There are few places as pungent as a high school gym, especially during a boys’ varsity basketball game. The Jordan High boys were a talented bunch of players. Think more “hard work and tears,” less High School Musical . As team mom, I got to sit on the bench behind the team, organize the team volunteers, and keep my mouth shut. I love my kids and would do anything for them. Being team mom was one of the many little ways that I could demonstrate that small truth. So I sat in the bleachers, listened to the squeaky sneakers and the basketball’s rhythmic drum, and wondered why engineers who could make a computer smaller than the size of my hand could not make a more comfortable bench. I watched my son Michael sprint down the hardwood, his lithe, slim legs pumping with all their might as he tried to get open off the fast break. Michael was not a starter, but he had been trying all season to crack the starting five, which was dominated by two players: Jordan’s star point guard Connor Reilly and his best bud, forward Drew Lane.

Connor saw Michael up the sideline and lobbed the pass, hard and fast, halfway down the court. I watched hopefully as Michael reached out his fingertips, grabbed the pass, drove the lane … and ran right into the 250-pound power forward from the opposing team. You know Newton’s third law of motion? “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” In this case, complete stoppage of momentum. Michael threw up a layup, which bounced around on the rim and came out again. The opposing team’s Aquaman lookalike grabbed the rebound. My son’s shoulders sagged, his eyes reflecting doubt. The opposing team made a quick conversion on the other end. “Time out!” the Jordan coach bellowed. The team jogged back to the huddle, grabbing their water bottles, each one labeled with the name and number of each player. Madison, the team’s manager, moved around the outside of the huddle, offering extra water and towels. She saw me watching and shot me a sympathetic glance. “Michael, nice job, but you’re out for now,” said the coach. “Drew, go check in.”

The team started to head back to the bench, but Connor pulled Michael aside. “Once again, you suck. Why are you here?” I watched my son’s slump go even lower than his self-esteem. The agony of defeat, indeed. High school is hell, but being the parent of a high schooler is worse. There is nothing worse than watching your child be mercilessly bullied every day up close and personal, and being unable to do anything about it. Behind me, I could hear the parents of Drew and Connor sniggering at the insult. They always sat together, laughing and lauding their children, who (they were convinced) were the best basketball players ever created. Ever since Drew and Connor met in first grade, their parents had become close friends, even vacationing together at all-inclusive resorts where the liquor never ran out and the kids could entertain themselves.

At dinner than evening, Michael looked down at his plate and said, “Connor is getting worse. Today after the game he told me to quit because I am a terrible player.” Michael’s dad, Brian, sighed and asked, “Does the coach know this is happening?” Michael replied, “Of course, but Connor scores 30 a game. Coach isn’t going to bench him for a little ‘good natured ribbing.’” “Michael, you’ve got to stand up to him,” I advised. “He’s going to continue to act this way until you do.” Michael sighed, “He’s not going to stop until I quit the team. Connor loves Drew.”

“I guess that’s understandable,” Brian said, “but aren’t you actually the better overall player?” “That doesn’t matter to Connor. All Connor cares about is playing with Drew. Plus Drew is Connor’s source.” I looked up. “Source? Of what?” Michael looked at us with youth’s intolerant pity of the old. “What do you think? Weed, amphetamines, or anything else Connor wants. Connor drinks an energy drink before every game, and Drew always gets it for him.” My husband and I exchanged a look. “You mean Drew is a dealer?”

“Not a dealer so much, but he knows where to get anything, and he makes it easy for Connor. All Connor cares about is Connor. That and basketball. Drew, on the other hand, only cares about Connor and Madison.” “Madison? You mean the manager?” I asked. “Yeah, they’ve been dating for a while. Drew is crazy about her. I’m not sure what Connor thinks about it, though.” The next day, Michael came home from practice sweaty, fatigued, and even lower. “Coach let Connor lead the team in wind sprints. Do you know what the prompt was for sprints? We had to run every time we heard Connor say, “Michael sucks.” For 20 minutes.” His eyes filled with tears. I hugged him and said, “That’s it. I’m going to the coach.” Michael stepped back, horrified. “Mom, you can’t! That would ruin me! I would be known as a snitch! Then everyone would hate me.” I paused. “OK, I won’t go to the coach. But you don’t have to put up with this, you know. There are lots of fun things to do in the world that don’t involve this kind of pain.”

