This could be true

[a short story by Keith Manos]             I figured Angela would be at our high school reunion because she was one of the popular girls twenty years ago at Gahanna High School. Of course, she would show up.             Me? I wasn’t popular. I wasn’t anything. Twenty years ago, they called me “four eyes” because I wore glasses.  Jim Brown didn’t wear glasses. Neither did Mick Jagger. Nor Captain James T. Kirk.

            Plus, most girls didn’t think boys who wore glasses were good looking. I wore my glasses at home but not in school. I didn’t care that without them, reading gave me headaches. I wanted Angela Spinelli to like me. To think I was handsome. We were both sophomores, and I had had a crush on her since the first week of school freshmen year when we shared a math class. I liked the days when Angela wore button-down shirts. Every now and then she’d turn just enough to open a space between the buttons so I could peek at her bra. I liked the black ones best. They made her seem more mysterious.             Angela and I had talked a couple of times that first semester. We joked about Mr. Adams, the teacher, who we called Gomez after the character in the show “The Addams Family.” We complained about the homework – both of us rolling our eyes and then laughing. Once out in the hallway when she laughed at one of my jokes, she even leaned into me. Her boob casually brushed my arm, sending electric waves through my veins.             I desperately wanted to kiss her.

And  to see her boobs. I’d heard a rumor that two other guys had already seen them. One of them, a senior, bragged he’d touched one of them. Sitting behind the senior table at lunch, I eavesdropped while he told his buddies about his date with her. He said her boobs – actually, he called them tits – were squishy. His buddies laughed when he said that. I bit into my ham sandwich, but he made me think of the way rotting peaches felt.             In the spring of my sophomore year I finally had my drivers’ license. And one Monday morning in May, I stopped parting my frizzy hair at the side so I’d look more like David Cassidy and Scott Baio. Although they were slim and Mom bought my pants off the husky rack at department stores, I had dark hair like them. I couldn’t, however, make mine fall smooth and wavy like theirs did with just my comb. That morning before I left for school, I soaked my hair with water from the bathroom faucet and parted it down the middle, just like David and Scott did. The mirror showed my hair glistening in the bathroom light, like I had just surfaced from underwater at the city pool.             Even today I’m stocky, and my hair is wiry and thick on the sides. I hated my hair, but I refused to cut it no matter how many times Dad complained. The Beatles had long hair, and all the girls loved the Beatles.             Plus, I wanted Angela to see the new me.             Even though I had class down another hallway, I made sure to pass her that Monday morning – I knew the route she traveled every day to her classes. School posters proclaimed students should wear blue today to begin Spirit Week for the undefeated baseball team, so both of us did – Angela in a blue skirt and me in a blue sweatshirt my mom bought for me at JC Penny’s. Angela even wore a blue ribbon tied to her blonde ponytail.

            I acted casual that day. That meant I gave Angela a slight wave when we were about fifteen feet away from each other. Like no big deal. Then I looked away for a moment, like I’d just been distracted by some event in a nearby classroom. I’d seen Scott Baio do that once in a show. You know, classic cool.             “Kevin?”             It worked. She’d noticed. Remembered my name.             “Hey, Angela.” She wore a white shirt, which didn’t do much to conceal her white bra –

Oh, God, did her bra have little flowers on it? Really?  Her boobs pushed at the buttons.

            Smiling, she sized me up. “You’re looking sharp, Kevin.” She moved her books from one arm to the other.             “Really?” Staying cool. I looked past her down the hall, like I was needed elsewhere. Other students weaved around us. Angela kept her eyes on me.             “Yeah.” The word kind of drawn out, the way a cheerleader would say it.             I reached into my pocket, like I just remembered I needed my car keys. I waved them in front of her, told her I just got my drivers’ license, then asked if she wanted to go for a ride. You know, still being cool. Like only if she wanted to. No big deal if she didn’t. My mother let me drive her car to school that day. Mom didn’t go out much these days, spending most of her day at home in bed. She coughed a lot and stayed in her pajamas.             Angela looked past me, her mind probably doing math, calculating the time that remained before the bell would ring and the distance she had to go to her next class. Yes, the bell would ring soon, but I didn’t care. Angela obviously did however. She quickly turned back to me. “Go for a ride where?” she asked, urgency in her voice.             I froze. The keys seemed to gain weight in my hand.

Yeah, like where, Kevin? Go for a ride, but where?

“I don’t know . . . around.” Again, trying to be cool. Keeping it a mystery.             “When?” She said that right away. She even leaned into me a little. She actually agreed to cruise with me. She would sit in the front seat and let me put my arm around her.             My heart thumped. “After school?”             “Okay, I’ll meet you by the gym.” She smiled, hugged her books, and hustled away to third period.             I almost cut my next class to go wash the car. This was really going to happen. Like it was a date.

My first date . With Angela Spinelli! In my mom’s Buick Skylark.             Last period of the day in English, Angela kept sneaking smiles at me. Once, she rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue when old Mrs. Bradley read a John Donne poem, like are you kidding me?

What kind of name is John Donne? He wrote poems? That was his job?             After class, we met by the gym doors, as she directed, and then got into the Skylark. The warm day allowed us to drive with the windows open. First the Rolling Stones, then the Doors, then Ted Nugent played on the radio while I drove slowly to Huntington Ridge Park outside of Gahanna, trying to keep my eyes on the road instead of Angela’s bare legs. Her blue skirt inched up her thighs whenever I turned a corner.

            After I parked in the lot, Angela took command. “Let’s go for a walk.”             “Sure.”

Why not?  The day was warm, the park nearly empty with only an old man in a flannel shirt hunched over his metal detector and two moms in sneakers pushing infants in their strollers.             Within minutes, Angela and I were holding hands and turning our chins to our shoulders to smile at each other. We laughed at each other’s stories about our parents’ crazy quirks. Her parents, she said, spoke Italian when they argued at the dinner table and wanted to curse at each other. I told her my parents prayed a lot but not to Jesus.

            After walking down a dusky, gravel path through the woods, I squeezed her hand and stopped us. “There’s something I’d like to do if you’ll let me,” I said.             Angela looked up at me, still smiling, like she already knew what I was going to say. “What is it, Kevin?”             “I’d like to kiss you.” My chest squeezed my heart, making it stop for a moment. I still held her hand. If she let me, I would do what David Cassidy did all the time.             Angela didn’t say anything. She just tilted her chin toward my face, closed her eyes, arched her back a little, and waited.             Isn’t this story going great so far? Angela and I are holding hands, neither of them sweaty even though the day is warm. She’s going to let me kiss her – the girl I’ve had a crush on for two years. Actually, it would be the first time I’d

ever  kissed a girl. I leaned down toward her waiting lips.             Except we have to back up. All the way back to the school hallway when I ran into Angela – again, by design.

            The truth is she started snickering when I neared her. I heard her, but I was doing the cool thing, you know, pretending to be distracted by something going on in a nearby classroom.             “What did you do to your  hair , Kevin?” she blurted out.

My hair?  I ran a hand through my hair like I’d seen John Travolta do on “Welcome Back, Kotter.” “Nothing, really,” I lied. I swiveled my head left and right, desperate to see my reflection in the window of a classroom door, and when I did, I saw that my hair didn’t look slick anymore; it had dried into a mess that resembled Larry’s from “The Three Stooges.”             Angela continued to laugh, her eyes on my frizzy hair, and, gripping her books tighter to her chest, she asked, “Did you just get out of gym?” She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter. Angela was polite like that.             “Gym? Uh . . . no, I’m just . . . you know.” I pushed my hand through my hair again. Laughed with her. Looked past her. Stayed cool. Remembered the bell would ring soon. I didn’t want to be late. Get a tardy referral. A detention.             Angela scurried away from me then, like I carried a contagious disease.  She glanced back once, like she had to confirm she actually saw my hair combed like that.

            After school the day Angela laughed at me, I drove home in my mom’s Skylark as fast as I could and washed my hair like three times, trying to get the frizz out of it. I then combed it from the side again. It didn’t help. I still looked like Albert Einstein’s son.             I did see Angela at our twenty-year class reunion. She’d gained a lot of weight, like sixty pounds, and married a dentist from Cleveland. He was even fatter than she was. But they smiled a lot at each other.

            And I still wanted to see her boobs.


