached her street. They stopped to catch their breath. Kam put his hands on his head. “Oh fuck this is bad.This is bad . Do you think he recognised us?” “I don’t know. I think so.” “Oh fuck. ” Kam rubbed his eyes. “I think I need to tell my dad.” She touched his shoulder. “Look, maybe it’s not as bad as we think - my friends sneak out all the time.” “No, no, no, this is not good. You’re meant to be at home, not out at night. Definitely not out there and definitely not with me .” “Kam I’m going to talk to him when he’s back, I’ll be able to talk to him.” “We just saw him with a twenty year old hooker! How well do you really think you know him now?” Azi stood with her mouth open. Kam continued. “He probably has some boy already picked out for you. I have fucked this. We’re going to be exiled.” His words hung in the air a moment. Azi took hold of him by the shoulders. “Look, you’ll be fine. Let me just explain it to him. I’ll tell him it was my idea, that I forced you to bring me.” Kam stared at the ground shaking his head. “Give me a better option.” Kam closed his eyes and exhaled. “Tell him my Dad had nothing to do with this. Nothing. ” “I will. Now go and ring your Dad and tell him you lost your keys so I can sneak back in.” Kam made the diversion and Azi slipped into the house. She lay on her bed and felt tiredness overwhelm her. She closed her eyes and she saw images of her father. Questions swam around her in head as she drifted asleep. The morning light woke her up. A dry mouth and a dull throbbing behind the eyes. Azi recounted the events of the evening and her nerves returned. She heaved herself out of bed and gingerly stepped down into the kitchen. She found her father sitting at the table writing in his notebook.

“I thought you weren’t back until Sunday.” He looked up at her from underneath his brow and continued writing. She got a glass of water and downed the contents. She heard footsteps echoing from the hall and turned to see an unfamiliar man in guard’s uniform.

“Your mail Sir.”

The man set letters on the table beside her father. “Thank you Quinn.” “Sir.” He turned and left. Azi stared at the door he left through. “Dad, who is that?” Her father continued writing. “Dad, where is Ascot?” Her father said nothing. “Where the fuck is Ascot?” She shouted. Her father snapped his pen down on the table. “‘Where is Ascot?’ Where were you last night?” “I could ask you the same question!” Her father sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Ascot was tasked with keeping you safe. He failed in his duties and so he is no longer with us. End of.” Azi gaped at him blankly. “What about Kam?” He picked up his pen and went back to his journal. “What about Kam Dad?” Azi screamed and flung her glass at the wall beside him where it exploded with a shatter. Her father stood up. “Quinn, come here!”


The Dancer entreats the audience with a blossoming left hand, and although the blazing lights at stage’s edge render invisible the bedazzled masses, She feels the silence, the moment of transit, when observer becomes one with the Dance, believes the doors have opened to a universe of possibilities. With one inviting gesture, The Dancer has become the Conductor of Dreams… Her fingers pause. A double-tap, and a blue nail hovers over the keyboard. It descends, and all begins again… ** “These mitigating circumstances,” Curtis murmured. “Whyn’t you explain them to me?” It was the first time Professor Saanvi Deshpande had met Detective Mead on his own turf. Curtis settled back in his Obama-era Office Depot seat, fingers templed, and mirrored her serenity. “Daria’s intent was entirely self-destructive. The unloaded weapon was newly purchased, from whom she will not disclose, for the express purpose of ending her life. That it fell from her backpack in the middle of a campus rally was an unfortunate accident that no doubt saved her life.” “And why would she want to blow her brains out? Blonde and beautiful, according to you a near-perfect GPA, daughter of some rich Chicago writer.” What Curtis didn’t say hung in volumes between the West Side cop and the Mumbai-born arts department head. “And what’s your interest in all this?” “Daria’s mother, Olivia, was once a faculty colleague, before rising to prominence as a brilliant abstract artist. Her foray into children’s illustration and eventually literature was an attempt, I believe, to connect with Daria.” “That worked out,” Detective Mead opined. “That is the crux of my, ah, mitigation,” Saanvi sighed. “I’m afraid Olivia created the tragic circumstances that have led us here.” “And how is that?” “She showed Daria the future. Her future.” Curtis had learned in Saanvi’s company to suspend a certain level of belief, scissors poised. “You mean that figuratively.” “Materially.” “I’m not sure you understand ‘figuratively.’” “Olivia quite literally created Daria’s future. Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray ?” “Think I dodged that bullet. But yeah, Oscar Wilde, magical painting, some lame-ass moral about vanity and narcissism…” “You have so perfectly captured its essence,” Saanvi nodded. “Would you like to accompany me to a showing?” ** The Dancer catches his eye, or he catches hers, over a display of Galas and Braeburns and Honeycrisps. Her skills are known to a select few, and although excepting a courageous few who approach the apron with an appreciative token they are faceless, She simply knows. The sturdy woman with him glances up from the Bartletts, and she trades a sharp nod and a perfunctory smile even as her husband retreats to the Russets and Vidalias… With a breathy curse, she snags the Kroger bag next to the laptop. The fruit spills to the tiles, one rolling into the darkness beyond the kitchenette. Repeating her curse with strengthened commitment, she plucks the nearest apple with a slight stitch in her side, wipes it furiously with her tee, and snaps an angry chunk from it. She closes the laptop with exaggerated care. It had been a mistake, tonight, and she now can’t focus on the work. Her own mocking laughter is jarring. “Yeah,” she retorts. “ That’s the problem.” ** “Shit,” Curtis exhaled. “A viscerally astute assessment,” Saanvi said, elbow-to-elbow before the painting. “Olivia had quite a talent for expressionist reality.” The lovely young woman was poised in some meadow likely of Olivia’s imaginings, before an easel anchored into the prairie grass, gaze lasered on a fawn poised on the horizon, brush gripped in a raised left hand. The only apparent imperfection were the eyes, unnaturally large and cornflower blue. But as both Detective Mead and Saanvi knew, the portrait’s perfection lie in that single “flaw.” “Creepy,” Curtis amplified. Professor Deshpande understood: The cop had seen those huge, nearly unreal, utterly dead blue orbs in a guarded hospital room, after a cadre of students slammed her instinctively to the rainbow-chalked concrete of Tillson Union Plaza. The Pulse shootings, the recent beat down at Illinois State, the election year polarity that crackled even on academic ground – the cuffs were applied to Daria’s hospital bed and the social media damage done even as the Student LGBTQ Coalition surged forward to vet one of their own. Saanvi had spent a semester under Daria’s silent, sullen, ultimately deferential examination as the teen sized up her mother-appointed mentor. “So,” Curtis continued, scanning the nearly barren campus-adjacent apartment, “Mom thought this would be motivational ? Saw your friend’s stuff in Chicago one time – thought she didn’t do people any more. I mean, this is, like, amazing. Graduation gift?” “Birthday,” Saanvi clarified with a new sobriety. “Well, pre-birthday. Olivia painted this 18 years ago.” “Shit,” Curtis reiterated.  ** “The state’s attorney says you get some court-supervised counseling, she’ll recommend probation on an illegal weapons charge,” Curtis told Daria as the uniform hesitantly removed the cuff from her freckled wrist. The young woman looked to Saanvi, who smiled encouragingly. “Thing is, Ms. Cray, and your mom agrees, the hospital wants to keep you for a few more days.” Daria smirked knowingly, her freed right hand locating the bed control. “So I don’t walk into an Amtrak, right? I’m 18, so I’ll sign whatever you want if you tell her to just stay home. Can I talk to Professor Deshpande before they cart me up to the loony bin? I mean, like alone?” Curtis nodded, and tapped the patrolman’s arm. “Be at the nurse’s station. Looks like they got some Krispy Kremes.” “I figure you probably did that, so thanks,” Daria said, working at a smile. Her large blue eyes were bloodshot, and, to Saanvi’s discerning view, fearful. “For everything. You know I just suck at the art thing, and I’m a royal fuckup. For example, this shit.” “We won’t belabor all the inaccuracies in that evaluation, but I think perhaps this counseling will be of great benefit to you. And your mother is deeply concerned for your wellbeing, though I assured her I’d look after you until you’re ready for her.” “That may be forever. That fucking picture…” The teen turned abruptly to the window. “Daria?” “Look,” Daria said, almost inaudibly. “I didn’t want that cop guy to think I was any crazier than, well, than I fucking am, but last night?” Saanvi placed a hand on her arm, and the cornflower eyes locked with hers. “I could have been dreaming, the shit they gave me, but I don’t think so. I saw her.” “Your mother?” “Me,” Daria snapped. “The other one. Future me.”