Michael looked at me and said, “But they’re not basketball, and I love it, Mom.” Case closed. Thursday, Michael burst into the house, all arms, legs, and news. “Connor hooked up with Madison last night at a party! Practice was crazy. Connor and Drew actually went for each other in practice – throwing punches! Coach had to pull them apart.” “Wow. I guess that’s going to make the game tomorrow a bit more complicated. And how were you?” I asked. Michael smiled. “Glad I wasn’t attracting attention for once.”

Friday was a cold, dreary day. Gathering my coat and gloves around me, I walked from my car to the gym 30 minutes before the game. The team was warming up, shooting baskets and doing drills prior to the game. The coach was going over last-minute strategy with the assistant coach. Madison walked past me, eyes downcast, with a suspicious sniffle. Had she been crying? She was loaded up with the team towels and water bottles. I walked over to the scorer’s table to check in with the volunteers and chatted briefly with a few of the other parents.

I looked up at the bleachers. Connor’s parents were sitting in their usual place, on top of the world on the top bench, absolutely convinced of their and their child’s superiority. Drew’s parents had moved towards the bottom of the bleachers and studiously avoided looking around. I headed over to my usual seat, looking over the bench to see if anything needed to be taken care of. Towels? Check. Water bottles? Check. Coach’s clipboard? Check. Everything in its place. I shed my coat and took my seat. The team came over to the bench with the usual pre-game energy, grabbing towels and water. Madison walked up to Connor and handed him his water bottle. I overheard Connor say to Madison, “Wasn’t it the best sex you ever had?” Madison quietly said, “Yeah, pretty good.” Connor grinned at her and said, “You’re welcome.” Madison’s face fell, and tears filled her eyes. Coach called for a team huddle, and the boys jogged over. “Ok, starters tonight are Connor, Drew, Kevin, Mason, and Nick. Whatever you have going on outside of this game, you need to let go. This is business. Let’s go, guys, and win this one.” Connor and Drew eyed each other uneasily, then went into the pregame huddle. The players readied themselves, took a couple more sips of water, rubbed the soles of their shoes with their hands, and went out to center court. Michael sat on the bench, quietly taking it all in.

The horn sounded. The referee tossed the ball up, and the centers battled for the tip.  It was game time.

The opposing team was strong and quick, but Connor was energized. He bounded up and down the court, making his first six shots and playing strong defense. He reacted with lightning fast movements, hands reaching for the ball, feet moving to stay with the defender. Jordan kept the game tight. With the up and down, back and forth, of the game, the crowd got into it. The cheering in the gym was raucous, the atmosphere intense. Despite the fierce defense, it was a high scoring game and everyone in the gym was riveted on the game and the action on the court. It was a relief to everyone when the first quarter ended with the score tied at 25. The team walked over to the bench. The starters sat down and gulped their sports drinks while the coach addressed the team, noting small deficiencies in play and lauding Connor’s relentless play. Connor grinned an especially cocky grin and wisecracked, “I got it tonight, Coach. I can feel it in my bones!” Coach steered the boys back to focusing on the next quarter. The starting five went back out, and Madison moved around the bench, refilling drinks and putting out fresh towels.

As the second quarter began, Connor was everywhere. He played with frenetic energy, almost a frenzy. He could not stop moving. He drove relentlessly to the basket, scoring three times in a row. He made the other team sweat for their offensive possessions.

Towards the end of the second quarter, the opposing team made a weak, slow pass at half court, and Connor quickly stole the ball and drove toward the basket. Suddenly, he stumbled to the court and stopped moving, the ball rolling out of bounds. An apprehensive silence came over the crowd. Jordan’s athletic trainer trotted out to Connor and bent down close to him, calling out his name. When there was no response, the athletic trainer picked up Connor’s wrist, checked his pulse, and started CPR, yelling at the coach to call 911. The team tried to crowd around Connor, but the coach kept them away to give Connor some room. Connor’s parents approached courtside. Connor’s mom had her hands balled over her mouth as if to stop a silent scream from coming out.