I am surrounded here. Sitting on a bus, riding down I-95, and the only common denominator between me and the other people around me is this bus. Skin color, occupation, gender; whatever small differences one could use to separate our various existences were overshadowed by the fact that we were all in this moment heading to the other side of Washington D.C. on this bus. Of course, once there we’d go our separate ways and probably never see each other again. A comforting thought I am sure. Especially to the man standing alone by the rear door, looking as though he may be pick-pocketed at any moment. The tight hold on his backpack and hesitant glances around the bus seem to be an obvious indicator it was his first time alone on public transportation, or not; maybe he’s just a nervous guy. For me, a seasoned veteran of public transit, this ride was just another day of taking the cheapest mode of transportation to another potential job opportunity that would almost certainly fall apart at the last minute. Well that’s not quite right. It wasn’t just another day; it was a good day. One of those days that seems a little brighter than the others and motivates you to try your hand at the lottery for no other sake than why the hell not. A brief, audible chuckle slips from my lips as I think of this bus and all the others like it as metal cans flying down the road, filled to the brim with frustrated people consumed in their own lives and how I am normally right there with them. And today this bus was the king of the road cans, having a giant Coca-Cola logo painted on the side. Too bad I didn't have a coke; really a drink of any sort would be nice. Oh well... With a glance, I turned my attention forward and was reminded of the most recent catalyst for my unusually pleasant mood. Here, directly in front of me sat one of the most strikingly beautiful girls I have ever seen. Dark hair like the black sands of Hawaii, it had a softness that almost asked one's hands to run through it. Falling around her face, framing her jawline, and stopping just after her breast; one could not help but be struck by the juxtaposition of her deep, blue eyes. Blue, in the way the sky is blue just before the sun begins to rise to wake the world from its slumber. In that brief second our eyes locked and we shared the strangers smile. Quickly turning back to the window as if we were passing some great monument, my smile lingered as I watch the trees and grass pass. Waiting for the next opportunity to look back into those eyes and attempt to bolster the courage to say something. But this was not to be so. Slowly rotating my head to the front of the bus, I am able to only catch the moment before the front of our bus was introduced to the front of a Wal-Mart Semi. Our coke can began to wrinkle up the side and I could see those beautiful eyes staring back into mine, filled with fear. Feeling myself beginning to thrust forward I know that I am going to slam directly into this angel in front of me. As my ass separates from the seat, I successfully make a final effort to contort my shoulders resulting in a trajectory that would successfully avoid a collision with and destruction of what was certainly one of God's masterpieces. Gliding past her I am actually able to catch a hint of her perfume. It smelled familiar, and all I can help to think is that I wish I had said something. Everything went black. Waking up days later in the Alexandria Hospital, the first words out of my mouth were asking about this girl whose name I didn’t even know. Fortunately for me, one of the paramedics who was first on the scene was working nearby. He overheard my description of the girl and came to my bedside to tell me what had happened. She had been thrust forward after the initial impact, and had sequentially intercepted a shard of glass on her way to where I had been sitting. I was told that she died painlessly, as did most of the other people on the bus. His words didn’t seem to help.


We see people for the last time all the time. On some occasions it’s a momentous moment, others we are not even aware of the finality of what we have witnessed. While each instance is unique in some way, there are only really four ways to see someone for the last time. There is the inconsequential, the unknowing, the final chapter, and the future cut short. The inconsequential way is unremarkable except for the fact of how often that it occurs. It’s when you walk down the street passing people who are, and will only remain, strangers. It’s driving through traffic with the crowd of characters that only mean as much to you as the make and model of their car. Inconsequentially seeing someone for the last time is, in practice, the same as never seeing someone at all. No more than a quick word or glance was exchanged and that is all that will be given. You forget about them once they are out of sight and they might not even have noticed you. You don’t think much of it and you shouldn’t. Next comes the slightly more tragic: the unknowing. This way matters after the fact but seems simply ordinary when it occurs. It’s the reason you should say “I love you” before you hang up the phone. It’s when what was mostly a normal Tuesday become a memory played on repeat. Unknowingly seeing someone for the last time has no pomp and circumstance to it, no ceremony, no tears, nor triumph. The last couple of words shared were likely something like “could you grab a gallon of milk on your way home?” Neither of you knew what was happening, although there is a chance that they did and had their reasons not to tell you. Perhaps at this very moment you have unknowingly seen someone for the last time and will only find out shortly. But sometimes you do see it coming. Sometimes you know that this “goodbye” is the resolution—the final chapter in the book. It’s sitting bedside holding a cold hand. It’s seeing the back of a coat disappear through terminal gates. The final chapter doesn’t come as a surprise as you could feel the thin stack of pages ahead of you. Maybe you prepared a bit of a speech on what the person meant to you and there’s a chance you even said it. Always falling somewhere between celebration and sorrow, this is a last time that you both prepared to remember. All stories need to end at some point. Yet some stories never really get started. The last type of last time is the future cut short. It’s realizing that in looking for the right moment you’ve waited too long. It’s seeing a thousand scenarios that have played out in your mind go up in smoke. All that could have been, all that you imagined to be possible, comes crashing down in just a single moment. There’s probably a sendoff you would like to give, and after a few drinks you might let it slip, but you know that it’s not the right thing to do. You spent quite a lot of time thinking about them and will never really know what they thought of you. It’s this final encounter where you learn the hardest thing about saying goodbye isn’t putting the past to rest, but giving up on the future.


“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

A woman's sinister voice blasts out over the town and reverberates in my jaw. I don’t know what it is about her, but she doesn’t sound human to me. The mechanical voice exploded from the top of the looming black tower. Its exterior is so dark that it steals all of the sunlight around it. I feel the warmth drain from my face as I stand there gawking at it. A long ominous shadow hangs over the shanty wood buildings making up this pathetic town square. Ahead of me is a large black door at the tower’s base. It’s surrounded by flowers and household items placed neatly around it. Everyone around me is huddled up and whispering, I feel like I’m at a funeral. I can’t take my eyes off of the black door beckoning me to come inside. I look for any handles or knobs on it and find none. “Get over here Samuel, now” a gruff voice calls over to me from a small leaning shack just a few paces from the tower. I turn around and see a skinny old man leaning up against the doorframe. It looks like he’s holding the whole shack upright from my angle. I look at Hadley, the beautiful woman standing next to me, who brought me to town after casually telling me that she’s my wife, and oh, that I've been ‘reset’ – whatever the hell that means. Hadley nods approvingly and we walk through the red dirt towards the shack. I look up again at the old man and notice that he’s holding a small red book in his wrinkly hand. “What is going on here?” I ask him, trying to force calm into my voice by dropping it lower – It didn’t work.

He looks at me with deep-set eyes giving him a grave expression across his face. “Do you know who I am?”

I shake my head and glance back up at the tower again. The four hollowed out vents at the top look like empty eye sockets – the tower is soulless. “Come inside, both of you.”

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

The alarm and voice shake the small building and dust flurries down over our heads. The inside of the shack smells like wood and stale urine. I want to turn around and walk right back out, but I stand there utterly perplexed by the walls covered in black tally marks and names. It looks like someone has been a prisoner inside here and started tallying as time passed until they got bored and eventually started naming the moments. The old man’s hand shakes as it scratches another tally mark in section number 13 written at the top. Section 12 next to it has hundreds of tallies and the name Clint written underneath. Hadley fidgets nervously as we watch him scratch a big ‘x’ over his name. Resting in a corner of the room is an opened wooden chest with a rusty padlock dangling from it. Inside are several red books neatly stacked. Two books have the names Cole and Roger written across their covers. The old man’s eyes catch mine and he quickly tosses the book in his hand inside the chest before locking it. “I’m John the recorder and your name is Samuel if you haven’t gathered that already.”

“What happened to m—?”

“Shut up and listen,” he grumbles. “You’ve been reset by the tower and Clint’s gone. The code formula you have been working on these past moons obviously didn’t work.”

“Formula for what code?”

He nods to the wall behind me. The wall is covered in numbers and names, Some of them starting to fade. One of the formulas pull me in closer “ xn = xn−1 + xn−2 .” I may not remember who I am, but I can tell that I used to like this coding stuff. Next to it are a list of names written under the word coders. I touch my name sitting right underneath Clint’s and think about the woman I saw crying earlier at the tower door.

“Samuel, does this equation mean anything to you? Hadley asks, walking up next to me. John joins us. I can smell his stale breath as he talks, “You and Clint came up with this formula right after Roger passed through the door. The tower reset my son that night and I’m afraid he couldn’t find his old self again. He ended his life a few moons later.” John stands there awkwardly next to us in silence. Hadley clears her throat, “Samuel check to see if you wrote some of this stuff down in your red book. Maybe it can help you catch up to speed.”

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

“I don’t have a red book” I explain, nervously patting down my pants and shirt. My hand brushes against something small and round lying in my shirt pocket and I lightly press against it curiously. I watch John’s grumpy face instantly transform. “What is it?” he asks. I can hear the malicious tone in his voice and decide it’s best to carry on the act. Something about him changed and my gut tells me to get the hell out of there. Hadley catches the look as well and immediately turns towards me grabbing my hand, “He probably left it out in our cabin, John. I’ll make sure he gets it and reads through the tower laws and his notes before sending him here to work with you tomorrow.

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

We leave the shack as John makes another tally on the wall. The crowd of people anxiously gather around us. “Is it true that the tower reset you? Have you solved the code?” I hear several of them ask in a hushed tone. I open my mouth to respond, but Hadley squeezes my hand and cuts in. “Samuel and John spoke. They have a plan,” she says. “You all go home now and look through your red books tonight to see if there’s anything in there that you think can help him.” Despair marks their faces. They have have seen coders go through that black door and none have returned. The biggest one being, why should anyone base their lives off of what they read out of a little red book. Hadley leads me to our cabin outside of the town. The door swings open as we arrive and I hold Hadley back as I peak inside at all of the turned over furniture and loose papers on the floor. “Someone has been here looking for something.” I whisper to her. I pull her inside the small space and we sit on the bed looking down at the overturned chest with clothes spilling out of it. “Do you think they looking for your red book?” Hadley asks choking back tears. I reach in my pocket and pull out a tiny ball of paper and hold it in front of her eyes.

“I think they may have been looking for something even smaller.”

“Samuel, this paper is the same paper from our red books. We’re not allowed to let anyone else into our books or tear anything out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. There are a few rules the tower bid us follow since we first arrived here many moons ago. These books are our guides: They tell us who we are, what we do, and how to live in order to serve the tower.” I feel my head shaking in disbelief.

“Why do you let a little red book and that tower out there decide your fate?” I ask. I feel a rage I haven’t felt before build inside of me. She holds my face in her hands and looks at me with her green eyes filled with tears.

“We have known no other way, Samuel. We rely on hope that someday, the tower will give us the next answer for our lives when we find the code.”