** The Radiology waiting room was the emptiest at mid-afternoon, so they reconvened there with two cups of truly institutional brew. “The notion of preternaturally endowed objects is widely held across cultures. Haitian Vodou offers probably the best-known example. A drawing of the subject or the notorious ‘voodoo’ doll is said to possess the power to affect or even control that individual’s health or fortunes or, if we subscribe to B horror movies or poorly written ‘60s situation comedies, inflict pain. “Some indigenous African and American cultures employ masks, statues, sand paintings, or totem carvings with generally more positive, protective intent, and the mandelas and sacred thangka paintings of Tibetan Buddhism are used in meditation and healing rituals.” “Mm,” Det. Mead nodded. “I’m only leading from my particular wheelhouse. But these are longstanding traditions, and for good reasons, be they mystical or merely psychological. Are you familiar with Obeah? Another Caribbean practice, this time intended to manipulate or extort a subject. Certain herbs and plants used in Obeah rituals or potions, like mandrake root and belladonna, have psychoactive effects, and combined with spells, use of a target’s personal belongings or hair or nails, and significant or frightening object placed near the subject’s home instill a sense of unease or terror, making it easier to control decisions or coerce money.” “I’m more accustomed to bullets through windshields or dead cats artfully placed hung on trailer doors,” Curtis noted. “You got anything maybe, I don’t know, just a little less Mulder and Scully?” Saanvi nodded pleasantly. “We could look at this from an alternate perspective, if you’d prefer.” “Believe I would.” “Van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Picasso, Pollock struggled with potentially debilitating depression, addiction, anxiety, hallucinations, psychotic episodes, or bipolar manifestations that instead informed their work. Pollock’s chaotic energy, Munch’s nightmarish ‘The Scream,’ and, well, Picasso’s surreal and shifting artistic phases. Creativity and dysfunction – one might say they go hand-in-glove.” Saanvi’s lips abruptly clamped into a Giaconda smile, and the cop studied her silently for a moment. “So you think your friend Olivia may be a little insane in the membrane?” Professor Deshpande grinned with a waggling finger. “I’m not so certain. Your brilliant young colleague, the forensic virtuoso. Christina? Has she returned to duty yet?” “Call her Chris if you value your life. But yeah, against department orders, under threat of civil action. Restricted to the lab until her utterly futile maternity ‘leave’ is over.” “That’s where I need her expertise,” Saanvi said. “I’d be interested, as well, to learn the findings of any psychological evaluation of Daria.” “You can take on the department easier than you can HIPAA. What’re you hoping to find?” “Not certain. There appear to be two possible sides to this equation – the psychology of the artist, and the psychology and perhaps physiology of the subject. As you can see in Munch and Picasso’s works, psychoses and bipolar disorder can manifest in a number of anomalies. Figures may have unusually large heads, elongated limbs, or disproportionate torsos, or be broken into disjointed pieces, possibly reflecting a fragmented view of reality. Intense, clashing colors can indicate emotional turmoil, where inclusion of surreal or symbolic elements such as eyes in unnatural locations or abstract shapes, might reflect the artist’s inner thoughts and emotions. If certain shapes or motifs are repeated obsessively, the creator may be laboring under a driving fixation or compulsion.” “Welcome to The Night Gallery ,” Curtis intoned in a creditable Rod Serling. “Sorry, got a streaming addiction. So, the first thing grabs me are the eyes. Girl’s just this side of those tacky old paintings of the kids with the creepy big eyes.” “Margaret Keane, often referred to as the ‘Wayne Newton of the art world’ and famously exploited by her husband Walter in the Sixties. Walter purportedly was attracted to Margaret by her own large eyes, so one assumes her work was to some extent reflective. But one wonders what other forces may have been at play. In portraits by artists with bipolar or psychotic tendencies, large, exaggerated eyes, may reflect heightened emotions, paranoia, or simply an intense focus on perception and observation. “Now, there are psychological explanations for the eerily prescient nature of the picture of Daria Cray. Many adolescents today suffer Body Dysmorphic Disorder – obsession with self-perceived flaws in their appearance fueled by social media and bullying. BDD can lead to excessive grooming, eating disorders, even cosmetic surgery. Like extreme epicanthoplasty and eyelid surgery to create the appearance of Barbie- or anime-style eyes. I asked Olivia if Daria has had any such procedure, and she argued she’d never allow such self-mutilation.” “Fucking mom of the year,” Curtis grunted. “Sick enough she’d hang that thing in the girl’s room. What’d she expect might happen?” “Artists often have unorthodox expectations,” Saanvi commented. “But to return to point, there also are organic explanations for Daria’s unusual features. Waardenburg Syndrome is a genetic mutation more prevalent in Northern Europe that can produce wide-set, larger-than-usual eyes. And Waardenburg can manifest in a child of non-Waardenburg parents. “The other genetic possibility is congenital glaucoma, which can make the eyes appear larger due to intraocular pressure. Olivia shows no classic symptoms, and I saw no typical indicators in Daria, either. But I imagine your Chris could address either possibility, possibly with the use of the University’s Biomedicine Department sequencing technology.” “Shit, you sound like her ,” Curtis grinned. “We are rumored to be the future,” Professor Deshpande intimated. She then paused. “Uh oh,” the detective suggested. “Quite possibly,” Saanvi said. ** Saanvi was suspended over the city, near the summit of a round glassed tower jutting dangerously from the East Loop. Here in the stratosphere – or as a colleague had once coined, the statusphere – she kept her eyes locked on her host, but Olivia Cray’s green orbs meandered from Lake Michigan to the Sears Tower to the Lake Shore traffic seemingly a mile below. Anywhere but the small woman sipping oolong under a Pollock original.

“I told a friend yesterday we artists frequently harbor unorthodox expectations,” the professor commented. “Of the world, of ourselves, of those we hold dear and those we simply hold onto.” “You’re an administrator, hardly an artist.” The retort was calm, sullen, Olivia now staring imperiously, framed by the wispy cumuli seemingly within grasp. Saanvi willed herself to maintain the connection. “What were your expectations? Of Daria, that is? Or were they yours?” “I have a reception at the Palmer in three hours. I’m sorry about the cheap shot. I know you’re trying to support Daria. I simply don’t understand how.” “Olivia, my friend has secured DNA results.” The painter gripped the arms of her Roche Bobois. “I didn’t consent to anything like that. And I’m hoping you didn’t broach anything to Daria – she’s experienced enough trauma without...” “The truth? Olivia, you are correct. I am an administrator, an academic, an expert of sorts on what and how and why others create. Pour me a bit more tea, if you would.” Olivia rose and reached for the Michael Aram pot, then froze. “Yes, the right hand. Do you believe I wouldn’t be able to discern that Daria’s portrait was the work of a left-handed artist? The stroke direction and pressure, the slight smudging at points typical of one working left to right. Your signature nonetheless is right-handed. “The few smudges were efficiently but inexpertly repaired, which seem to indicate a skilled but inexperienced artist. Perhaps a student? More importantly, Daria, like you, is a right-hander. And that brings me to the one rational explanation for this precognitive portrait, this vision of the idealized Daria to which your daughter aspired and ultimately surrendered. It is a self-portrait, of a young woman with Daria’s eyes. She must have been very special to you.” Now, Olivia refilled her cup. “Not particularly, but this was the deal.” The artist bolted the searing tea, as if in penance. “I wanted a child, she’d been knocked up, and her parents disowned her when she switched to an arts major. I could solve both her problems and buy her confidence. Using a sophomore student as a surrogate might not have gone over with the administration. And she showed tremendous potential, so I continued to mentor her over a convenient sabbatical. “So we’re in the final trimester, and she’s been working on some project she didn’t want me to see. I come home to it one night, hanging in the new nursery. And she gives me an ultimatum. She’ll surrender rights to Daria, but she wants a ‘presence’ in her life. She’d keep her mouth shut, but it was to stay on Daria’s wall until the day I decided to tell her the truth. She had leverage, so I simply signed it as my own and presented it as Daria’s future – as a happy, beautiful young woman.” Olivia laughed harshly. “The DNA test. The left-handedness. Was that bullshit?” For the first time, Saanvi stared out over the lake shore, at the Navy Pier ferris awaiting beautiful, happy children, and felt only the slightest frisson of vertigo. “Simply a bit of precognitive creativity.” ** The Dancer steps lithely out of the oasis of pink and aqua as if emerging from a luminous sea onto a dark and clattering shore. She dismisses the acclaim, the clamor that follow her offstage and strides briskly past those now returned to the dock. She is the Captain of the... The Siren of … what, the Briny Deep? “Fuck,” The Dancer growls as she shoulders into the tiny room that is hers alone Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The laptop is still open on the makeup table, its blank white screen taunting her and her abortive metaphors. The tiny woman in the folding chair beyond offers a kind smile, as if in compensation. The intruder doesn’t seem rattled by her nudity, which in this venue should make Carlie wary but somehow reassures her. Carlie nonetheless slips on the outsized terry cloth robe supplied by management. “This thing, whatever it is? No.” The woman, on the handsome side of 45 or 50, Indian or maybe Pakistani, put together with a modest flair, smiles more broadly. She nods toward the Dell. “You are a writer, as well?” “As well as this?” Carlie challenges. “The creative soul finds an outlet,” her guest murmurs. “Whether putting words and experience to paper or pouring athleticism and interpretive prowess into the dance. Or committing heart and soul to canvas.” “Shit,” Carlie whispers. “I know you.” “Professor Deshpande. I once worked with Olivia Cray.” The Dancer drops onto a case of bottom shelf tequila that has aged negligently since the Country Cabana’s third post-COVID reopening . “Probably had you for a class. How is Professor Cray--? Oh, shit. Of course, you know. How is Daria?” “She has suffered the crushing weight of a lifelong delusion, perpetuated by Professor Cray.” “The fuck did Olivia do?” The question is rimed with permafrost. “I shall tell you, if you’d be good enough to walk me to my car,” the professor offers. “And perhaps accompany me back into town. You know how to find St. Mark’s, am I right? Daria’s photo was all over Facebook and Instagram, and you felt compelled to investigate. This time, I think Daria would like to meet you for real. Needs to, I should say.” “Gimme about 15. I’m not really dressed for it.”