The paramedics arrived 10 minutes later. Connor was unresponsive, so they transferred him to a gurney and rushed to the hospital with his mom in the ambulance. As they were leaving the building, the crowd clapped respectfully for the fallen player. The crowd was abuzz. What could have happened to cause a healthy basketball player to collapse like that? Both teams were shaken, but the Jordan bench was in chaos. Michael tried to find me in the crowd, seeking reassurance. I gave him my “I’m worried but it will be ok” look. Drew looked horrified. His hands were shaking, and he looked like the ground would open up under his feet any minute and swallow him. He couldn’t stop crying. Madison was sobbing behind the bench. Coach signaled to me to get Drew’s parents, and they took Drew home. Down two players, Coach put in Michael and the backup point guard, Evan. With some substitutions, Jordan made it through the remainder of the game. The boys played well, trying to avenge their fallen teammate, and managed to pull off a close victory.

After the game was over, the coach gathered the team together for an announcement. Connor had been declared dead of cardiac arrest at the hospital. He had overdosed on caffeine. The police interviewed Michael and me the next day. We told them our observations about Connor’s behavior, how he played with even more energy and enthusiasm than usual, how he had collapsed on the court. My son cried, and I held his hand.

We found out two days later that Drew confessed to putting an extra energy drink in Connor’s water bottle. Sobbing, he told the police that, “Connor kept begging me for a boost to help him play better, so I thought I would get even with him for hooking up with Madison. I knew Connor drank that energy drink, and I figured a little more caffeine would hype him up a bit more, maybe make him too wired to play well. I knew the taste of the sports drink would cover up the taste of the energy drink, and it would serve him right for once. I thought he would just feel a little bad and have a bad game, make him realize that the world wasn’t all about him. But I never expected him to die! I’m so, so sorry….” Jordan held a memorial for Connor before the next game. The bleachers were packed with fans, who observed a moment of silence in honor of its fallen point guard. Jordan considered cancelling its season after Connor’s death, but after all, what was the best way to honor a basketball player than by playing basketball? So Jordan continued to play, and it was amazing. With Connor gone, the team began to act and play together as a team. There was a lot more passing, pick setting, and overall teamwork. Jordan had suffered a devastating loss of two of its players, but those kids managed to scrape together a winning season by sharing the load with one another. The team became very close, on and off the court. Michael became the starting forward, but he shared playing time with another kid. The boys learned a lesson that we couldn’t teach them without this experience.

That’s why I killed Connor. I realized it was the only way to rid that team of its worst enemy – its leader. No one noticed me when I laced Connor’s water bottle with two small extra bottles of energy boost drink while I was making sure everything was in its place prior to the start of the game. Organizing is what I did at every game. No one noticed it, not even with my coat and gloves still on. Once I poured the energy drinks in, I just threw the bottles in the trash, then went to the bleachers to my seat. I didn’t know that Drew had slipped in another energy drink, but in the end that helped seal Connor’s fate.

I chose not to think about Connor’s parents. Really, it was all for the best. I’m a parent. As I told you, I would do anything for my children.