“Well I can’t find this code without the help of all the other coders. I need to see what they’ve seen. I need my book to undersatnd what I’ve seen.” Hadley shakes her head. “There’s too much risk. Folks say that the tower is always watching us. It’s eyes are everywhere.”

I can see the fear and pleading in her eyes. I pause from unrolling the note and look out into the forest surrounding the cabin. An unsettling feeling washes over me as I think about the hollow eyes at the top of the tower. I roll it back up and tuck it into my pocket and glance over at her weerily.

“Alright, let’s wait until it’s dark out.”

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

The voice blasts through the thick night air as we sit at the table eating stew from the vegetables in Hadley’s garden. We haven’t talked much since the note and the silence beginning to wear on me.

“What was I like before?” I ask her between slurps.

Hadley stares across the table at me with longing in her eyes.

“You were truly wonderful. You were very smart, kind, and had a big heart that loved to serve everyone in this town.”

I sit there and think about the man she described. Can I be that man again? Will I need my red book to tell me who to be?

“Hadley, we have to find my red book,” I say. “Do you know anywhere else it could be?” “I have looked everywhere that you keep it at night. You carry it around with you during the day like the rest of us in town,” she says. “It was daylight when you found me. That means someone must have taken my book from me when I was still unconscious from the reset. But why would they rummage through our hom–” An idea pops up into my head.

“What is it?” Hadley asks, seeing my eyes widen. “Unless, they truly were looking for this.” I reach in my pocket and pull out the balled up note shaking it at her. Hadley scoots back her chair and pulls me to over between the bed and the wall. We both crouch down and I unroll it in between us. Written in barely legible handwriting is the message.

There are 14 of us.

“Samuel, this is your handwriting. Why would you write something like this and then tear it out?” Hadley asks. I look at her confused at the words I had written.

“And why would I say there are 14 coders? It’s clear from the list of names and from the formulas on the wall that we all understood that there are only 13 coders. John is lying to us.” “But, why? Asks Hadley, “He believes in the red books and reveres the tower the most.”

“Maybe he aims to keep it this way forever if he can help it.” I say squeezing the note in my fist.

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

“ Wooooop! Wooooop! The door is now open. You have one attempt.”

Hadley looks at me in horror – the blood rushing from her face. “This isn’t right. The door has never opened this early!” she crambles to her bedside and pulls out her red book. I watch Hadley flip through the pages rapidly scanning for an explaination.

“This doesn’t make sense!”

“What is going on, Hadley, look at me?”

“The tower – the tower knows something. It – it isn’t giving us any time to figure it out!” she yells. “You’ve always had enough time to come up with a new formula.”

A wave of calmness pours over me as I watch at Hadley laying on the bed panicking. The note crinkles as I roll it back and forth between my fingertips thinking about that list of names and the red books I saw in the shack.

“We need to go back to the shack.” I say.

“Now?”

“Right now. I need to get a good hard look at those books.”

“John won’t let you near those books. He won’t break the rules for anyone. He truly believes the tower will serve justice for any wrongs.” Hadley says, looking over at me with concern. “Look, if this is our last chance at ending this relentless cycle of death and resetting, we’re going to have to do something new that the old man probably won’t agree to. Do you want to leave this life of fear and waiting behind?” “You know I do, Samuel.” “Well then this is our moment.” “Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

The fires around town light up the town as we approach it from the forest. We watch as a crowd gathers in the middle of the square under the tower. Everyone is frantic and hugging each other closely. The door to the tower is gone and looks like a gaping mouth swallowing all of the flickering light. Something inside me stirs as I look at it – I can feel it calling me. I nod at Hadley and she quietly runs into town with the red book in her hand. I sneak around the rotting buildings and make my way to behind the shack. I take extra care not to hurt myself with the hatchet in my hand. I peer inside the window and see John shuffling around making his usual marks. Hadley’s voice bursts over the crowd as she begins yelling at them. “Who stole my husband’s red book? You know the law!” I’m crouched under the windowsill of the shack smirking – she really can turn on the emotions when she wants to. The door screeches open and I hear John shuffle out of the shack towards the crowd. I sneak around to the door and glance over at Hadley to make sure she sees me.

I wait for her scream. The moment a sound escapes her lips, I swing the hatchet at the rusty lock hanging on the chest. It easily snaps off and hits the floor with a loud thud. I check outside the window before pulling out the red books. I lay them out across the floor in front of me, matching their names with the ones on the wall. I pause at the last book at the bottom of the chest. It isn’t labeled. I open it up and find the sentence written in perfect writing at the top of the page, “Greetings from the Tower. Your name is Samuel.” That sneaky old devil stole my book. I quickly turn to the notes section and find my handwriting. I find the formula that I wrote on the shack wall and stare at the series of numbers beneath it.

0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144

“Beep! This is your final attempt. Failure will result in a total reset. ”

Something inside my head clicks on and I feel the numbers flooding in and making their way into the formula. I held up my book to the wall and this time I use 14 as my number. I let a soft yell of excitement out! It all makes sense. My heart is racing and I can feel the sweat beads forming above my upper lip. “We were always off by one number because we were convinced there were only 13 coders.” I kick open the shack door and sprint into the gaping hole at the base of the tower, not caring who sees me. The room is pitch black and freezing.. I strain to see in the darkness but can barely see my own hand in front of my eyes. A pale rectangular blue light blue slowly illuminates the room. I feel my way up towards it towards it and stumble onto a platform. I stare into what looks like a moving picture with light coming up behind it. A small bar blinks in and out above a row of numbers. I stare down at the blinking bar and take a shaky breath, realizing that if I mess this part up, it’s all over. “Are you sure you want to do that?” John’s gruff voice calls from below the platform.

“If I don’t, the whole town will be reset,” I say not taking my eyes away from the numbers..

“If you do this, the life that you and Hadley know will never be the same Samuel. You need to trust me, I know what the tower truly seeks.”

“How can I trust you when you sent 13 men before me to their deaths and allowed countless others to be reset? And for what? Job security in that god forsaken shack?

“They’re not dead,” John say Cooley. “You don’t know what sacrifices I’ve made for the tower or even for you.” His words slapped me in the face. Not dead? But, nobody in town ever saw the coders again after they left their red books at the door that eventually shut them in.

“It’s time to end this charade you call life and see the truth.” I call down to him. “So be it.” He replies, sticking his skinny hands into his pockets.

I push the numbers on the screen 233 and watch as it flashes green.

A white light instantly floods the room. I squint underneath my hand and see a group of people in white jackets standing behind a clear wall. They are clapping and hugging each other. A few look at me and give me a nod. I look down at the red book shaking in my left hand and realize that I suddenly fear the truth about our existence.