Red Sand What else can go wrong? Life lately has been crappy. Get a grip ! Its’ only a popsicle ! As I’m staring down at the melting red popsicle lying on the ground, I can feel my heart beating way faster than it should be for such a trivial event. The popsicle had obviously gotten soft while I walked down the beach in the heat. After finding a spot to sit , taking the wrapper off, it had just fallen off  the wooden stick as soon as I went to take my first bite. Now it lay there on the sand, taunting me. It’s hot. Real hot , early August hot, hot and humid. Just wanted to give myself a little treat and think about things a bit. Even that isn’t going as planned. Looking up the beach to the crowded sandy area, I feel isolated, having walked past all the people and finding a seat on a large rock by some drift wood.

Looking down at the slowly melting popsicle making a red blob on the sand at my feet, I can’t help thinking about the past few weeks.

So , Nick my jerk of an ex-boyfriend was seeing someone else while we were dating. Wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t moved here to be with him. Found a job, found a place to live and 2 weeks later all I get is a casual “ I’ve been seeing someone else, you okay with that?”. Nope, not okay with that. What to do ? Do I stay ? I like my new job, like my apartment and l like the small town with its touristy attractions and constant parade of people stopping to take in the local scenery. Moving away from home was a big thing. Sure, I knew there would be some difficulties and struggles just not such a major upset so soon after my move. It just seemed that everything was conspiring against me the last number of weeks. I had thought my moving would fix that something that was missing in my relationship with Nick. Maybe I had known all along we weren’t that great together. A picture of Grandma popped into my head and her words to me right before I left. “ Everything happens for a reason” she had said. “You have to keep your mind open to all things and look for the good that can happen” So, think positive. Try some new stuff.  Going to stay, avoid Nick and build a new life. Out with the old and in with the new and all that stuff. Having made the decision to stay, I need to make some plans, perhaps pursue my desire to sing while I’m waitressing at the local restaurant. Always loved to sing, everyone back home said I had a good voice. Mostly I just liked to sing. Sitting in the sunshine on a warm afternoon, anything seemed possible. Looking down at the now half melted popsicle, I hear some snuffling and a beautiful chocolate lab comes across some rocks, sniffs the air a couple times and comes right up to me. He looks me right in the face then down at the popsicle melting on the ground. “Hey boy, help yourself if you don’t mind a bit of sand” I tell him. The dog licks at the popsicle until he gets the blob in his mouth, he makes a loud gulping sound as he swallows the blob, then licks his lips a few times and sits down. He wiggles his rear end a few times until he is comfortable between rocks and sticks, then just looks up the beach, panting in the hot sun. I am glad for the companionship. Maybe I should get a dog, I think. I like dogs. I wonder who you belong to ? Where is your owner? The dog and I sit in the hot sun, I tentatively reach out to stroke his sand covered fur. He glances at me as I touch him and leans in to me a bit so I can pet him easier, then his eyes go back to the crowded beach as if he is searching or waiting for something or someone. A few minutes have gone by and the dogs body goes rigid and he focuses on a man coming up the beach. His tail thumps on the ground a few times, but he does not move. The man looks to be mid twenties, about my age I think as I watch him come closer. He spots the dog and gives a whistle, “Max, here boy” he calls out. The dog still doesn’t move, just continues to pant and thumps his tail on the sand. The man has a puzzled look on his face, then walks a bit faster toward the dog and I. Probably thinks I am holding on to him or something. Not bad looking, I think as he gets closer. Taller than I, medium build with nicely muscled arms, clean shaven with dark hair and as he comes to a stop in front of me, I notice the rich dark brown eyes. “Hi, that’s my dog” he says looking down at me, his eyes slowly travelling up the length of my body from my sandal clad feet to my shoulder length blond hair. From the look on his face, I think he likes what he sees. “He came for a visit, he likes popsicles” I reply not knowing what else to say. “Max didn’t take yours I hope. Funny, he usually comes right back when I call him. I’m Jason “the man said sticking out his hand. “No, mine landed down there before he showed up” I said pointing down at the red sand where the popsicle had landed. Jason’s eyes followed to where I was pointing. “I’m Sally” I say as I slowly stand up and take Jason’s hand. Jason gives me a big smile, “Well, Sally. Max looks like he could use another popsicle on this hot day. Would you like to join us ? My treat” he says with a wink. As I nod yes to this handsome man, I can’t help but think of my Grandma’s words that “everything happens for a reason” Even a popsicle melting in the sand.


The world is an absurd, anomalous, nonsensical place. The only part of the universe for billions of miles apparently capable of consciousness, and it’s all concentrated on this little wet rock that through the sheer statistical necessity of an infinite universe, happens to have all the goods needed for carbon-based life as we know it. Yes, Humanity, in all its glory, is the only part of the universe capable of observing itself, and we have only been here for a mere fraction of a fraction of a percent of the entire age of the universe. For all we know, it could end tomorrow. All it would take would be one orange-haired, argumentative, uneducated world-leader to decide that nuclear is the only option and then mutually assured destruction would wipe us out of existence just as quickly as we crawled out of our primordial goo. But enough doom and gloom, let’s introduce the protagonist of this story, Ernest John Griggs. Ernie was a simple American man, your “Average Joe” of sorts. He was born in a suburban Midwest town, raised in the church (though that certainly didn’t stick,) and was educated in the public school system. He was an ignorant teenage boy throughout high school, and was lucky enough to attend college, where he was able to gain a bit of self awareness and learn a few things about that wet rock he was living on with the rest of humanity. College was also where he discovered his love for Science, and where he discovered he was not nearly as intelligent as his ignorant high-school self had believed. You see, anyone who choses to master the sciences eventually comes to realize the impossibility of this task; as we humans simply are not evolved for it. That, or they go on to study theology, where they can truly have all the answers they seek, without the need for that pesky critical thinking. Anyways, to put things plainly: Ernest was a man of science, not of faith. It was this very fact that plagued him throughout his adult life. For when you are a person of science, you must rely only on what you can empirically observe before you can draw any conclusions, and one such thing that has yet to be observed is any sort of afterlife. And without any data (aside from anecdotes) to support the hypothesis of an afterlife, one naturally concludes the worst, that their very existence will come to an end one day. They will not see what great things humanity will go on to achieve (like mutually assured destruction,) and their entire existence will one day be forgotten, as though they never existed. This logic is what caused dear Ernie most of his stress in life, and ultimately what led to his demise. Now Ernest had always taken comfort in the idea that while there was no evidence of an afterlife, that did not necessarily mean it was impossible. At least that was what he told himself. Unfortunately, that comfort was fleeting, as his existential terror always seemed to win out, and it wore on him like Colorado River wore out the Grand Canyon. It caused him so much stress in fact, that despite his healthy diet and active lifestyle, at the age of 23, he had a fatal heart attack. It was cruel luck really, he had always prided himself on his health, an avid runner and plant-based eater, he hoped it would secure him at least a few more years than his fellow average American. Alas, he could not fight the overwhelming stress of his existential dread, and as he returned home from an uneventful 5 mile run, he was suddenly overcome with that seizing, tightness in his chest that was so characteristic of a stress-induced myocardial infarction. In his last moments before he lost consciousness, Ernest momentarily realized the situation he was in, and that he would soon be dead. As he collapsed to the floor in his entryway, front door still ajar, he muttered his last thoughts aloud, “Oh fuck.” For Ernie, everything went dark.