“This is where you live?” Liam asked, eyes wide as he looked around the library. “Yep,” Madeline said. Her gaze followed his as she took in the familiar sights of home. “No one else was using it. And it made a kind of sense. There aren’t many possible entrances but there *are* a lot of places to hide. There’s also plenty to read.” She tore her eyes away from her beloved library to glance back at him. “So what do you think?” “It’s great! Perfect, actually.” Madeline smiled. It was the most animated she’d seen Liam since she’d met him. The wonder on his face was almost child-like. Something that was painfully absent the rest of the time. You couldn’t last long in this world if you didn’t grow up fast. “I’m afraid I only have one mattress at the moment, but there are a few sofas around the place with cushions,” she said as she led him through. “Why don’t you pick a room and we’ll get you all set up?” He nodded eagerly and raced off to search for a spot. Madeline watched him go, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Giving him freedom and choice seemed a good way to gain his trust. And if they were going to survive together she *needed* his trust. She needed to be certain that if she barked an order at him he would obey it no questions asked. But having him roaming around the library, *her* library, felt wrong somehow. Like letting him rifle through her drawers or read her diary. It was a violation of the privacy she had grown so used to. Shaking her head, she dismissed the foolish thoughts. Like it or not, Liam was here now. This was his home too. She was just going to have to get used to it. \ After she’d away the supplies they’d brought back, Madeline went in search of Liam. She found him in what must have once been a meeting room. Or perhaps a room for group study. There was a large table surrounded by ten chairs, a whiteboard, and a projector screen. He’d already acquired a pile of cushions that he was in the process of forming into a bed. She rapped her knuckle lightly against the door to announce her presence. Liam’s head whipped around, eyes wide and body stiff with tension, but he seemed to relax when he saw her. “How are you getting on?” she asked. “We can probably bring a sofa in here if that would be good? Or find another mattress for you from a nearby house?” “I think this is good for now,” he replied. “It’s like having my own, permanent pillow fort.” “You know, that does sound good,” she chuckled. “I’ll leave you to finish settling in. When you’re finished you can come and find me in the kitchen. We can have a nice, *hot* meal for a change.” The excitement that flitted across his face made Madelin’s smile widen as she turned to leave the room. \ It wasn’t long until she heard his footsteps approaching the kitchen. When he reached the room, he stopped in the doorway, keeping his usual wary distance. “So what are we having?” he asked. “Well, that’s up to you,” she replied, gesturing to the array of foods. “We’ve got pasta or rice for something nice and carby. There are tinned soups, beans, tomatoes, a few different types of vegetables—” “Pasta and tomato sauce!” “I think we can manage that,” she said with a smile. Soon, Madeline was dishing up the steaming pasta. The smell made her stomach rumble. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed *hot* food. Seeing as she had company, she decided they might as well make use of one of the many tables in the main section of the library, rather than eat on the kitchen floor as was her usual custom. Liam trotted along behind her, eyes fixed on the full bowls. She headed toward a table large enough that they could both sit down while keeping the distance between them Liam seemed to require and set his portion down before retreating with hers to the far end. The sight of him descending on the pasta, devouring it with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible, made laughter bubble up from within. She found herself wondering if this is what she looked like when she ate. With a shake of her head, she dismissed the thought and started on the bowl in front of her. After all, who cared about table manners anymore? When the meal was done, Madeline considered her companion. He was sitting back, flopped against the chair, eyes closed in satisfaction. It was nice to see him so relaxed, so comfortable. And perhaps it was something she could use. “Did you enjoy the meal?” she asked. “Yes, very much. Thanks!” “Has it been a while since you had hot food?” “Yeah.” “Since before the Poiloogs came? Or more recently?” He considered this for a while, before answering, “A bit more recently. But not by much.” “Was it when you were somewhere else? Before the shop?” “Yeah. At one of those centres the military set up.” “You made it to one of the centres?” she asked, eyes wide. “How? And how did you get out?” “I– We were nearby I suppose,” he said, eyes darting around as he spoke, looking everywhere but at Madeline. “And the one we were in… it just disbanded before they came for it.” “Would you mind telling me about it?” she