Marcus was going to be late. He couldn’t afford that, he would have to wait until sunset to get the picture he wanted. He didn’t have that long, the pilot told him to get back as soon as the sunrise ended or it’s an extra charge. Since he doesn’t make near enough money to warrant that, he runs. The desert is draped in thick, dull orange and the long shadows cast by cacti and boulders over sand smooth hills. The sun isn’t yet peaking over the horizon, but it will soon, and he needs to be in just the right spot. Dead centre of where it will rise. He took all of the measurements, checked the weather to make sure it wouldn’t be overcast (wouldn’t be a cloud in the sky) and made a point of scheduling the plane to take off from that little rundown airport before sunrise. He planned everything. Everything except the extra half hour he slept in. His foot slid out from under him as he ran, putting him halfway into a split before he righted himself and continued up hill. He swore passionately under out loud, a steady stream of “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” that echoed off the cascading rolls of the barren wastes that he was so feverishly trekking through. When he gets up to the top of the hill he’s panting, and when he turns around, his heart flutters with joy. The sun is still down. He has a chance. He positions himself flat on his stomach, ignoring the sensation of dry, still freezing sand getting under the seams of his clothes, and raises his camera up so he can see through it. It’s blurry, blurry, then it is clear just as the sun rolls up in front of him. It is swollen huge and coloured a deep reddish orange that glints off of the shimmering, distant landscape. It paints the wasteland a warm, glowing orange and elongates the shadow of every standing thing within it. He snaps the photo. He snaps another. He snaps ten of the fucking things because every passing second produces a greater result. Every photo is money, every speck of detail a dollar sign in his mind. It’s gorgeous out here and no one would want to come see it in person so they hire him. They’ll get their money’s worth alright, no doubt about it. By the time the sunrise ends he’s snapped twenty two pictures in total, so when he stands up he’s ready to leave when something groans behind him. Something metal. His stomach drops and a million possibilities run through his mind in the span of time it takes to turn himself around. Wild animal. Wild local. Tribe of savages. Herd of beasts. The pilot deciding he wants more money. No thought made with rationale and logic in mind, but still more realistic than the sight that actually did greet him. A submarine. An enormous, pill shaped behemoth of steel sat at the bottom of the hill behind him. It was caked in rust that ran the colour rainbow of shit brown to blood red to pitch black. It was listed a quarter sideways, half sunk into the ground, and Marcus could see sand running off of the jutting tower hatch like dribbling water. He blinked. He blinked again. His mind drew a blank as the frigid night air slowly morphed into a dry, angry heat around him. “That shouldn’t be here.” He mumbled to himself. He stood there for half a minute more before his brain abruptly lit up with inspiration. He raised his camera up and snapped a photo of the rusted metal thing before him. What’s a little side project? Someone’s bound to get a kick out of this. The pilot can wait a few more minutes. He snaps another picture as he makes his way down toward it. Snaps another. It looked somehow smaller as he got closer, though not by much. When he gets to level footing with the thing, it lets loose another metal groan that stops Marcus dead in his tracks. He sidesteps around it, cautious enough to give it a wide berth for fear of being crushed. The tower with the hatch on top of it looms large above him. He snaps a picture before taking notice that, from where he stands at least, it appears that the hatch is open. What’s the harm in checking it out? The pilot can wait a few more minutes. The hull of the submarine was close enough to the ground that he could leap up and pull himself on with his upper body. He wipes his hands free of any residue that might have gotten on them. He takes great care to keep balanced as he walks toward the submarine hatch. It is open, and, for the first time on this excursion, Marcus hesitates. The hatch is all of the way open, and he can smell something foul wafting out from inside, like moist garbage. The sun is relentless on his back as he stands there, debating himself. It serves as a point and a counterpoint for either of his internal arguments. Go back to the pilot, it’s too hot for this. Go inside the sub and out of the sun. Marcus pinches his nose at the rank odour the sub is producing. It’s not any sort of fear he feels, hardly even apprehension. He just doesn’t want to think about how bad the smell would be inside of the thing. He just about turns around when a new thought hits him. The thought of Johnny Brennan, the smug prick, getting his grease mitts on photos of the inside, taking the credit. Stealing credit from Marcus. Again! He grits his teeth and turns back to the submarines entry way. He’s racked with coughing first as he leers down into the dark rusted hole. He points his camera down towards it and takes a picture, flash on. It illuminates a discoloured ladder. The brown-red walls of the inside. The floor inside. Nothing noteworthy so Marcus, in an ill timed fit of unwarranted pique, descended that ladder and found himself surrounded by darkness on all sides. The pilot can wait a few more minutes. He turns behind himself as soon as his feet hit the metal grating of the floor, which echoes inside of the land locked vessel. He snaps a picture. It illuminates a rust soaked wall. He turns to his right and snaps a picture. It illuminates a corridor. A row of doors, two on the left and one on the right. What he thought might be some kind of cafeteria at the far end. He faces the opposite way and snaps a picture. It illuminates another corridor. A row of doors, two on the right and one on the left. Someone holding a short-handled machete, standing dead centre. Before Marcus can move, or react with the appropriate amount of panic, the sound of echoing footfalls starts up. In front and behind him. He starts scrambling, his camera jostling around is neck with a weight that may as well have been that of a noose as he grabbed a ladder rung in each hand, beginning to climb. He’s not even two feet off the ground before bodies descend upon him on both sides. He screams at the top of his lungs as his attempts to swing at them result only in his arms being grabbed in strong hands. When he sees those hands he screams so loud he goes hoarse. The men grabbing him are pallid and near skeletal, those who still possess all of their skin at least. The two grabbing him offer Marcus the only glimpse he’ll ever of his killers. They are dressed in military fatigues and their faces are visibly decayed, green and black with rot and death. They are without eyes in their half flayed skulls and their lips are shredded to the point of non existence. The only lights in their heads are green pinpricks deep inside the dark caverns of their eye sockets. One of them, one that he can’t see, puts a knife in his gut while he registers this. Marcus feels a sharp, blistering wave of agony melt all of his resistance as the rest envelop him, blocking his view of the sunlight and clear blue sky they are dragging him away from. More blades enter and exit his body. No one place is spared from the onslaught. He can still vaguely see silhouettes of these monstrous things, and, through the haze of pain consuming him, he can feel gripping fingers of sharpened bone rip away the last bits of stringy flesh blocking them from their prize. He can feel them dislodging his coiled intestines, and, in the dim light of the submarine, he can see those same intestines being yanked with great force from his stomach cavity. Suddenly, sight leaves him, and a new pressure makes itself apparent over his bulging, desperate eyes. Greater pressure pops his eyeballs like particularly juicy grapes, sparing him the sight of his attackers shoving his red steaming guts into their lipless mouths. He is not spared the feeling of it, not until he passed out much, much later. The pilot would wait much more than a few minutes.


A Nazi and a Buddhist each write a symphony. The Nazi forces out the full potential of the orchestra, utilizing all of its colors and dynamics in a long, grandiloquent development of themes and textures that culminate in a glorious climax of sound and emotion. The Buddhist creates a short, spare piece that utilizes a reduced orchestra and foregoes concepts such as development and variation in order to facilitate an eternal moment of pure experience. Each composer is inspired by his philosophy: it is almost as if Nazism created the Nazi’s piece and Buddhism created the Buddhist’s. Years later, a young composer discovers the symphonies of the Nazi and the Buddhist. She does not know of the composers’ convictions; she merely ran into these pieces by scrolling through YouTube. She is entranced by both of these pieces for separate reasons. She particularly enjoys how each composer masterfully utilizes the orchestra: the Nazi’s kaleidoscopic stretching and twisting of the ensemble’s dynamic, range, and color; the Buddhist’s ethereal and subtle contemplation of sonic concepts. These two pieces begin to mix within the young composer, and soon she begins work on her own symphony, directly inspired by her contact with the Nazi’s and the Buddhist’s products. What eventually results in an intriguing combination of the two pieces, a sort of medium-length work that, despite its virtuosity, seems to simmer on the subject of the orchestra itself, that expands and contracts and swirls, yet never seems to leave a certain space. Decades pass, and some well-established music historians and theoreticians take it upon themselves to trace the development of the young composer’s piece, as it formed itself in her psyche. Their work culminates in a shocking thesis: due to its direct influences, the young composer’s symphony represents the first Nazi-Buddhist music in existence. This unleashes a flood of political strife within music academia. Should the work—and the composer herself—continued to be used as an example of refined orchestration, now that its ideological bases have been revealed to be some sort of grotesque chimera between two opposing philosophies (including Nazism)? Some professors stop mentioning the composer in their courses; others go farther and blatantly denounce her work, caricaturing the flaws of the symphony and attributing these flaws to the composer’s miscegenous philosophy. Musicology courses take an opposite tack by highlighting her as a point of interest within the history of Western composition, glancing at her as though at a curious artifact, but no longer do they dwell on her musical contributions. Despite this, the new generation of composers, particularly those sufficiently distanced from academia, continue to listen and study the composer and her symphony. They know neither her history, her ideologies, nor her influences, and those who do know—forget. They only know the music. A collective of some of the more philosophically-minded among this generation posit their own thesis on her symphony: because she did not know of the philosophy and ideology behind her influences, the young composer had not allowed these philosophies to write the piece for her, but rather the orchestra itself had written this piece through her. These composers hope that the spirit of the orchestra will also influence them in such a way.