I’ll pick up your prescription after work tomorrow and drop it off about 5. Neville was a slow texter, but also one who believed in correct punctuation. He re-read the message he’d typed, pressed ‘Send” and put the phone down on the countertop. At that moment the lights in his cramped kitchen dimmed. Then he heard a wooshing noise, like wind through trees, faintly at first but growing louder. Glancing through the window, the blue sky was dotted with a just a few white clouds, and the sun was casting long shadows. It didn’t look windy. Then he decided the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from above. As he looked up at the off-white and slightly stained ceiling it grew louder. If he had turned on his TV it would have drowned out Netflix. And just as suddenly, it stopped. The kitchen light came back on. But rather than silence, he could hear a man’s voice coming through from above. He appeared to be barking orders. Something about “Try harder,” and “Experiment”. That was odd, because in all the time he’d lived in his apartment he’d never heard a man upstairs before. The screen lit up on his phone. Neville picked it up to see seven text messages waiting for his attention. The first one said “ I wont be back from Scrabble Club until 6 ”. The subsequent six were increasingly terse versions of “ Did you get my text? ” He typed back, “ Yes mother, I’ll see you at 6. ” Then he went back to preparing his salmon salad dinner, with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc on the side. * Two evenings later the curious incident was repeated, albeit with minor variations. It was after nine and Neville was deep into a Ken Burns documentary on Prohibition – good background for teaching his Seniors about the buildup to the Great Depression he thought – when the lights dimmed and the TV went off. Then the wind-like noise started coming through the ceiling again, softly at first but then increasing in volume. Neville scowled upwards. This time though there was shouting, or maybe screaming was more accurate. Then the staccato ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun. Neville leapt to his feet, adrenaline setting his heart racing. The light he’d been watching TV by grew bright again and his TV came back on. Then came the distinct booming of cannon fire, followed by explosions and screams. “Are they deaf up there?” he asked out loud. More shouting, indistinct but sounding like orders or instructions being barked. Muttering under his breath, Neville grabbed his keys, stepped into the hallway, and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. Arriving at 917, he raised his hand to knock on the door, only to realize he could still hear shouts and screams. He shook his head and knocked. No answer, but then the sounds faded away, as if the volume had been turned down. Always one to avoid a confrontation, Neville turned to walk away, only to hear the door open behind him. He turned around to see the apartment’s occupant standing in the doorway. A slight woman in her late 30s, shoulder length blonde hair, frazzled and uncombed, glasses sliding down her nose, jeans and a black tee-shirt with E=mc 2 emblazoned on the front. “Did you want something?” she asked. Neville took a step closer. “Well yes,” he began hesitantly. “I live underneath you, and well it’s about your TV.” “My TV?” she frowned. I don’t own a TV.” Now it was Neville who frowned. “Well I was hearing a lot of noise, gunshots, and I thought, I wondered…” “Oh.” She said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry about that. I was um, I was watching a movie and you know how loud…” Neville cut her off: “But you said you haven’t got a TV.” “Did I? Well no, yes. Well I had the radio up loud. I’m very sorry, I won’t let it happen again.” “I’d appreciate that.” They looked at each other for a moment, before both spoke at once. “Well I’m sorry to have bothered…” “Well have a good …” Neville stepped forward and held out his hand. “Neville Mathers.” She took his hand limply in her and gave it a barely perceptible shake. “Annalie Jennings.” “Well it was nice to meet you.” “It was nice to meet you too,” she said, “And I’ll try to keep the noise down in future.” * The following Tuesday, Neville was sitting up in bed marking essays when it happened a third time. First the lamp on his nightstand grew dim and then the wind began to blow through Annalie’s apartment upstairs. He put the papers down and looked up at the ceiling. As before, the wind sound grew louder, and then suddenly stopped. His lamp returned to full intensity and through the ceiling he could hear men’s voices. They were arguing, but in a rational, debating manner rather than as if tempers were fraying. Listening carefully, Neville thought he could make out several distinct voices, all male, judging by their deep tones. That was strange, because until the previous incident he’d not noticed the apartment upstairs receiving male visitors before, and certainly not late in the evening. He continued listening, trying to make out what they were debating. The language they were using was English, but it seemed strangely formal and outdated. There were lots of references to “esteemed gentlemen” and “landowners” and then “clauses” and “articles”. To Neville, steeped in US history, it sounded as though they were recreating the Constitutional Convention. And then the voices faded away. * Wednesday morning Neville was a few minutes late leaving his apartment. His mother had been texting again, this time about a Doctor’s appointment, and if he didn’t reply promptly she’d be badgering him all morning. The elevator door opened and he stepped in. His attention was on his phone so he didn’t see Annalie standing at the back of the small space. “It’s Neville isn’t it?” He looked up quickly, eyes opening wide. “Annalie! Good morning, how are you?” “Fine thank you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you anymore.” Neville thought for a moment, “Well um…” “Oh I have! Oh I’m so sorry. I really try not, but I just can’t control…” her voice tapered off. The bell dinged to say they’d reached the first floor and door slid open. Neville stood back against the wall to let Annalie exit first. Once out, she turned to wait for him. They began speaking at the same time. “The weird thing is,” Neville began. “I don’t want to seem forward,” she said, then, “No, go on.” Neville smiled. “Well this is going to sound silly, but last night it sounded like the Constitutional Convention was taking place in your apartment.” Annalie’s jaw dropped slightly before she answered. “Oh! Well I’m not sure… goodness, how odd.” “Ridiculous, I know, but history is my thing. Anyway,” he continued, “What did you want to say?” “Well I just wondered if, seeing as we’re neighbors, you’d like to have coffee sometime.” For a moment Neville thought his heart had stopped. “Well I, well yes, that would be great.” And moments later they had agreed a day and time to meet at the coffee shop around the corner from their building. * How was the date? Neville knew it had been a mistake to mention it to his mother the moment he’d sent the text. But if he hadn’t she’d probably have fired off another salvo while they were sipping their lattes. “ It was good, ” he typed back. Well she didn’t need to know all the details. “ We’re having dinner tonight. ” Oh wow where r u taking her Actually, she’s cooking. * At 7 prompt Neville knocked on the door of 917. He’d put a plaid sports coat on over a plain white shirt and black slacks. In his arms he was carrying a bouquet and a bottle of wine. Annalie opened the door looking flustered, glasses halfway down her nose and a patterned apron covering a plain gray sheath dress. She looked him up and down, and he did the same to her. “Come in,” she said, stepping back, “Sorry about the mess.” Neville stepped in and looked around. The apartment was identical to his in layout, but whereas his was ordered with a specific mid-century décor going on – thrift shop furniture – hers looked more like the laboratory of a mad scientist. Open shelving lined one wall, with books stacked in various places between disassembled electronic pieces, black and white plastic with small screens and wires sticking out. On the floor below the shelves sat a row of black boxes, each with a thick cable emerging from the side. There was more shelving on the other wall, but with a desk under a giant monitor and in front of it, a high-backed computer gaming chair. Pushed up against the third wall, under the window, was a table with two place settings. But in the center of the room, in the place where most people might put a couch and coffee table, was something he’d never seen before. Four posts stood at the corners of a square rubber mat approximately six foot across, and each post was about six feet high. Thick cables emerged from under rugs to run up the posts. At the top they disappeared into the backs of large cones, almost like those on the early, “His Master’s Voice” gramophones, and each cone pointed downwards and into the center of the square. Annalie came over and relieved Neville of the gifts he’d brought. “I know it looks a bit weird. It’s a side project I’m working on.” Neville followed her into the kitchen. “Something to do with your work at the University?” You said you’re in the Physics Department?” “Why don’t you open the wine,” she said, handing him two glasses. “I think there’s a corkscrew in one of the drawers.” She’d made a very passable Coq au Vin, and she made great conversation over dinner, but Neville couldn’t stop looking at the contraction dominating the small room. As he emptied the last of the wine into their glasses he had to ask. “This, this thing… is it responsible for noises I hear sometimes?” Annalie pushed her chair away from the table. “Well yes, I’m afraid it is.” Neville waited for her to elaborate but at that moment she seemed to prefer silence, so he pushed on.” “Well what is it? Some kind of 3D TV?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Actually yes, kind of. I use it to watch things.” “Like documentaries?” “Well no.” She got up from the table and walked across to the desk. “It’s more of an um, a viewing window, a portal you might say.” Neville shook his head. “But there’s no screen.” “Well no, it’s three dimensional, like you said. Well four dimensional actually. It might be easier if I show you, but you must promise not to let it freak you out and you can’t tell anyone until I’m ready to talk about it publicly.” Neville nodded, and Annalie slid into the chair. She turned on the computer and as it booted up, she pressed some buttons on a box at the side of the keyboard. Immediately, the lights in the room went dim and a low humming started. “It’s charging the capacitors,” she explained, “It needs a lot of power.” The humming grew louder, changing to a blowing wind sound Neville had heard before. She spoke louder now, to be heard over the sound of rushing air. “You teach history. What historical event would you really like to have witnessed?” Neville thought quickly. “Maybe the assignation of JFK?” She nodded, “Okay, when was that, and where?” Neville gave her the exact date, time and location and Annalie typed them into her computer. The wind sound was deafening now. “It’ll stop when I press this,” she shouted, her index finger hovering over the keyboard. “Ready?” Neville nodded and Annalie jabbed the key. Instantly, the roaring wind sound stopped and a black cloud seemed to form in the middle of the room, at the focal point of the four loudspeaker horns. The cloud was dark and swirling, angry looking, and it grew steadily bigger. After a few seconds it was a sphere filling the space defined by the four upright posts, and then it started to clear outwards from its interior. Neville watched open-mouthed as he stared into the space at the center. He was looking down at a wide street from a tall building. People lined the sides and a convoy of cars was heading in one direction. Towards the center of the convoy was a black convertible, two people sat in the back waving. Neville realized what he was watching, what he was about to see. “Pause it,” he said. “I can’t,” Annalie replied, “It’s not a replay. It’s what’s happening.” Neville turned his eyes from the familiar scene to Annalie. “What do you mean?” A shot rang out, echoing off the nearby buildings. People screamed. Jackie climbed back over the trunk of the car to gather the fragments of her husband’s skull. “I’ve opened, I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve opened a portal through space-time to that point and moment. We’re actually there.” The black car raced away out of view. The cloud grew dark in its center again and then shrank back into nothingness. Neville stared at Annalie, incredulous. “So you can go anywhere and see anything?” She nodded. “I think so, yes. But not for long. I’m limited by the power I can store in the capacitors.” “So when I thought I could hear the Constitutional Convention being debated?” “September 7 th , 1787. Well that’s the date I picked to look in. You know, Ben Franklin was so smart.” “The machine gunning and screaming?” “Gettysburg, July 2 nd , 1863.” “It lasted three days but…” She finished his sentence, “You can only see for a limited time.” And added, “And the further away it is the more power it seems to take. My first viewing was Menlo Park laboratory in 1878.” “Edison’s lab. I heard that too. Can they see you when you do this?” “I don’t think so. But you’re the historian. Were there any reports of unusual phenomena around the time of the assassination? And wouldn’t Edison have said something?” Neville stroked his chin slowly. “I don’t recall anything being said on any of those events. But what about seeing the future?” “I’ve not tried that. As a scientist I’m concerned I wouldn’t be able to validate what it shows me. “But you’re curious?” “Well yes. But I wonder if that’s really a good thing to do. I mean, has the future already happened, and if we know what’s in it, aren’t we likely to change what we do to bring about a desired result?” That conjecture awakened an argumentative streak in Neville and they talked long into the night. Neville was intrigued by the possibilities for verifying and perhaps correcting the historical record. He started to list places he wanted to go and things he wanted to see. Annalie found him interesting, with knowledge that complimented her expertise in physics. Eventually, he rose to leave. “Maybe you’d let me cook dinner for you next weekend?” Annalie nodded, “A week today? Sure.” Once he’d gone Annalie sat back down at the chair in front of the desk. Fingers moving slowly over the keyboard, she entered a date and time exactly one week hence. Then she put in the address: her street and building, apartment 817.