asked more gently this time. “Maybe you could start at the beginning, from the day the Poiloogs came. If you remember that is. And if it isn’t too hard for you.” Liam leant back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded across his stomach. Madeline was beginning to wonder if he’d drifted off to sleep when he finally spoke. “I was home sick from school that day. It wasn’t anything bad. Just a cold, really. Dad stayed home with me but Mum went to work like usual.” He paused, shifting in his chair to sit forward and lean on the table. “The first we heard about anything strange was the emergency broadcast on the TV telling us something was approaching the planet at speed and to find shelter underground if possible. “Of course, Dad didn’t want to go anywhere without Mum. But he couldn’t get a hold of her. And I suppose he wanted to know I was safe. We lived in a small-ish village in the middle of nowhere. Something I constantly complained about.” He paused, a wry smile flashing across his face before he grew serious once again. “But it probably saved us. The only thing nearby apart from countryside and cows was a military base with an airfield. “Dad packed a bag and we set off. We were outside when the ships first became visible in the sky. Luckily they targeted more populated areas at first.” A look of horror mingled with disgust crept into his features, nose wrinkling as if the words tasted foul. “Luckily for us I mean. Not for everyone who lived there. Who worked there. “We reached the base without much trouble. Other people in the area had the same idea, so there were a few of us turning up. The officers on duty organised us all into shelters. By then they seemed confident we didn’t need to worry about crashing ships or bombs or any other high-tech weapons. It was the creatures from the ships that we needed to watch out for. “Over the weeks, more and more people arrived – fleeing the carnage in the cities. We kept waiting for my Mum to show up but she never did.” His voice cracked slightly, forcing him to swallow before continuing, “The base became a refuge centre. A place of sanctuary from what people had started calling the Poiloogs. The soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Set-up defences. It felt safe.” Madeline stared across at him, but he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, fingers twisting around each other on the table in front of him. Though nothing had been particularly unexpected so far, there was something about watching a child say these things that would never *not* be shocking. After a deep, shaky breath, he started speaking again. “There weren’t many attacks for the first few months – I suppose the Poiloogs were spread pretty thin across the world – but they started becoming more and more frequent. The soldiers started teaching us how we could block them out when they came – by filling out heads with something else. They suggested singing a song or repeating a mantra. “I think they taught the adults other things too. We – the children I mean – weren’t allowed in all of the meetings. But after one of them, my Dad came out all in a panic saying we had to leave – that the centre would become a major target with this many people here. Others were fleeing too. And the military just let us all go. With supplies and everything. I thought it seemed silly, leaving the place with all the guns and soldiers. Surely nowhere would be safer than that. But Dad wouldn’t listen. “We walked and walked after that, stopping in houses along the way. We never stayed anywhere long though. None of them was ever safe enough, apparently. Every now and then we’d bump into someone else. We wouldn’t stay together long but they’d pass on information. That was how we learnt that the centres had fallen – everyone in them rounded up and shipped off by the Poiloogs. Or dead, if they were lucky. “As the months went by we bumped into less and less people. And as the encounters with humans decreased, the ones with Poiloogs increased. Soon we hardly went a week without a near miss. Dad was quite good at fighting them off but he was starting to struggle. He wouldn’t get a chance to properly rest and heal before the next one showed up. And the next one. “It was after another near miss, where he’d hidden me in a wardrobe before going off to hide elsewhere, that we found the shop. It was well stocked and had plenty of hiding places. He said it was perfect. That I’d be safe there. Safer than with him. He explained that…” His eyes flicked to her and the glaze that had entered them as he spoke vanished. “Anyway, that’s about it. You know the rest.” “I do,” she said softly. Something inside her yearned to reach out and fold the boy into her arms. To shield him from the horrors of his past. But she knew that no one could do that. “What about you then?” he asked with a forced cheeriness. “How did you end up here?” Madeline's mouth hung open, caught off-guard by the question. She cursed herself for not seeing that one coming as she cast her mind back to that day.