I found my dream house, and it wasn't easy. They didn't advertise it on redfin or zillow or any websites. They had placed an ad in the newspaper, almost as if they didn't want it to be sold. But I'm one of those people that still enjoys newspapers and magazines, so I noticed it. A Queen Anne Victorian built in 1884. I didn’t know how much I would LOVE this house. I just had a hunch and felt intrigued, and you didn’t need an appointment to view it. This place was so far off the beaten path I worried about reception through the hills and trees, so I brought a map with me just in case. I always like to be prepared, for any situation. My back up plans have back up plans. This place was unusual though, the land was technically in an enclave and the property lines weren’t marked. That was going to take some time to clear up. The ad didn’t have any photos of the house, so I was coming in blind to check this place out. It was a really lovely drive once I got off the freeway. It was one of those old winding roads that are too narrow for two cars to drive in opposite directions at the same time. One of those scenic routes that wrap around the hills. That might make it difficult getting a semi-truck through here in one trip. It would take multiple trips in order to move out here, probably a very slow process because we could only move a little bit at a time. I remember thinking the trees and plants that border the road smell wonderful, and that I could get allergies from them, but that a little discomfort is worth it for your dream house, I'd be fine. When you begin to dip in elevation the shadows from the trees close their fingers around the path and block out any sign of daylight. It gets so isolated at the bottom you can’t see more than a few feet off the road before all you see is darkness. Spaces like this are interesting, there’s probably so much life hiding out there. A unique little ecosystem hidden away in this deep valley, with its own food chain and balance of life and death. I don’t think many people can appreciate it all. I was driving for a little too long and I was wondering if I missed a turn somewhere. I get lost easily. Just as I was slowing down to reach for my map the trees opened up a bit and the space began to get wider. I expected it to split into two paths of light and shadow like a metaphorical fork in the road, but I was pleasantly wrong. The darkness parted like curtains revealing a clearing in the trees, the dense flora surrounding the road melted away, and I could see the tall fluffy grass that was hidden away before. The ad mentioned “no neighbors” but I didn’t expect a single building surrounded by a meadow in a private glade. It was absolutely perfect, including the ominous drive in, even after realizing I would be making that drive on a daily basis. I love old houses, they have so much history. This one was listed as “has potential” but that’s almost insulting now that I have it in front of me. Saying it has potential implies it’s not already loveable. The driveway came up to the front of the house and wrapped around in a loop on itself. In the space inside the loop there were overgrown boxwoods that looked like whimsical shapes that had overgrown and been forgotten over time. The house has three stories with a wrap around porch and an asymmetrical mashup of towers. The turrets were tall and skinny with pointy tops and I remember thinking if it was painted black it would look like a haunted house (which made me love it even more). But the outside was a faded grey, the paint chipped, curling, and peeling. I parked my car and stepped out to look at it. I don’t know how long I stood there. There were so many details to take in, everything was so gorgeous, I could have stared at it for hours. The steps led up to a front door framed with embellished wood carvings that were missing parts like gaps in someone’s teeth. As I was about to take a step up I noticed how the wood in front of me looked like a corkboard. I took one step carefully, it creaked beneath my foot, but luckily I hadn’t put all my weight on it yet. It was weak and began crumbling. I quickly took two steps back. Where I had put pressure there was now a hole big enough for my hand to go through. I took another step back. I hadn’t looked very hard at the stairs before, I was so enamored with the ornate front door. There were holes everywhere leading up to the top, people had clearly walked up carelessly and fallen through. There wasn’t a single step that looked safe enough to support someone. No one was going up those stairs again, not safely anyways. Something pulled me towards the side of the house, I walked around a corner and found a small garden of just gladioli. It was overgrown and looked ignored for many years. It was contained with a small picket fence that was probably white at some point in time, but now the cage was faded and brown pieces of broken wood stuck out. The red and yellow petals grow upwards in different directions like flames frozen in time. I approached for a closer look and instead noticed a set of stairs on the side of the house. These ones looked safer, maybe a few cracks but no holes. I tapped the toe of my shoe on the first step, it didn’t sound hollow. I pushed down with my foot and heard a creak but I didn’t feel the step buckle. I slowly, carefully took one step at a time. This staircase wasn’t deteriorating like the other one. I wondered why people kept using the other set over and over when it was clearly falling apart. There was a side door, but this one had no decorative wood or hand carved elements. It was discreet, so it must have been a service door that wasn’t used by the owners. I tried the door, it was unlocked, so I pushed forward. I think I was right about it being a servants’ door, because I was standing in the kitchen. It was a funny mix of old carved wooden details and flooring and newish countertops and appliances. The previous owners didn’t remodel the kitchen in a cohesive way to compliment the Victorian style, they kind of just stuck in the things they needed for the kitchen to be functional while they lived there. The next room was a dining room and connected living room. It had generous nine foot ceilings and all the original moldings and baseboards. The colors were already off-putting; bright lime green that had somehow stayed bright all these years and white on the wainscoting accents. I looked at the walls closer and saw how smooth and undefined some of the paneling was. The previous occupants had no idea what to do with this gorgeous house. They just kept painting the walls over and over again covering up what makes the house unique instead of spending the time and effort to restore it. I don’t think anyone has appreciated this house in a long time. They didn’t know what they had; they just thought of it as a house and changed the parts they needed for the building to work for them. I’m sure they weren’t doing it on purpose, I’m sure they had good intentions. I’m sure they did the best they could. But I know I can do better. The more I walked through the house the sadder I became. Years of neglect and half-assed care, layers and layers of paint as if each new owner just painted over everything instead of putting in the work. Has this place ever been loved the way it deserves? I found myself examining every corner of the house and everywhere I found exquisite details, but they were mostly hidden, unappreciated. Even the fireplaces; there were several of them because they were the heating source for the house. They had suffered years of being used repeatedly without being properly maintained. They were completely covered with ash and soot. It looked like some had even been used as a garbage can. I guess most people forget about those parts of the house. They’re such an important part of the functionality of the house but they must not have paid any attention unless they were actively using them. But since I am the way I am, I looked closer. There was something, there in the back, something that wasn’t smooth brick. When I got down on my hands and knees in front of the opening I was met with a hard gust of wind that had come down from the flue. It stirred up the ash, leaves, sticks, and I don’t want to think about what else, and it had gotten all over me, tangled in my hair, burned my eyes, and into my nose and mouth. When I blinked enough to be able to see again I spotted the shapes on the back of the fireplace. I reached out to rub some of it off and I was surprised to see teeth, sharp, long, and pointy, and then I heard something thumping and felt a sharp pain on the back of my hand. Some sticks must have dislodged from the wind, they had fallen and ripped my skin open. Is this why the others didn’t bother to look inside? That fireplace had some great defense. I aggressively slapped my palm on the back, closed my eyes in case something else lashes out, and rubbed back and forth. I opened my eyes and saw my entire hand was completely black, except where shiny wet blood was pooling in my cut. I could see what was covered and forgotten about. A wolf, and a fox, entwined in a battle with each other. It was really beautiful and I can’t believe no one remembered it was there. That made me curious, so I found the fireplace in the next room. I ran over and knelt quickly to reach the back and started wiping off the soot. It was a more detailed scene than the first one. There was a man who appeared to be a king looking up at a bird, the bird was pointing with it’s wing at the ground, and on the ground was a spotted trail that led to a small carriage in the background. I ran room to room to see what other tales were depicted. Two small children in a cage and an old lady preparing dinner, a little girl offering a basket to a wolf wearing human clothes, a large spinning wheel with a young woman and short man handing her a rope. Every fireplace was different, and every single one coated in darkness and forgotten about. I kept wandering the house imagining how I would carefully, slowly, lovingly restore each part. I don’t want to demolish any of it. I started thinking about where furniture would go. Where we would sit to drink our coffee in the mornings. Which corner has the best natural lighting for a reading chair. I really wanted this house. I went into the last bedroom on the top floor, it wasn’t the biggest room but it had the biggest window. I had been exploring this house for so long I had lost track of time. By the time I was standing in front of that window the sun had begun to set. This was the back of the house, and all I could see was the meadow, the trees, and a sky the same colors as the flowers in the garden. It was…the most beautiful moment I have ever experienced. I had found my home. Something chirped outside and I looked at my phone to check the time. I had a tiny bit of reception in this room. I sat down to look at some numbers, reality was hitting me and reminding me of the duplex I am still making payments on. This house isn’t top dollar but it still costs more than what I have. I spent an hour looking through my finances to see if I could move some stuff around to make it work. I couldn’t. I was heart broken. Here was the house of my dreams, the first place I wanted to call home, and it was just out of reach. What if someone else buys it before I can save up the money? Are they going to know how to take care of this type of architecture? Are they going to appreciate and embrace the house or just try to make it work for what they want it to be? Are they going to tear it down and build a completely new house? That would be terrible to completely erase what’s standing now. But at the same time, do I really want this house to sit here unoccupied, alone, and empty until I can move in? I have no idea how long it will take me to save up for this house. I was devastated. I still am. I hope some young family will move in that will have the patience, energy, time, and love that home deserves. I've thought about it every day ever since. I miss it and I never even had it.


When Jared Hayes was born on an early February morning in 2003 - Alex Hayes became a brother. His first thought about Jared – and babies as a whole population, was that they looked weird, and too squishy to be real.

Second, he decided Jared should never feel alone in the dark, at least not on his watch.

….

When Jared was 8, Alex made him take the training wheels off his bike. He wanted to teach him how to ride like a teenager, a pro. After a few false starts, Jared made enough progress to carve nebulous, timid paths into the blacktop with his bike wheels - and promptly crashed.

Pieces of gravel embedded into his palms and knees, bloodied and stinging in the heat. Jared sat on the curb, Alex on the pavement below him. He let Jared cry. He picked the gravel out of Jared’s wounds one by one. He rinsed the old blood away with warm Dasani water they had been sharing, and the pair walked home. Alex didn’t close his eyes when their dad prayed over dinner that night or say his own before the boys slept.

Jared’s palms scarred.

Years later, when the brothers were in high school, (Alex a senior, Jared bringing up the rear as a freshman) Alex stopped attending church with the rest of the family. The argument between Alex and their father was inevitable, a foregone conclusion that had been brewing for a long time.

“Why can’t you just put on a face until you leave home? I don’t give a shit what you believe – but go for your mother’s sanity, Alex, come on.”

“I’m not going, Dad. I’m not a praying kind of guy.” “I’m not asking you to pray. I’m asking you to save face until you move out.”

“No, Dad. I can’t. I don’t have a big enough vocabulary to lie that well, and I’m not sorry.”

Jared thought that Alex was the best of their family. He was the most well-spoken and honest of all of them, to a fault. At church that morning, the congregation took communion. Jared held the wine and bread in his hands, noticing his scarred palms for the first time in a while. He wondered what Alex was doing at home.

Soon after, Jared started noticing a cloying and musky smell coating Alex’s clothes and hair, accompanied by a far-off glaze over red eyes. He was still Alex, though, smart and capable. He was making a 4.0 - he was just high all the time. Alex and his new habit graduated high school as salutatorian and started attending Boston College for computer science.

The first time that Jared smoked weed, he marveled at his brother’s capability to do it regularly, and still be a functioning and successful member of society.

Ha. his hands looked funny. His scars made them 2 different colors. Could he control each finger separately?

Jared’s palms were still scarred when he started college. It didn’t bother him; he’d grown used to the slight discoloration and firm texture of the tissue. Besides, when he looked at them, he didn’t see a disfiguration or a flaw. It made him think of his brother, and they hardly ever saw each other anymore. It was nice to carry a memory of him, albeit a fading one.

One night during Jared’s freshman year of college, he used his fake I.D. for the first time. The place his friends picked was a dive bar if you gave it a generous approximation, and a shithole if you were being honest with yourself.

(that’s how they knew the fake I.D.s would work)

Every college kid in their city had the same idea that night. Jared suspected that the 2$ shots from 9-10 pm, and the singular pinball machine drew in a nice crowd of underage hopefuls. Jared drank cheap beers that tasted like piss, waited too long for the pool table, and set his stack of quarters on the ledge of the pinball machine to claim his place in line. He smoked a cigarette with the old, sun-spotted bikers outside. He had seen his future, and oh god, was it bright.

He’d been faithfully nursing another drink inside and talking to a pretty girl. The beer didn’t taste as bad as the first few had – and Jared concluded that absolutely nothing could taste bad after a Marlboro red, followed by the anticipation of getting a girl’s number. And maybe a kiss.

Then she scratched the shit out of his arm. Her friend had yanked her away to their ride home, disrupting their conversation before they exchanged any information. She’d left him with a red, glistening mark tracking about 3 inches down his shoulder. Maybe it was the piss beer, but it didn’t hurt.