Author's Note: I don't really like this story but it's my first step to get back into writing again... so constructive criticism is always appreciated!!! Rosa Mori is Latin for 'dying rose' which you would later make sense of towards the end :) Thank you to Ruth for helping me fix my grammatical errors! We were moving again. My dad had left us to confinement within the empty barriers of that cold, unforgiving room. That room bound me through its dead walls, walls that lay a pale grey as those suitcases were ready to be piled again. The tuft of unruly mundane brown hair found itself tucked behind my reddened ears, careless and lazy, like my brandished soul. Fumbling through my winter coat, I grasped upon my splinted car keys, a metallic red keychain symbolized as a dying heart that lay helplessly, dangling by the rusted copper keys. Locking the door behind as mom cleared away the rest of the empty storage boxes, I slipped into my car, my jolting head ducking its dented red frames, sided with smoky grey. Dirt cracked nails drumming against the tarnished wheel of my beat Honda. The radio recently instilled rambled away as I looked into the rearview mirror, examining any smudged mascara that had gone wrong this morning. Thudding the break with a reflexed foot, I switched at the keyhole that lay filth driven through the splintering decay of the key. I tucked the plastic folder full of overflooding math worksheets under my heavy-hearted arms. I slipped into the brightly lit room; my eyes scanned for a vacant spot within a bustling crowd. They went about their business; without consideration of my existence. It made me wonder how everyone's life could attain such normality: the same schedule, the same routine while mine had to change constantly, trying to fit into the fantasies of mom-- although it was hard to. I plopped down into the far corner of the cafe's tables, pulled over the bright floral printed mask over my chilled face, honeysuckle eyes prying at the entrance, waiting for Darby to promenade in with Mrs Wright striding behind her only daughter. And she did, through the streaking sunlight, the two came inside, abandoning the scrawly streets. "Debbie! I thought this was class cancelled--cause you're moving!", the 10-year-old looked in amusement, a splatter of ebony freckles clouding over the bridge of her nose as she smiled, her crumpled chipped tooth outshining the rest gleefully. I smiled, outpouring warmth elongated from within as I pinched her nose in an attempt to feel like the best tutor in the world. Mrs Wright kept her smile stern, shoving a 50 onto the glossed oak table. "This lesson and the other two lessons are covered. Since you'd be moving soon, Deborah, I decided to add a ten", she muttered before she strode out to her expensive car that waited patiently. A content sigh escaped from my lips, wispy with sharp intakes of unnecessary breaths. I slipped the 50 into my purse before turning back to the grinning girl in front. "Okay, do you want to start with Math or English first?" I pulled out my pencil case and clicked at the pen lamely. "Math, the worst should be the first." she goes on, her eyes drawn to her worksheets with scrawly handwriting that had been gone over with rushed cursive scribbles in inky red. "Wait, I'll get something for you to drink," I called, dusting off at any non-existent crumbs at my overly loose denim jeans that screamed with the worst fashion sense, paired up with a baggy green turtleneck and thick-framed glasses. My hands swiped over to the counter, hands gently going over to the blunt silver to eject a sharp mimicking screech that fell to deaf ears of the young girl at the counter whose hair swept into a neat silky black bun with strands that fell against her powdered cheeks. She looked up, bright-eyed, face full of recognition as I was a usual customer. Every Monday evening, Wednesday afternoon, and Saturday morning, I came in to tutor Darby. As expected, I had become acquaintances with most of the staff. "Oh, uh... Chloe! Pumpkin Spice Latte as usual for me and--for Darby, of course, orange juice would do." I grinned, slipping 5 dollars over the counter. "Sure! Uh, we've lowered the price down, so it'll be $3.45", "Oh! Okay. Just keep the change then", I smiled before returning to the distinctively disorganized table. "Messy aesthetics?" I raised a brow before I slipped into my seat. I went on to mark the sheet put forth by Darby; her forehead scrunched into concentration. Perseverance was the girl's middle name she said after learning the meaning of her new spelling word. "You wanna move onto English now, Darbs? Since you've finished your math?" I said. I handed back her marked sheets, gone over in splotches of red cursives and illusionary numbers. "Hmm? Sure! I don't think I have any questions!" she beamed, shoving the rest of her slovenly math into the pits of her overflowing bag that lay imprinted with ebony zebra markings against the hot pink background, patched with remnants of debris. Inside, crumpled sheets sank to the bottom in a fury of impatient hands who didn't seem to care where her hard work had flooded to its ends. I handed out to her a new list of spelling words as the steamy drink arrived, the drink cooling beneath the milky white cream and bubbling foam that lay decorated with a sift of crushed cinnamon. It was nothing special, but my favourite out of the menu. Darby took her interest in the brimming glass of orange juice before taking a benevolent sip, too large for her mouth to withstand the trickles of salivated orange juice that ran down her chin. The ignorant girl took no notice of this. "Okay... let's try this word out!" I smiled, clicking a mechanical pencil for Darby to use as she stared at her snapped one. "Uh... I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S", she uttered, her pale eyes squeezed into fistfuls of tightly wrapped skin. "Oh! Nice try but, it's wrong. Ir-re-gard-less. Try again!", "I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! Did I do it?" her eyes glinted upon me. "That was better, but it is, I-R-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! You forgot the double 'R', that's all!" I patted her shoulder before taking a milky sip out of the cup that sat, filled to the very top. My eyes skimmed over to the ticking clock that sounded quietly. Everyone sat unaware of the time. Wednesday afternoons always had the least amount of time, probably because Darby would have another class after this. I assumed it was piano lessons. "C'mon, your mom will be here soon, and I have to get home to help finish packing! Wait here and tidy your spot. Finish your juice!" I told her while I took my latte to the counter. "Hey, Nina! Would you mind putting my drink in a paper cup?" I have to get going!" I looked over, neck-craning, to see the girl bringing over a paper cup projecting a green aura of painted leaves, pouring the rest of it skillfully with ease. "Here you go, girl! Have a great time in-- what's that place called again?" she chuckled. Nina was a pit full of laughter and smiles, flaunting with positive vibes. "Pennsylvania, Thanks!" I smiled, grabbing the cup and returning to my table to put away my folders. A burly man with an exotic fiery red moustache and deep green eyes who deemed to look like I had seen him my whole childhood had left a receipt before me it was scooped into my adorned hands, spiking with dirt. 'Barny Beans" was labelled carefully at the top in carefully typed fonts in cursive. "Um, thank you, sir!" I called out, shoving the receipt into my coat's pocket, grabbing my tote, and placing out a pleased pile of notes at the tip. "Do you want to wait outside?" I looked at Darby. She pulled a chunky beanie over her head, grimacing at the fact that she needed to wear it. The wind hit against my pale winter struck face, numbing me of most of my embellishing senses. Stuffing my hands into my pocket, I felt my hand go against something crisp, something new, like paper, not thin like the receipt. Pulling it out, I realised it was an envelope that had trailed into my pocket while I stashed away the tinted bills. I flipped it onto its conjoining side, to see neat cursives, labelled to the irony of my name, "Debbie, my darling" although I had no lover and within was a rose, my favourite deep red rose... but it was dying... gently succumbing...