Hey, I'm a newbie to writing, and I want to try and improve. Here is a piece I started working on recently. If you have any suggestions on how to improve it, or my writing in general, it would be greatly appreciated.   It had always been you. You stare proudly at the chrome-domed tube shining in front of you, wiping the grease off your calloused hands with a work rag before tossing it aside to where—you cared not. The gleaming brilliance stole your eye, and your arms placed themselves satisfied on your aching hips. The drooping bags under your eyes left dark shadows, set by the seeping light from the crack under the garage door. The sun had just rose, making this either the fourth or the fifth day that you had spent shut in, inhaling noxious fumes and metal shavings. The garage was a sty, an appropriate disarray to act as a habitat for the messy, unwashed being that was you. None of that matters. It is time for a test run. You pick up the pile of alumnimum coated clothes folded neatly on your work bench, unfurling it in your hands. You slip it on. A leg. The other. An arm. The other. Then, you carefully lift the spherical reflective visor off the table, and place it over your head. You recall the day that your destiny first called to you. You were eight years old, your mother holding on to your wrist tightly as you tore through the crowds of people surrounding the line up to the ride. This would have been a day you remembered fondly as being the first time you ever set foot in an amusement park—you still did remember it fondly, though for different reasons. The blur of motion settled as you fell into queue, growing ever more impatient. When it happened, it seemed like there should have been an explosion, or a crash, or a sound of some sort. Instead, it just appeared. A chrome tube, a fixture that definitely did not belong in this theme park, let alone this century. It opened up, and a figure in a silver suit walked out, with a reflective bubble over its head. Then, it went back in and disappeared. “A freak occurrence,” “a collective psychotic hallucination,” many different terms were thrown around. But you knew the truth. It was a sightseeing tour. *It* was looking through history. \*It’\*s own history. *Your* history. Your chapped lips open to the smacking sound of a dried tongue unsticking from the roof of a wrinkled mouth, but hydration is the furthest thing on your mind. You admire your handiwork from afar, your heart beating in a loving rhythm akin to parental love as you gaze over every small aspect: The brilliant shine and gleam of its reflective silver surface. The bubbled door and triple pane viewing window. The satisfying click of the square buttons on the main panel, pressing and depressing as the LED display illuminates: “-60 seconds” it reads, in chunky, blocked text. Of course, you were so entranced you hardly took notice of the small imperfections in your work. No, the cracked exterior, uneven sealing around the door, and the half-empty life preserve system did not worry you. This would work. It had to work. It is, after all, your destiny. Your hand trembles as you feel the cold metallic touch of the clutching door handle on your palm. You listen to the swoosh of whipping air as the inner vacuum ceases. Smoke billows out in dramatic puffs and clouds settling along the floor—only in your imagination, of course, because your invention had no reason to spontaneously combust. You step inside, and you feel as if you are entering a womb from which you will be rebirthed as the person you were always meant to be. The time traveler. Crouched down, your back arching to the contours of the tube, you click the door lock closed with your forefinger to start the machine, just as a thought enters your mind. It is a small, nagging thought. An intrusive, inconceivable thought. You try to shake it off, but as your surroundings rumble in flashes of multicolor lights, it forces itself on your mind’s eye: All those years ago, when the you—the one from the future—went back to the past, they saw you—as a child—and you saw them. But, that thought nagged, you had not seen your future-self sixty seconds ago. *Could something have gone wrong?* a part of you wondered, but it was a small, quiet part. Nothing could have possibly gone wrong. Your destiny would not allow it. The lights stopped, as did the trembling, and all went still. All went dark. It worked. But the light never came back. You peer out from the bubbled viewing window out into the infinite blackness, dotted only by pinpoint lights and a massive hurtling blue and green sphere whizzing past you. The Earth, leaving you adrift in the cold, random point of relative space. But you were not alone: your nose smushed against the triple pane glass covered in breathy fog, you see a chrome-domed tube. Then another. And another. Your time remnants, from the past, future, and present. A reminder of your follies. It was never you.