He called Alex on his walk back to his dorm – to tell him about the girl and his neutral stance on PBR. His plans to buy a Harley and spend his summers out of college driving across the country with no sunscreen (crucial) to achieve the rough, honeyed skin of the bikers.

The line rang twice, before Alex picked up. “Alex, hey, I’m sorry to call you so late. Did I wake you up? “No, kiddo, Carter and I are just watching a movie. Are you oka—?” Alex hadn’t called him “Kiddo” since he was 10. He could probably hear the intoxication in Jared’s voice. Frustration jumped inside of him, he was tired of Alex’s overprotective nature, he was almost 19, not a kid.

“Jesus, I told you not to call me that, Alex.” Jared interjected.

“Sorry man. You just sound like you’re in rare form, that’s all. I miss you. Tell me about your night?” Alex sounded hurt. “Nah that’s okay, call you tomorrow.”

Jared hung the up the phone, Alex mid-protest. He dumped himself into his twin XL bed, careful not to wake his roommate, and fell asleep rubbing the rough skin of his right palm.

The scratch stopped bleeding. It scabbed, it itched, it grew red around the borders. Jared worried about infection & venereal disease from the girl and her sharp fingernails. He worried about his exams and his brother. So, he picked at the scab. And picked. And picked. He always felt better after he’d pulled it clean off. There were about 3 seconds where the skin below the laceration was soft and pink before it began to bleed again. He found peace in those 3 seconds. Unsurprisingly, the ritual of picking/healing/picking left a thin, pink scar down his arm.

Jared didn’t have many scars besides the ones on his palms from years ago, on the bike with his brother. It was a strange and sobering feeling to carry the mark of someone he didn’t have a name, or any defining characteristics besides pretty brown eyes to pair it with. He’d bear the girl from the shitty dive bar with him forever, he guessed. Every time he looked at it, he thought of her, just like he thought of his brother when he looked at his hands.

The next time Jared and Alex saw each other was Christmastime. Alex brought his boyfriend, Carter, who was working on a PhD in British Literature. He was the poetic and eccentric artist type, and Jared thought that he balanced out Alex’s discerning and systematic mind very nicely. It was the first time the couple was visiting their parents, too. Alex came out when he was across the country in college, because he’d expected their religious parents to receive the news poorly.

Mr. and Mrs. Hayes had taken the news with gritted teeth, and continually hoped that Alex’s bisexuality would open the door for a nice, smart girl to marry him. Jared hoped he married Carter.

On Christmas Eve, around the time when the kids waiting up for Santa were falling asleep, Jared was wide awake and staring at his ceiling. He needed some cold air.

Stepping onto the porch, he found Alex sitting on the steps, smoking a joint.

“That’s a nasty habit, y'know. Mom doesn't like you smoking here” Jared said, disrupting the silence. “Pfft... she doesn’t like that I’m dating a man either, this is nothing in comparison” Alex responded, holding the joint towards Jared.

He took it between his fingers, and sat down next to his brother, the smoke drifting upwards in soft tendrils. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter what their mom thought that Carter was wonderful, and he wouldn’t be half bad as a brother-in-law. He wanted to say that Alex would still be his brother no matter who he decided to be with, or how much weed he smoked. That he loved him. That he felt lucky to share a last name, and resemblance with him.

Those words were stuck in his throat, so he took a long drag instead, drawing the smoke into his lungs. He punctuated the silence with belly-heaving coughs soon after – he was not a smoker.

“Bro, I don’t know how you do that so easily. It’s impressive, really” Admired Jared, with a laugh. “Lots and lots of practice” , replied Alex, somberly. After a few moments, he asked “Did I ever apologize for making you take the training wheels off your bike so soon? Jared was surprised he remembered that. “Nah. but I needed to do it anyways” he responded.

They sat quietly while Alex finished the joint, snuffing out the end on the porch.

Alex said goodnight as he headed inside, Jared responded with a nod. Christmas morning passed with minimal tension, Alex and Carter went back to Boston. Jared went back to school, and life got busy again.

Jared was 20 when Alex died, in a car accident. The other driver was intoxicated. It was quick and he didn’t feel any pain, the doctors said. What about the pain he left behind? Thought Jared. Would he ever feel okay about all the things he didn’t say to his older brother? He wondered if he could still call himself a brother anymore. He tried to decide whether to use the past or present tense when speaking about Alex to others. He felt more grateful for his scars in the weeks following Alex’s death than ever. For his wonderful older brother. His scars screamed

“I AM HERE. I EXISTED. I AM ALIVE IN THIS MEMORY.” When he spoke about his brother at his funeral, Jared said

“I’m not a praying kinda guy, but I can tell you about the time Alex taught me to ride a bike.”