It’s Thanksgiving. You arrive at your distant relatives’ house after a long, hard semester, give and receive hugs, and all that jazz. But something’s nagging at the back of your mind. You can’t quite recall what, but you remember that you get the exact same feeling every single year at this exact time. It’s probably just the fact that you haven’t seen your family in forever, so you shrug it off. The family gathers in a big circle, holds hands, and prays, thanking their preferred god for the meal they’re about to consume. All seems to go as you remember it going every year, but something still feels wrong. You go up to the kitchen table to construct your plate exactly how you like it, no deviations from the norm whatsoever. Then, you see it. Just off to the right of the Turkey, surrounded by platters of stuffing and homemade cranberry relish, there sits a glass bowl. Inside that glass bowl, there’s a thick, sinister white substance with yellow and orange chunks. You finally see why you’ve been feeling uneasy. You are staring directly at it. The Ambrosia. You immediately pretend to ignore it, picking up the things you like instead. As you make your way to table assigned to your generation, you hear a voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You turn around to see your mother, who has somehow materialized behind you within milliseconds. Wasn’t she talking with her brother about his latest misadventures? How did she get here? You play coy and show her your already completely full plate— Turkey, ham, Hawaiian Roll, green beans, olives, black beans and corn, all around a beautifully crafted mashed potato volcano. There should be nothing wrong with this. All the food groups are present, so what could her issue be? You get a sad feeling as you see her arm sweep in an almost planned-out manner, gesturing to the bowl of that vile, chunky white substance. “What about the Ambrosia?” she asks, feigning polite curiosity in order to hide her clear disapproval. Dammit, you think to yourself, Almost escaped. “But my plate’s already full,” you try to argue. “Aunt Sharon worked long and hard to make this!” she cuts back in, feigning insult. She’s trying to guilt trip you. You don’t stand a chance. There is no avoiding it. You start running through your options… Feign sickness? Not worth skipping dessert. Run outside and hitchhike home? But your cousins are all discussing that movie you have an interesting theory on. Tell your Mom the truth? But Aunt Sharon’s right within hearing range. Just say No Thanks? Hmmm “No Thanks,” You stammer, “not right now.” Phew. Crisis averted. You sit down at your generation’s table and gladly join in your cousins’ debate about that awesome new movie, pouring yourself a fancy champaign glass of sparkling cider. After a while of cheery conversation and feasting, you almost forget what you’ve been avoiding. Almost. Then you feel it. A looming presence standing directly behind you. You turn. “I imagine you guys are doing well,” your mother feigns a smile at you, holding a heaping mini plate of Ambrosia, “But there’s something you haven’t finished.” Oh no. Now’s your chance to run, but social obligations are chaining you to your seat. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. You sigh a little and take the plate, turning back to the table. You can still feel your mother’s eyes drilling into the back of your head, expectantly. Your cousins fall silent, eyeing the mini plate of muck, then you, and then your mother. Unsure what to do, your cousins give you looks of pity. Even Aunt Sharon’s daughter, Jenna, is very clearly mortified for your sake. Under duress, you sift your spoon through the gelatinous mass. Chunks of preserved pineapple and tangerine reveal themselves in the unholy mixture of marshmallow fluff and sour cream. Their stench is overpowering— sickly sweet as a siren song. I’ve had this before, you psych yourself up, I can choke down one bite and then throw the rest out. You take just a big enough spoonful of the Ambrosia to impress your mother and your Aunt, and slowly and deliberately bring it up to your mouth. Then you quickly swallow it just to get it over with. Immediately, you are overpowered with a surge of heaves as your stomach tries to defend itself from that cold, creamy, cloying concoction, but you manage to keep it down with a final gulp. In all of your years of trying Aunt Sharon’s Ambrosia, you have never experienced anything besides violent revulsion. Now, however, it seems that you are not only experiencing the revulsion that you are accustomed to, but also a sense of detachment. You are no longer yourself. You can still see yourself move and hear yourself speak, but you are no longer in control of your actions. Your view is largely blocked by a mysterious sigil painted in white and orange. You watch yourself rejoin the conversation, but find that your words seem to make less and less sense as the minutes pass. Soon you rise from your seat, speaking in an inhuman tongue. The white and orange sigils burn brighter and brighter in your eyes. As far as you can tell, no one else attending the gathering is acting like this is normal. In fact, they seem horrified. You take the carving knife and plunge it into your nearest relative’s—Cousin Jenna’s— chest, carving the sigil that your eyes are now nearly blinded by. Instead of blood, though, Ambrosia pours out. She starts speaking in sync with you. You proceed to do the same to everyone else who is too paralyzed with horrified intrigue to run away. More people join the speaking in tongues, and more people start stabbing each other with whatever they can. What have you done? What is happening? You frantically fight to regain control of yourself, and somehow, you eventually manage to do so. Knowing that you have little time left, you scream. “I’m sorry for everything,” you cry out, plunging the carving knife into your own chest, this time carving a cross. The sigils fade from your vision. As you slump backwards and your vision fades, your Aunt Sharon approaches you with a look of cold pity. “How pitiful,” she clicks her tongue, her irises flickering between white-orange and their usual dark brown, “You may have won this time, but I will return next Thanksgiving. You have only delayed me, child…” You know nothing else.