TRAPPED We had barely moved in thirty minutes. I realized, of course, that I would be in the same frustrating circumstance if I did not have a passenger, but there she was. Like me, Barbara was on the board of the Community Center which met once a month. Barbara was a single (divorced) woman about my age, with two grown daughters away at college. She worked as an administrative assistant in a real estate company.

I approached these meetings like I do my teeth cleanings, necessary but kind of a drag and a time suck. But being on the board was my attempt to “give something back”. At each meeting, Barbara would ask for a ride home. She would take the train from her job to the meeting, and since I lived near her it wasn’t out of my way. This was no hardship, except for the fact that we had little in common, and in fact, we tended to have opposing viewpoints on many board issues. The 30-minute ride to our neighborhood seemed a lot longer as we would struggle to make conversation. This meeting ran longer (and was more tedious) than usual. A lot of resolutions and voting and discussions, punctuated by a few people on the board so completely in love with the sound of their own voices that they insisted on reiterating points someone else had already made. Mercifully, the meeting came to an end two and a half hours after it had begun. There being no windows in the boardroom, we were all shocked when we got to the front door to see that in the past two-plus hours, a storm had dumped a foot of snow on the ground, and it continued to fall at an alarming rate. Shit, I thought, after a whole day of work and an interminable board meeting, this is just what I need to cap my day.Barbara helped me clean off the car, which was something of a futile gesture given how fast the snow was coming down. I had determined to stay off the side roads which I knew would be more treacherous. When we got on the main roads, however, it appeared that everyone else had the same thought and we were stuck inching along the parkway until we stopped. What made matters worse for me is that extreme weather always turns me into a white-knuckle driver. I decided not to mention that fact to Barbara. No sense in both of us being anxious, not to mention the fact that, well, it’s embarrassing. We quickly ran out of traffic conversation, as we had no other route options, and our plight was evident. “So, that was some meeting,” I volunteered, having no idea what I meant by that. “If you mean it was excruciatingly boring, even by our usual standards, I agree.” “I suppose we should be glad that we didn’t have to put out any fires, like harassment complaints.” “You’re right. I think we should hope for a continuation of boring meetings.” Having nothing more to say about the meeting we went right to the tried and true. “Did not see this storm coming,” I volunteered. “I don’t think anyone did”, Barbara countered. Not being meteorologists, that concluded the obligatory weather discussion portion of our drive. We had barely gone a mile. We were both tired and hungry, and I was holding on to the steering wheel so tightly that I could have been stopping the blood circulating to my wrists. Then, Barbara said something totally unexpected. “You know Mike, you’ve been driving me home for over a year. Our paths have crossed at other meetings and outside of where you work, I know nothing about you. You could be an axe murderer for all I know.” “You’re right, we don’t know anything about each other. But I should tell you that I didn’t qualify for the axe murderer slot on the board. I think Mrs. Hernandez got that.” Mrs. Hernandez, the 85-year-old community activist, is most likely to be nominated for sainthood. “Well now that I’m fairly certain that there isn’t an axe underneath your seat, why don’t you tell me something that people in your professional circles don’t know. And then I’ll do the same. What do you think?” The traffic started moving, though not very quickly. Just like that, I forgot about my weather anxiety as I thought about how much I felt like revealing to someone who was slightly more than a stranger. There was something about being in this barely moving car, with snow coming down hard that made me feel like I was in a protective cocoon. “Well, I’m currently single after being in a relationship for four years. I thought we’d settle down…” “But…” “But she found someone else.” “Sorry to hear that. You had no idea?” “Not only didn’t I have an idea, but I was not aware that-how can I say this- that her gender preference was more fluid than I realized.” “You mean…” “She fell in love with a woman.” “Wow.” “Yeah, didn’t see that coming at all.” “Does it make it worse that it was a woman?” “You know, it really doesn’t. Being dumped is being dumped.” And the floodgates opened. I was no longer thinking about the snow.  I hadn’t told anyone the full story, fearing other people’s judgement not only of me but of Anne, my ex. As hurt as I was, I didn’t want to hear anyone speak harshly of her. I barely had my foot on the gas as we continued to be enveloped in white. I replayed the whole relationship for Barbara-well, the highlights, anyway. I felt somehow safe enough to describe how the relationship evolved and devolved so she could get the whole picture of my sadness. I loved Anne. I just couldn’t get angry. You love who you love.