When I was 16, I attended my first Rumspringa and met some local boys. I met my my ex-boyfriend of 1 year that night. He was 20 and he had great teeth. We smoked cigarettes and listened to Jimmy Eat World CD's and ultimately he was the reason I left the Amish. He rented a room in a duplex in Cleveland and we struggled, but were stupid and happy. He'd stand up tall with his fingers all stretched out and I'd go in and hug around his waist. It was one of his sweeter gestures. I should also mention that I was adopted at 2. I had been abandoned in a park near a small group of trees. The temperature was so low that the morning a homeless man found me, that the police didn't believe he just *found* me, because I hadn't frozen to death. Luckily he had an alibi at a shelter and was later treated as a hero. When they found my Mother, per a tip of a local (she took me to this park regularly and someone identified her coat) she had a psychotic episode and scratched her eyes out. Well one, she damaged the optic never of the other pretty bad, but it's still there. When they told her I was safe she lashed out and "had a complete disdain for her baby". For my safety, she was institutionalized and I was fostered until I was adopted. My biological father was married and ended up going to prison after his wife found out about his affair which resulted in me. In a fit of rage, his wife lit his suits on fire and out of his own anger, he shot her. Killed her on the front lawn of their home. My ex-boyfriend was protective and always wanted to travel. He always wanted to explore national forests, but we didn't have a car ( I didn't know how to drive and he refused to go to the DMV). He said he grew up near a big wooded area when he was little, so it reminded him of home. "One day babygirl, I'm gonna take you home." I never did meet his parents. He got really clingy and got insanely jealous. He'd never let me leave alone and he kind of instilled the same anxiety living Amish did to me. We drifted apart and I had to break up with him in a crowded grocery store because I was so worried about his freak out. I had a myspace and on my friends was a girl named Hannah who was also ex-Amish. I messaged her and she said her and two of her cousins who are ex-Amish have an apartment. She invited me to stay a week, and when I returned home after the break up all of my belongings were in the the driveway (rather, what was left of them). And he was gone never to be heard from again. I sat with my belongings and cried until my neighbor offered me her phone. My cell phone was shut off but I carried it around for the numbers. Hannah and *her* neighbor came and picked me up. It was a tiny toyota turcel that smelled sour from being smoked in. We couldn't fit my bookcase obviously so I wished it Godspeed and we left. While Hannah was great, she was very into Amish ways still. She didn't like witches, or scary stories. Her cousin wanted to get a Hasbro Ouija Board that's packaging was all faded and cracked at another tenants parking lot sale (garage sale for apartment people) but she flipped out. Aside from chewing gum too loudly or getting too drunk sometimes, she was doing her best for a 19 year-old new in this world. One day she asked me about my birth Mom. I told her I didn't know anything about it and told her the story of how I was found. "Oh yeah, you told me this the last time you were here. That's fucked. Oh shit! sorry. But you know what I mean." She hit her newport and sipped out of a plastic tumbler. I could smell it, apple flavored smirnoff and ginger ale. "Are you gonna find her? Or like, do you wanna???" "Nah" I said. "I actually don't really think about her. I just never *connected* to other people like that. You know? Even my Mom and Dad, I didn't care that they weren't affectionate. I just never needed that kind of stuff. They think my Mom like abused me or something when I was small. Plus she's in that institution and plus I get major umm, whats that called....uhhh..... well you know when you can't breath well and your heart starts pounding in places like that. " "I know what you mean." She slurred a little. Six days later I was crying in a hospital bed having been 51/50'd by my new roommates. I had only remembered standing in the grass in one of those islands in the complex parking lot. Everyone was shouting but it was muffled. I could taste something metallic. And then I woke up as an IV was being inserted in my arm. From what I was informed by a very shaken up cousin of Hannah, I passed out on the patio and when I came to, I began screaming about needing to be in the forests and proceeded to make claws with my finger nails and shove them into my eyebrows. But before I could furiously claw myself, Hannah and some boy she had over held me down but I ran out to the parking lot. It was attributed to me being high and drunk and clearly having a breakdown of some sort. I wasn't allowed to live there anymore and I was really scared and alone. My mind raced because I knew I might've inherited some awful mental illness and this was going to be my life. I was evaluated for two weeks, and without any income, or place to go I had to move back home and atone for what I had done. It was not the warmest welcoming, but upon hearing what happened I was taken in sheerly for my safety. The days that followed made me feel more connected to my birth mother than any other memory I had of her. In fact, I had none. I was two when they found me, but I didn't have any dreams, or repressed memories of her. But something in me was disturbed. A sudden fleeting thought about meeting her hit me. Maybe it was forgiveness, maybe it was closure. I just, I only found solace when I thought of visiting her. Using what knowledge I had, and the passion I had, I decided to get back on my feet. I lied and hid English clothes in a haystack. I got a job at a supermarket (I used my old apartment address) and snuck off when I could. I was confronted about it and ultimately shunned. I had made some friends at my job and a lady named Julie let me stay with her. The nightmares got worse about my birth mother and I finally broke down. Julie helped me understand I was holding on to resentment and encouraged me to try exposure therapy; i.e. meet with my birth mother, forgive her, and make peace with it all. And since Julie had an life coach certificate on her wall that she got online, I trusted her. I first called the institution and was directed to speak with the lead psychiatrist and an 'action liaison' (this person just made sure you knew that you were entering a place for deranged criminals and how to behave etc.) Although I understood I could not have any physical contact with my birth mother, I was instructed what to do had she chosen to lunge at me. I was also told not to be alarmed by their appearance, as it was for everyone's safety that the patients are shackled in medical grade cuffs. I wanted to back out, but Julie had loaned me $100 to get there and back so it wasn't like I couldn't. It started eating at me that she could die, and I'd never meet her. As challenging as it was to want to meet someone who abandoned me, my gut urged me on. I had questions and her doctor verified she had been lucid for several years "on the right combination of medications". She had acknowledged that she had a daughter in sessions, and the doctor determined that meeting could be beneficial to her making a breakthrough. OR she could go completely batshit and lucky me, I'll have the same fate too but at least I know what medications might help me. So for the sake of my health I continued on. When the orderly led her in I stared at her as she shuffled to the table. Her red hair was being replaced with silver ones. It hung down over her mangled eye sockets and hands were soft and plump. As she placed her hands on the table for the guard to lock her shackle to it I saw that her nails had been chewed down revealing pink tips to her freckled hands. "Did you know I was coming" I asked? She didn't lift her head. "No" she said. "Why? Who are you?" she asked me inquisitively. Still, refusing to show me anything but the top of her head. I valued the distance between us and for a moment I felt like I had betrayed My Mom and Dad. I betrayed growing up in green fields and fresh air, and immediately felt sick to my stomach. This was a stranger in front of me and I had no reason to be there. That was my closure. As I consciously made the decision I needed to exit, I chose to blurt out "You, you are my....I am your daughter that you, just like, left. Do you know who I am?" She let out a high picthed whine, that turned into a cry that turned into a sob. And then, then she whipped her head back glaring back at me. She glared at me with her other working eye and as viciously and furiously as she could like a banshee "YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU ARRRRE NOOOOOOT MY BABY!!!!" She shrieked and bounced in her plastic chair. She was highly agitated and spitting. I followed what the liaison said and stepped away, put my back to wall and avoided eye contact. As they restrained her pulled her from the visitation room she once more and very clearly said "I know you. I should have killed you! I left you there. I want *my* baby!" Completely overwhelmed and nauseas I left and chose to get on with my life. I figured I'd see a therapist and ask friends to let me know if my mental states seemed off. She was clearly crazy, should not have had a baby, etc. But this does not have to be my fate. Until one day I received a phone call from her doctor informing me of her death, and being I made contact with her if I had any interest in claiming her body. I passed and before he hung up he asked me about her personal effects. "Well, what did she have?" I asked "Ahhh, let's see ahhh, a Journal and some crafts and stuff we did here with 'em. Sorry if you have no interest, just best policy to ask. My apologies." "Yes. Give me the journal." I said. I didn't know what I was going to find. It was red (probably faux) leather and had remnants of stickers she must of pulled off of it. On it were scribbles, but inside was much darker. It was dated near the time I had been found. Holy shit! Was this it? Her descent into madness before my very eyes? Maybe a confession, but, did I care? Of course I had to care?! I was so engulfed in this insane backstory the universe had dropped in my lap, I *had* to look through it. I found myself getting spooked and opted to stick it into my bag and go down the road to a crowded Starbuck's so as not to freak myself out. Unfortunately no amount of people was going to save me from what I was about to see. In this journal was multiple pages of messy cursive. I saw scribblings of demons and other crazy person stuff. But in one drawing she had drawn these trees and all of these tiny demons standing around the trees. She'd written "MY BABY" over and over again. It was eerie until I reached an entry that I can not unread, "1/16/89 I don't know this baby. I don't know it. I and I know he did it. I turned my back for a second and he took her. I know he did it. And what he brought back was not her. That thing is NOT my baby. My daughter had beautiful brown eyes. This child looks like mine, but her eyes and bright blue. No one! believes me." And then two photos fell out of the next page. One was a small baby. It was me. But it was not me. The nose of this child had a mole and her eyes were big and brown, mine are a distinctive blue/grey. And she was missing a small birth mark I had on my chin. I felt uneasy, and in the middle of starbucks, while trying not to puke and cry in front of these people over the idea of having a twin out there somewhere, I turned the other photo over. It was a photo of my birth mother, at the park by the trees, holding that little girl who is wearing a beanie with MY name embroidered on it . And standing on her left is a young man, the same young man I met at Rumspringa, my ex, the exact same age standing with his arms open, grinning, fingers spread wide staring back at me as if to say "Hug me". I hurried home and hyperventilated. I was sure my mental health was suffering. Say what you want but they were the only family I had and reached out to my Mom and Dad (adopted) who were still very much Amish. I wrote that I was afraid an evil force was coming for me and that I was so sorry I left. I admitted I thought I was being punished by God and begged for them to pray for me. I got a letter 3 weeks later from my Adoptive Mother and all it said was: " You should not have any fear for you have been baptized. You are a creature of God now; not the creature we received you as. Come home.


I got to know her through her writing. From second trimester to five months old, I read the months of her texts that were sent between them while the baby grew and plans were made for him to give his rights to the man she found to settle for. Her never without a reason to reach out in enthusiastic bursts behind the fiancés back for mundane, loosely related reasons with an underlying energy usually only reserved for high school girls driving by a crushes house too many times. Him always responding right away behind my back in a measured, upbeat cadence with one too many uncharacteristic exclamation points that only someone who knew him could tell had all the fear and emotional exhaustion of strained facial muscles held for too long in a clenched teeth-fake smile. After the resulting confrontation that quietly started with me waking him to shakingly whisper “you have a son?” and ended with the last time I ever saw him, I read the print screens of texts between them a mutual friend was sent by him to show me to help them both make sure I stayed away for good. The point was for me to read him telling her I was a good person, but absolutely someone he was no longer interested in. I knew that by this point. However, I got to know her through her need for reassurance of both points when she knew me by name the entire pregnancy and often took joy in the power of having a secret with another man from his partner. When I moved on to other things and people, the adoption was final, and he was no longer the father of his son or partner to me, she grew bored sitting in her home alone with the child whose conception she had carefully contrived. The drama it entailed, layers of deceptions she got to navigate, careful handling by all around her, and the resulting year of attention it generated was more than she had ever anticipated that fateful night before he was my boyfriend. That night she knew she was ovulating and planned the lie for when she invited him, just another guy she couldn’t get to date her but she could get to sleep with her once or twice, home. After 38 years of never being asked to the dance, being passed over for the good jobs, sitting alone on Valentine’s Day, and missing out on the Friday night invites: it was all about her. She thought it might feel like this, but she had no idea. She loved telling friends and family, but swearing each to secrecy with the assurance they were the only one who knew. She found that the more people she made feel special with the secret the more people she had to treat her special. She carefully watched his social media and imagined the day he would be posting photos of her holding her belly, but she had to wait for the fourth month before she knew it was safe to tell him and not have any other conversations than their future together. She had not anticipated him meeting me in the interim and it was a hard week or two when she had to change plans, but the fiancé she found to replace him was low hanging fruit. For the blissful months after she got double the attention and intrigue she desired. It was never really about wanting my boyfriend or the fiancé anyway. It was about them wanting her and this made it so both of them had to stay around. Friends let her be the object of celebration. Family clamored to assist her situation. The pregnancy was amazing. But, now the baby was growing older by the month and it was slipping away. There were less and less likes on the parade of new grainy, selfies she posted of herself with the baby. She only had one angle she could use that obstructed the view of her body and double chin while still holding the infant. So, aside from outfit changes on the baby’s part, it difficult for her to generate content that stayed about her under the guise of being about him. No one stopped by with meals anymore. The parties were over. Presents open. Cards used to come in the mail. Some even had checks. Now it was just bills and reminders. The fiancé picked up a construction job. When he was home, he held the baby and watched tv. At night, he slept in the living room. He said it was for staying rested during their night feedings, but it reminded her of how lonely she felt not being able to attract the kind of man she felt she warranted all her life. The kind of man like my boyfriend. Sometimes, when she needed it, she would pick a fight to refocus the home on her. They fought. They made up by distracting themselves with the baby and even less with each other. He wouldn’t set a date. She didn’t push it. A wedding is just for a day. The pregnancy gave her so many months more than that. She wanted the last year back. So, with my now ex boyfriend gone from both of our lives, she would send me run on texts behind everyone’s back that were peppered with smiley faces and offers to talk about my feelings regarding her having a baby with my then boyfriend. They held the obvious desperation of someone looking for emotional entertainment. I won’t oblige, but I got to know her more through her writing. What do I know about her? There are the details of her last year as the mother of the son she made then took back for the man she settled for and the same gold glitter cat eye glasses she wears in her selfies. But, those are just facts. The kind of stats that can go on the back of a baseball card. I know parts of her she reveals when she thinks no one is looking. When she is getting what she wants. When she needs more of what she wants. I know it by who she writes and when for what she needs. Her personality is banal, annoying, and obtuse. Like the persona embodiment of a cut out Cathy cartoon taped to a refrigerator mixed with a chubby receptionist that forces an insecure laugh after every sentence and brings in the day old blueberry bagels no one enjoys to foster unenthusiastic, fake office friendships. The emotional equivalent of person who writes three star Amazon reviews for kitchen floor mats, uses words like “hubs” or “preggers”, and thinks they are quippy and original because they are obsessed with fall themed candles and Christmas pajamas. I know she is someone that has manipulated and managed other peoples lives to get what she has wanted in her own when her character could not command those things based on its merit alone. I know she thinks she is a good person. She might actually be. It doesn’t change how she uses control and manipulation cheats in instead of challenging herself to develop what she desires. It hasn’t always worked, but adding the baby put the reins in her hands. Why hadn’t she done this sooner? She would have had more years to chase this high again. Keeping people separated to protect different lies needed to prop up herself is the most tired, known trope of a controlling person, but she cannot see that every time she deploys it with efficiency. To my boyfriend, he was told the fiancé doesn’t want him involved or around the child being raised as his. To the fiancé, he was told my boyfriend is uninterested, hard to reach, and difficult to even find most of the time. A bad person too for safe measure. Both must only coordinate the child’s well-being through her and never met each other to compare stories. Is it because new father will find out the lie that was told to trick the birth father into thinking there is some kind of infertility diagnosis that was miraculously overpowered and suspended during one ovulation cycle of a near 40 year old woman? It might make him see the sides of her she hides from him. From everyone. Including her. Is it because the birth father will find out that the father has been told some unpleasant false truths about being forced, alcohol, and consent surrounding this conception to nurture pity and buy in? It might make him think less of her. She needs everyone to think her selfless and wonderful. Most of all, in all of this, none can see how she has enjoyed exploiting the role of “mother just trying to do the right thing in a surprise situation” that she secretly, originally, and intentionally contrived and managed. This has to be protected. What would happen if the father and birth father know her like I do? What if the former reads what she wrote to the latter like I did and sees how she enjoyed having both men on the hook while forcing relationships neither would have elected to choose with her had she not created the baby? In the malaise of the quiet house next to the growing, sleeping child, there is a moment of mild discomfort when considering the rippling human collateral damage in her wake. Maybe for me, but it really only tickles her mind because her vanity is uncomfortable not knowing how much I know about her. Things she hardly understands, but also doesn’t stop. She would never afford even an ounce of that consideration and regret to the birth father when it comes to the psychological impact during the pregnancy and after the rights are transferred to the man she settled for. He is quietly ruined from the best year of her life. The birth father won’t have his own children someday. He won’t have healthy relationships ever again. He won’t have his own family. This will feel okay to him for a while, but he will realize the loss too late when his mother passes in 12 years and there are no more warm homes with real love to be invited to. When friends move on and evolve in life, he will be suspended in this broken, compartmentalized state. He is trapped. The next 20 years will be him alone as the old guy at the bar growing more and more bitter because the girls he likes don’t like him back like they used to. The quality ones don’t look at him anymore. But, hey, at least he will always be in the same place when she is bored. Under the false flag of the child he can’t have, she can make up reasons to come to his store or text for a rush of forced, fearful, inauthentic attention he feels obligated to give. She could have googled a sperm bank that summer when she came up with the plan. But, even if so, she was too cheap to spend $900 on a vile and if lives don’t have a price for taking when making one, she doesn’t feel a debt. What started this all, the baby, grows up with some of his birth fathers nature. Just a small sliver fights through and she resents it. When she sees parts of the nurture from the man she settled for in him, she resents that too. She actually resents him more and more the further away from the pregnancy life takes her. He might have a real chance at what his birth father refused to give himself after knowing her: a meaningful and good life with the best opportunity to thrive.