Gentle Readers: No need to tell me there are grammatical errors. They are deliberate. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* The next evening, I take Jerome to Devotion's place. She made breakfast. It's sitting there on the table. Three plates. "Sweety-pookums," she says to the kiddo, "why don't you come sit between Daddy and me?" She pats the seat of a chair. Jerome's just happy to be anywhere, so he bounces over to the table and scrambles up on the chair. I sit in the chair closest to the door. "Oh, don't wait for me," she says. "Just dig in, fellas." She goes into the bedroom, and I hear some rummaging sounds. I ain't hungry. Well, yeah... I'm hungry for food, but I ain't hungry for whatever else she's cooking up. I ain't waiting for her to come out with a rose in her teeth. Quickly, I grab a couple pieces of bacon. "Jerome - eat those eggs for me." I say that low. In a louder voice, "Sorry I can't stay. Gotta business call to make." I high-tail it out of there before she can play any more mama-and-dada games. Early for my shift, I get to Packo's and go inside for a couple minutes. "Early, ain't you?" says Pony, the barkeep. "Yeah." Packo comes out of his office, his face all twisted in an angry snarl. "Hey. Billboard," he says. "Come in here." I don't dawdle. In Packo's office there are five cats and a rat. I don't recognize none of them. Probably out-of-towners. "These guys need some muscle down at the docks," Packo says to me. "There's five mackerels in it for you, if you give them the muscle they need." The rat says, "There's some dogs been nosing around. We need them gone. Can you do that?" That last part is meant for me. "How big are these dogs, and how many?" I ask. Again. I ain't stupid. "Pack of dogs. Six of them. Two of them is small. Chihuahuas. Another three is rat terriers." Now I understand why the rat's all jacked up about the dogs. "The last one's a beagle." I hate beagles. I got my reasons. "Yeah. I can keep those dogs at bay for you. Make it six mackerels, and I'll make sure they never come back." "Deal!" the rat squeals. I don't let it show, but that negotiation helps solve the fins and tail I'm gonna owe Stacks. My pappy taught me when I was young: don't ever let them know you're getting a good deal - they can take it back. I follow the out-of-town cats and rat to the docks. The rat runs along a mooring rope to a beat up boat. One of the cats, a gray tabby, points out a rundown building across the way. "They come from thataways every night. Six dogs." His hair's on end. "Show me exactly where," I tell him, "or I can't do my job. That means making sure they ain't bothering you no more, so show me." Even though he's shaking, the gray tabby takes me to the windows where the dogs come out every day. There's a broken pane in one of the windows, low enough and big enough for the beagle to jump right through. I give the window the once over - I don't wanna get tore to pieces by glass falling on me. It takes me only a minute to cypher out the panes of glass and the stresses. There's six panes of glass, three to each side of the window, all framed by wood. Six separate pieces of glass. I look till I'm satisfied. It seems like all the other panes are solid for now, even with that corner out of the lower right pane. Now to take a look inside the place. It's a smelly snore-party in there. Six dogs laying all over creation sawing logs. One of the chihuahuas is barking in his sleep - it sounds like he's saying, "Mick, Mick, Mick," with his lips closed. Not a one of them budges. Each one's stretched out or curled up on his own. I wouldn't be able to tiptoe between them, if they was all piled up like puppies. Strung out like that, I got plenty of room to stroll. Ring leader's off to one side. Seems kind of strange, but good luck for me. Take out the leader, the rest of the pack falls. I inch around. This dog's got elephant ears. He shifts his head in his sleep, pointing his nose straight up, and his tongue rolls out his mouth till it touches his ear. Slobber all over. I hate beagles. I take a little jump and land hard on the soft part of his gut. All the wind goes out of him - he don't even have a bark left. His back legs are jerking, as he tries to get his breath back, so I don't let him. I give him another pounce right in the soft part, and all that comes out of him is a thin wheeze. He rolls over, but that ain't smart. I get on his back, and rake at his eyes while he tries to get away from me. He gets breath enough to squeal. Squealing and running - he can't see the broken window. I got my fingers in his eyes. Well - claws in his eyes. I take my chance and bite into one of his ears, then the other - all the while still raking his eyes. More squealing. He runs nose first into the wall. The other dogs are awake and hanging back. Yeah, chihuahuas are scrappy - but just with other dogs. Pound for pound, they can't match a cat. The beagle stops running and stands still with his ass dragging low. There's a puddle under him. I'm gonna have to watch it when I get off him. I don't like my paws pissy. I lean forward and say: "These ain't your docks, pal. Move along and stay gone, or there's worse coming your way. Take your mutts with you." Jumping off, I give him another dig with the back claws. I take a look at his face. He's gonna have to find his way around by smell for a while. I go back out to the docks. The rat is sitting on a piling, tail curled around him. It looks dainty - but I know it's just to keep his tail close. He works with cats, and they know where their pay comes from - but they're still cats. And he's a rat. "Willie, bring them mackerels!" he yells in a high-pitched voice. He talks kind of funny. Even for a rat. That same gray tabby comes out onto the deck of the boat. "Got'em, boss," he says. Willie walks over to hand me a bunch of mackerels. Just like that. No carton. No can. No paper sack. Just a bunch of cold fish. It ain't nice to count your fish in front of others, but this is business. I take a quick look. "Hey. You gave me seven mackerels," I say. "The deal was for six. I got an extra one here." "Yeah. About that. You did a good job. Willie told me how you took out the big one. So you get a little extra. And maybe sometime we get another deal." He looks me up and down. "What do you do good?" "Bouncing. Bruising. Heavy lifting." It looks like he's asking for more, so I take a chance: "I blow the sax some." His tiny eyebrows shoot upwards. "You do music, and you count good, too. Yeah... I think we can deal again. Billboard - that's your name?" "I'm Billboard." "Tikus. A pleasure." I repeat the name: "Tekkous." "Yeah. 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. It's Malay. I came from Borneo." "Nice to meet'cha." I remember my manners when they matter. I'm done with that job in time to get back to Packo's. It's a slow night. Nobody needs tossing. Thing is, I think they smell the dog blood on me and figure I ain't one to mess with tonight. Around dawn, I pick up my pay and head toward home. I get to Devotion's place a little before dawn. I got enough time to pick up the kiddo, take him home, and see that he beds down good before I go meet Stacks. But it seems like Devotion's got plans. "Oh, don't take my little Pookie-Poo just yet. He just fell asleep." Jerome's curled in a ball in the middle of Devotion's bed, like a golden buckeye in a field of snow. I reach out and poke the what-d'you-call-it fancy blanket. Doo-vay. It's filled with feathers. My kid, laying in a feather-bed. "If that don't beat all," I say. Devotion's eyes are boring straight into mine when I turn to tell her I have to meet somebody. "Hurry back, Daddio," she says. I double-step it to the library. Stacks is sitting next to the stone lion in front of the door. "I like the comparison," Stacks says. "Did you find the dope on Flattery Cattery?" "Yes. It's out in the boondocks. Remote. Unsavory past with the law. I got the address on this envelope, and I drew a map on the other side." Stacks reaches out the envelope to me. "Bill," he says, "this is big. You need extra paws on this one. I'll throw in with you, and I can get a couple other cats together - if you say so." "You're all right, Stacks," I say handing him all the fins and tails off the mackerels. I'm flush, so I don't mind sharing some extra with Stacks. "That's mighty decent of you, Bill." He looks me in the eye. "You mind, me and my pals are here to help if you need us." "Just casing the place for starters," I assure him. The map is easy to follow, and it doesn't take long to get out there. I take the back roads and cut through a woods. Flattery Cattery used to be a farm, looks like. Then it looks like it was something else, like a factory. Furniture factory. Now, it's just a broke-down old building that smells like ruin. I nose around, and I don't see nobody. Not a soul. There is laughter from somewhere. There's an old house on the grounds - it's in better shape - and a beat-up shed. I creep closer. There's a big bunch of humans in the house. No cats to be seen in the house. Not even on the table. So I turn to the shed. The shed is full of cages, beat-up rusty cages with wire floors. It smells like a hundred cats pissed on the floor. I pull out my penlight. There are eyes in every single cage. I count at least ten pairs of eyes. "I'm gonna get you outa there," I promise them. I sit down for a think, because this is a much bigger thing than I ever thought before. The sun rises, shining through the shed door. Some of those cats won't make it past noon, I think. And there are way more pairs of eyes than I counted by my penlight. "I'm gonna get some help." I know my words sound lame. Not even one of the captive cats says nothing. Not even, "Hurry back," or "We're saved". Not even, "We don't believe you." They got nothing to say to me. I run back the way I came, hoping Stacks can make good with his promise. As I am coming around the bend in the forest path, I see Stacks with a bunch of cats following him. "I came to meet you halfway," Stacks says. "And these cats?" "They're coming to help." I lay it out for them right then and there. Three of the cats will go into the house and keep the humans busy, chase around the table and stuff. Two will scout the abandoned building to make sure nobody's there. Stacks and the other five cats, are going to free the poor souls in the shed. "Some of them need water or food right away," I tell them. "So you scoot with them, as many as you can get to follow you. Maybe you gotta carry some." We split up once we get to the cattery. I stay in the middle where I can see everything and catch whatever I need to, go where they need me. The cats in the house stir up a ruckus. One high-tails it across the kitchen table, and then out through the dining room and up the curtains, bringing the curtain rod down. Another climbs up the outside of the house and goes in an open window, yowling at the top of his lungs. They had a dog in there. The third cat goes through the screen on the screendoor - then jumps on the dog and rides him, both him and the dog shrieking. A china teapot goes sailing off the china cabinet and crashes. It's a three-ring circus in there. Humans running around like ants when their hill gets stirred. Even though one of the humans is swinging a broom, she won't touch those cats. I have to laugh a little when the broom gets caught in the ceiling fan. Two of the blades go flying, the brooms in pieces, and the lady is screaming blue bloody murder. I chance a look at Stacks and the others by the shed. They're bringing out cats and kittens. Stacks has two kittens in each arm. They look about Jerome's age. All golden. Some a little sickly. Stacks and his pals are stashing the cats in the woods. One big cat stays to watch over them, the others go back for more. About that time, the two cats from the shed come back. "Hey, Bill," the one says. "There's nothing doing in there. What do you want us to do?" "Go help the cats in the shed." I go back to looking at the house. Not one human has come out yet. They're still chasing cats. Losing, but still chasing. After a couple trips more, the shed is empty. I don't know where to take them. I sit to have a think. They need a place. A place they can be safe. A place they can come and go. A place with water and food. That place by the docks, I decide. I'll find a better way in and out, but for now - that's where they can call home. I motion Stacks over. "Yeah, Bill?" "Take all them cats down to the docks. You go - just yourself - and find a rat name of 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. Tell him Billboard sent you. You're looking for the place the dogs was staying. Take all them cats to the dog place. You gotta go through a broken window, so mind nobody gets hurt. You have any problems, come back here and let me know." Stacks gave me a toothy grin. "Sure thing, Bill. What are you doing?" I fixed him with a stare. "I'm gonna get any human who thinks they're gonna split without paying for what they done, and then I make them pay." He salutes me. I have to smile. Nobody ever done that to me before. I turn back to the house. One of the cats is looking out the window. I give him a wave. Suddenly, all three cats come streaking out the house. One out an upstairs window, one out the kitchen window, one out the door. Soon as they get close, I tell them to help Stacks get the cats and kittens to the docks. I head to the house. Inside, the lady is sobbing. Hard, racking sobs. I jump up in the kitchen window in time to see her throw a cup at one of the other humans. The cup just misses his head. I didn't notice before, but all the rest of the humans is little kids. She's screaming at him, all that human blah-blah-blah, but I get the gist. She don't want him around no more because of all the cat business. He says blah-blah-blah. It sounds like he don't want stay anyways. Like you can't throw me out if I leave first. They bring the argument to the kitchen. Suddenly, it's so clear what they're saying. I can't believe I'm getting every word - "You're a crumb, George. I always knew it, but I stayed for the kids." "Shut up, Sheila. It's not like you turn down anything the Cattery's dough got you - " "That's just not so!" She pulls off a ring and threw it at him. "There's your ring. Bought with the dirty money from your cattery!" The ring clatters to the floor. He pulls his fist back, and she shrinks, her kids cluster behind her wailing. None of them see me coming. I ride his right arm as it starts toward the lady. I hold on while he flaps like a chicken. No way I'm flying off, because I have my claws all the way in. All the way to the quick. When the left hand comes close enough, I sink my teeth in. Pulling his hand away only rips longer tears in his hand. That, plus one of my fangs catches on something, and he can't pull no further. When I let go of his hand, he quick pulls both hands back to the sides, and I go for his head. I bite him as many times and places as I can. His forehead, his nose, his eyebrow, his cheek, his nose again - only harder. When he puts up a hand to pull me off, I turn and bite the hand. After enough biting and scratching, he gets his hands in between me and his face. I let him protect his face, because that right there means I won. On his knees, blubbering, he begs for help. I step off to the side. I figure I freed the cats and took some revenge. Maybe the lady has the floor. She hits him in the head with a fry pan. For a second, me and the lady, we lock eyes. I understand he's been doing her and the kiddos wrong. She understands the cats in her house were part of the plan. She puts the pan down. It's not always the size of the cat. It's not always the size of the fight. Sometimes, it's all about the heart. A human ten times my size who picks on kittens - he don't have a heart. A full growed human who picks on little kids - he don't have a heart. All kittens and kids should get is mother's milk and love. I give the lady a nod and jump back out the window. At a fast trot, I take the path through the woods, and the back roads. Pretty soon, I'm at the docks. No cats to be seen roaming around. I look toward Tikus' boat. Nobody on deck. I look toward the building with the busted window. As I get closer, I see cats and kittens inside. One of the cats Stacks brought is standing guard by the window. "Hey! It's Bill," he says. I come through the window and see where Stacks is. "You wanna tell me who everybody is?" I go over to him and ask. "They're my littermates," says Stacks. "There are twelve of us, but Recall is estranged." Pointing to each, Stacks says, "That's Swipe and Trace next to him. Atlas is there. Verso over there. Carrel is the dainty one with the mean eyes. (I love you, sis.) Fiche is there, Browser over there. Concordance is here, and Flyleaf is behind her. Abstract is... Where's Abstract?" Carrel says, "Behind you, Einstein." Stacks turns and points, so I turn to look. "Hiya," says Abstract. He's looking sideways at us. Stacks says, "We just all stick together-" "-Except Recall!" says Swipe. "-since we were small. We were born under the library steps. I stay around here, but we always know how to get through to each other when we need to." Carrel says, "Our father was Festschrift, and mother was Fine." Festschrift and Fine. Sounds like lawyers. I shake my head. "I wanna thank all of you's," I say. "I didn't know how big this was until I got there. All of you's did a great job. Everybody's safe and sound." "You're a good leader," says Browser. Stacks asks, "How did it end in the house?" "I cleaned his clock. After I pealed his face, the lady beaned him with a pan. He only got what was coming to him. He was farming cats," I tell them. "Speaking of. I got a kitten who came from there. I went there to save his mama. Lemme go get him, and let them figure it out." By the time I get to Devotion's, I'm dog-tired. I knock on the door a few times. She must be that tired too. She comes to the door and drags it open. "Oh, it's you, big boy," she says. "Come in. How come so early in the day? I'll get Jer-Jer." When I tell Jerome I want him to meet some cats, Devotion wants to come along. "It's kind of rough," I warn her. "Some of these cats is sick and need tending." "I'm coming along, you hear that?" I hear it. All three of us go to the docks. Before I can stop him, Jerome is running fast as he can, and he pops through the window. When I get there, Devotion steps in front of me to go through the window, and then I can finally come in to see if I did what I promised. Mewing loud, Jerome is all over the four ginger kittens with crusty eyes. They're kissing and crying. I kind of get a tear in my eye. These poor kiddos needed each other. I wanna wipe my eye, but my hand bumps into Devotion. She's all bundled up close to my side. I feel a couple claws in my back as she flexes her fingers. "That is so sweet, Billboard. So sweet," she says. "Is their mama here?" When I ask them, the kittens just start crying again. One gets a sob right in the middle of his words. "She's gone. She got dead." "Those poor babies!" Devotion is on all fours snuggling with those kids. She kisses them and looks up at me. Who, me? I have to admit those are some cute little kiddos, and Devotion ain't hard on the eyes. This is more than the little I want. But they're babies. All they should get is kindness - they can't get no mama's milk. "You wanna name them?" I ask Devotion. "Nothing cutesy-tootsie. Good names. Real names." She says, "This is Charlie. This is Duke. This is Dave. This is Ella." Good names, all of them. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Dave Brubeck, and Ella Fitzgerald. I can't help the smile stretching from ear to ear. Devotion's eyes are big as pennies. All five kiddos are nestled together around her. I didn't think she was the type to be a mama, but it looks good on her. I look around the joint. It needs some spiffing up, but I can handle that. I ain't afraid of hard work. I look at Stacks and his littermates. There's brain power there, and they ain't afraid of nothing. I stand up straight. I got this. "Welcome to Bill's Boarding House, a home for cats and kittens in need.