It was a beautiful fall day. Summer had ended. Another day, another dollar. I am on my way to work. As I am walking on the busy streets of Manhattan, I see a hobo. Right there, standing in front of the entrance of the Subway. He was skinny, dirty, stinky, clothes torned, with one shoe missing. It was the first time I was seeing him at this corner. Perhaps, I did saw him before. How am I supposed to remember? They all look the same to me. I was about to step down to enter the subway, the hobo calmly asks me if I can spare some change or food. ‘’Son, do you have some spare change, food?’’ ‘’No, sorry.’’ ‘’Please…even a nickel would help…’’ ‘’Look, I don’t have time for this…’’ ‘’I am just trying to survive. Change, money, food…’’ ‘’Why don’t go look for a job like everyone else?’’ ‘’Sonny, it is not that obvious as you think.’’ ‘’Anyhow, I don’t have time to talk to you and I am in hurry now for work. Otherwise, I will end up like you.’’ The homeless was about to utter another word but I just ran down the stairs of the subway station. As I crossed the counter to swipe my pass, sprinted to the train where the doors were closing. Wow! Just got in on time. If I had missed this train, I was going to be late for work. I work in the computer business. Sales and after sales support. That means, technical support after we sell our products and service. A job that would keep me busy all day to be honest. I was happy with my boss, colleagues, and our clients were great to us. Thanks to them, I have a job and a paycheck. Another working day completed. All went well. Time to go home. I took my normal route. Back in the subway. Out of the train, climbing the stairs of my subway station to get home. I see again the bum again.

 ‘’Hello Sir! I believe it is pay day today. It is Thursday. Can you spare a few dollars or get me a pizza slice with a Coke?’’ ‘’Look, I don’t have time for this nonsense. I need to go home, and work on a school project.’’ ‘’Why are you lying to me?’’ ‘’I am telling you the truth.’’ ‘’You are a horrible citizen…you know that.’’ ‘’I work and earn a living. What do you do?’’ As he was about to open his mouth, I ran away. Yes, that was impolite but I am young, I work, and I got other things to do in life. Yes, I don’t attend any type of academic institution. I just wanted an excuse to leave him and his pointless conversation. Finally, reached my apartment building. Before I take the elevator to my place, I always check my mailbox. Again, nothing special. Just bills, flyers, credit card pre-approvals letters, etc. Oh! What is this? A dark yellow envelope 8.5 inches by 11.5 inches format. I open the envelope. A will? A heritance? It seems that I have an uncle from my dad’s side. Uncle Harry? My dad never mentioned to me that he had a brother. I am a little confused. The letter mentions that I inherited three million dollars and that, after paying taxes. Damn! Three million dollars tax-free??? If I am careful, I can live up to maybe a hundred twenty! No financial worries and that will help me spend more time to focus on my health. I am only thirty years old. Reading the full document till the end, and I see a special condition posted in dark bold letters. It mentions that I will need to spend a full night in a mansion, upstate, near Lake George, alone, from 7 PM to 7 AM, in a total lockdown. Is there a catch? This seems too good to be true. Also, I this seems like a horror movie and I get scared easily by them. I guess when you have seen The Exorcist in secret, alone at home, at the age of five, you are traumatized for life! I am doing this only for the cash, and not for any thrill. This is for tonight! I just got here by Uber. It cost me a fortune to get here but for three million dollars…. why not? I see the will executor waiting for me in front of the main entrance. He explains to me the conditions to be eligible for the sum mentioned in the will. In details and verbally. I enter the mansion. Right on the dot, 7:00 PM, I am inside, and a security process actions the premises to a full lockdown. I got twelve hours to go. This place has three levels. A basement, the main floor, and a second floor. About twelve bedrooms, two bathrooms, a recreation room and vast living room on the ground level. Almost like a castle. I see a painting on the wall. Above the fireplace. I walk closer to the portrait and I see the name at the bottom. Harry Miles. You know what? Let me call my dad now. No cell service! I guess that was in the fine prints of the will. Let me see if there is something in the kitchen. I am hungry. A quite large kitchen with all the facilities to cook for an army. Let me check the fridge. Empty!!! No way??? I don’t believe I saw that in the clause. Let me just take a good hot shower. That will unstress me. Switching on the faucet in the shower, and no water! No hot water, no cold water. I can’t brush my teeth also. So now, I will need to go to bed, with no food, no shower, no brushing… Let me look for a bedroom that is convenient for me. Where I can fall asleep. When I entered the premises, I saw most of the bedrooms were quite empty. I will have to look around where I will spend the night. After checking all the rooms, there are no beds!!! This can’t be! I feel like a beggar in my own home. The night is young and I have several hours to kill. I am hearing abnormal echoes, sounds, and footsteps. Am I alone here? Honestly, I should have read in details the fine print of that document. I am regretting my decision. What a man can do for money? And look where I am now. I am going to have to sleep on the floor, empty stomach, with no blankets, with a dirty body and a dirty mouth. Why me? Not sure I will be able to fall asleep. I am just going to look for cozy corner and try to get some rest. Maybe just put my head on the kitchen table while sitting on the chair. Sleep like I used to sleep in my college days in the library to get a power nap. I see the sunrise. What is a stressful night! I barely got rest. The main entrance door opens up. I see a man standing at the gate. Approaching towards me. In a fine suite, shoes, tie, hair extremely well combed. The face seems familiar. ‘’Remember me sonny.’’ ‘’I…recognize your voice…you are the…homeless from the…subway station…’’ ‘’Yes. And no one in your family knows me. Including your dad. I am the half-brother of your dad. Your grandfather had an affair. And here I am.’’ ‘’Why all these?’’ ‘’I have no kids. I wanted to leave some good chunk of my fortune to a potential good person that I had a blood relation with. Someone within the family. I got the prove of what kind of person you are. I am no hobo. I own a great amount of real estate. The real test was when you did not help me for who I was. And this challenge you went through, was to make you realize your error.’’ ‘’Ah…Uncle Harry….’’ ‘’Too late sonny. You are not getting anything. If I live a long life, and we are both still around, maybe with time, I might change my mind.’’ He just walked away and drove away in his Porches 911. While I was having huge regrets of my actions. Lesson learned and it was a costly one…