Serenity knew that she wasn’t supposed to, but she enjoyed staying up late. She loved the feeling of being the last person awake. It felt like she was awake while the rest of the world was asleep. It was a strange feeling.

Her family went to sleep pretty early. Usually, they were all in bed by ten. So after ten, Serenity had free roam of the house. She tried to stay quiet. She knew which floor boards creaked, how to open her door so it wasn’t squeaky, and which stairs to skip.

She slid out of her bed near midnight, peeking out the window. Aoiski looked different during the middle of the night. Nobody was awake. It was rare that there’d even be a single car on the streets. She’d see a few people walking around, but not many she recognized.

Aoiski was small, but there were still people Serenity hadn’t met. People that she didn’t really want to meet either. Serenity perked up when she noticed a light turn on. The lights outside always turned off after midnight.

The light was coming from too far away from her to see clearly. Serenity turned from her window and pulled her door open, keeping it quiet. She made her way to the stairs, staying clear of boards that creaked under pressure. She went down the stairs and slid out from the front door.

She wasn’t supposed to be out alone so late, but considering the handful of rules she’d probably broken just from dinner, Serenity was choosing to ignore that one. She shivered a little in the cool air, walking around the house towards where she’d seen the light.

Lights were almost never on after midnight. Street lights were set on a timer and people turned their house lights off before they went to sleep. She started to feel like she was being watched as she was getting closer to the light source.

She looked over her shoulder, but there was nobody nearby. She hadn’t realized how eerie it felt for their town to be so empty and dark. Aoiski was only ever quiet during the latest hours of the night. Otherwise, it was vibrant with the people.

Serenity was sure that nobody liked staying up late because they feared that ghosts and spirits had more power during the night. Serenity thought the fear was ridiculous, but she enjoyed being the only one awake.

She stopped when she came up to the light source, a little disappointed that it was just an old, plastic lantern sitting on the ground. Nobody was there. Serenity walked over to the lantern. She picked it up and clicked the switch off, looking around for anybody.

Why would they have left the lantern? Maybe they’d turned it on and heard her coming and left. She didn’t even know what to do with the lantern now. It was wrong to take it, but if she left it, would anybody come back for it?

Serenity spun around when she heard something, backing up. She was starting to wonder if she was just freaking herself out. There was wind blowing by, so it wasn’t insane to assume that it was just the wind.

She shut her eyes and blew out a breath. She just needed to calm herself down before she freaked out. She was only scared because there was nobody else around. Nature was the one making all the sounds.

Serenity felt something grab her arm. She went to spun around, feeling herself being pulled. She went to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth, muffling any sound that came out.

“Who are you?”

Serenity shook her head against the person’s hand. They moved their hand. “Who are you?”

“Serenity, my name is Serenity.” She said. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

“Last name.”

“Wioax. Serenity Wioax.” Serenity said, trying to pull away from their grip. She was trying to keep herself under control before she burst into tears. “Look, you don’t want to kidnap me or whatever. My family couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the planet or ceased to exist.”

“Wioax?” They let go of her arm, pushing her onto the ground Serenity grunted, pushing herself back with her feet. She saw him for the first time and hesitated, trying to recognize him. He crouched down in front of her, searching the fear in her eyes for a moment.

She moved back when he pushed her hair back with a finger to get a better look. “You don’t look like a Wioax.”

Serenity paused to look down at herself for a moment. If she and Salvadore were placed next to each other, they didn’t look like they had the same parents. Serenity had fluffy and curly black hair from her mother’s side of the family. Salvadore had blonde hair that was mostly straight. They didn’t look related.

“I get it from my mother’s side of the family.” Serenity hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?

Who

even are you?”

“Eryx.” He said, backing up from her and standing up. He held his hand up to her, but Serenity refused to take it and got to her feet on her own. “Fair enough. I don’t usually get that many people out during the middle of the night.”

“Have you ever done that to somebody before?” Serenity asked. “You look young.”

“You look younger.” Eryx commented. “What are you doing up so late?”

“What are you doing up?”

Eryx chuckled. “Cute, but that won’t work with me.” He said. “You’re the Wioax’s second, right? So you’re maybe 16?”

Serenity crossed her arms. She didn’t like not knowing who Eryx was. In Aoiski, everybody knew who she was and who her family was. “15.” She said. “How old are you?”

“You’re good at math, right? I’m four years older than you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You didn’t like my math joke?”

Serenity rolled her eyes. “It might be funny if I was actually good at math.” She grumbled. “I’m the only unexceptional Wioax.”

“Ouch. That’s got to suck.”

“Gee, I wonder.”

Eryx smirked. “So little Serenity, why are you up so late?”

Serenity sighed. She thought she might have gotten away from that question. She didn’t have any reason to be up so late. “What’s breaking one rule here and there?” Serenity said. “I like being up late.”

“Don’t you have school?”

“Don’t you?”

“I told you that doesn’t work with me.”

Serenity sighed. “Yes, I have school. Whatever.” She said. “I fall asleep in class, so what? I’ve gotten enough detentions to last me until I’m 30. Aren’t you in college?”

Eryx laughed, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t go to college. We could never afford that.” He said. “I help my dad run his little bakery. He needs all the help he can get.”

“Can’t your mother help?”

Eryx’s expression hardened. “No, my mom left Aoiski when I was six.” He said. “She got tired of small-town life and she left the both of us. So it’s been me and my dad for as long as I can remember.”

“I don’t think I’ll go to college either.”

Eryx raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Wioax; you’ll have to go whether you want to or not.”

“A worthless Wioax that’s interest in art. But according my grandmother, you have to actually be good to be an artist and it’s a waste of time.” Serenity said. “I told you, my parents couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the universe.”

“I think that they’d care if all the sudden their daughter went missing and they had to explain it to the town. It’s easier if you’re still existing.” Eryx said. “Why are you out here? A girl like you?”

“A girl like me? What does that mean?”

Eryx looked her over. “When’s the last time you saw a mirror? You look more expensive than my house.”

Serenity’s face went red as she looked down at her clothes. She didn’t like wearing pajamas, so must of the time she just slept in whatever she had been wearing for the day. They had school uniforms, so she pretty much always wore slacks and a button up shirt.

She looked back at Eryx. He didn’t look that bad. He just had a t-shirt and jeans. She’d kill to just wear a t-shirt, but her parents liked for her to look nice. It was really the least that she could do.

“I didn’t really think Aoiski was the type of place where somebody pops out of a bush and grabs you.” Serenity murmured. “What are you doing out here?”

“None of your business.”

“So you won’t tell me your name or what you’re doing out here, but you get to know everything about me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you’re a Wioax, not a celebrity.”

Serenity laughed a little. “Wish I wasn’t a Wioax.”

“Uh huh. Do me a favor and scramble on back home.” Eryx said. “I’m not trying to take care of a little kid.”

“You mean two little kids?”

Eryx sent her a glare. “Whatever rows your boat.”

Serenity turned to leave, but she stopped herself before she walked too far. “You said that your father owns a bakery, right?”

“Why do you care?”

Serenity shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”