I took a breath and said, “That was probably more than you bargained for. It was certainly more than I expected to say.” “Well, I’m glad you did”, Barbara replied. “Okay, your turn.” “I’m not sure if what I’ve got to say will make this better or worse for you”. “Hard to see how it could be worse.” As we got further, we picked up a bit of speed, but I was still very cautious as the snow continued to fall. “I have something I’ve been keeping from everyone. I’ve been very vague about my separation from my husband. I let everyone think he was just disenchanted with our relationship. Some people speculated he had someone else, and I didn’t discourage that line of thinking. The reality is, he caught me in bed with a woman.” I was stunned and could only manage, “Wow, that’s big.”  I think I always knew that I was gay, but I tamped down those feelings and went through the motions, to have, what I thought was a “normal” life. Then I met Sophia, and something just got…I don’t know…activated, and my life and how I saw myself just changed completely. I have to tell you though, it’s very freeing. I’ve come out at work and to my friends.” “Well, that all sounds, good “, I answered. “Yes, except I haven’t told my daughters. My husband is mortified by the whole thing. He’d rather they think he cheated on me than that their mother is a lesbian. I’m going to tell them next week. That is if I can screw up the courage.” “You sound pretty brave to me.” All of a sudden, we found ourselves in front of Barbara’s apartment building. It seemed like we had gotten there by magic. “Well, we made it.”  “Yeah, this is where I get off. Thanks for listening” “You too, and good luck next week.”  As I drove away, I was sure we’d never have another boring ride home.


It is the beginning of everything and he awakens like a drowning person breaching the surface with a toehold on the shore. what is a person what is water what is breathing what is shore But all of it is already inside his consciousness. And then: “Come find me, David,” they say, and the longing is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and he is too small to contain it all, and this is not in his consciousness and he is afraid. what is david what is fear WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT And then he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one light brown hand is on David’s pale, pale arm and the other hand rests on her round belly. David must have been wool-gathering again. He shakes his head, rattling the beads in his hair. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at him like a secret, teeth white in a dark, heart-shaped face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers her hand with his own. “I remained here for you when my crew sailed for home. I will always remember my duty to you.” The smile fades away. Her eyes widen, then crinkle into pain, and she falls to the floor, hands clutching her belly, blood pooling from between her legs. “Remember,” she gasps out, eyes desperate on his. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s hands are tingling and he is nauseous with terror. When the healer arrives, she says there is nothing she can do, that his seed has poisoned the woman, that he has planted a demon in her womb. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover and he looks at the tiny rag of lifeless human flesh — not a demon, just a lost soul that took its mother with it — still attached by its cord, and then he walks out into the wilderness and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he says, and one gloved hand is on David’s blue-sleeved arm and the other holds his bicorne hat against his red-coated chest. David must have been strategizing again. He shakes his head, feeling his queue brush the back of his neck. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, lips rosy pink in a porcelain pale face. His eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers his hand with his own. “You sheltered me here when I was left for dead by my men. I will always remember my debt to you.” The smile fades away. Behind them, the hovel door bursts open with a cracking noise and soldiers stream into the small room, muskets pointed at David and at him, ordering them outside. “Remember,” he murmurs, eyes tracing David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s veins are full of snowmelt and he can’t catch a full breath. When the officer approaches, he says there is nothing he can do, that David’s presence has doomed the man, that he has condemned him as a traitor for harboring the enemy. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover — not a traitor, just a man trying to do good while on a different side of a terrible war — spilling so much red against new-fallen snow, and then he looks up at his executioners and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one dark brown hand is on David’s sunburned arm and the other grips the horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck. David must have been working through the facts again. He shakes his head, catching his fedora as it slips sideways. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at David like a secret, lips painted ruby in a mahogany face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns in confusion and covers her hand with his own. “You came to me for help getting the news out to stop these riots and lynchings. I will always remember how frightened I am for you.” The smile tips on one side, inviting him into the secret with her. Glass shatters as something comes through the front window of the office and hits her on the side of the head. She falls to the floor and David runs to her, dropping to her side as something else, something flaming, volleys in and lights the curtains up. He cannot hear the mob shouts outside over the sound of the screaming in his own head. “Remember,” she demands, eyes intent on David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid. You’re so much closer than you’ve ever been.” David’s heart is pounding and the tears rolling down his cheeks begin to evaporate in the blazing heat. When the fire fighters arrive, there is nothing they can do. They look at the burned bodies of the lovers — doing no harm to anyone, just an interracial couple trying to find a way through the world — curled together, and pronounce them gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he asks, and one hand is on David’s bare upper arm and the other takes a colorful cocktail from the bartender. David must have been distracted by all of the people dancing in the club. He shakes his head, feeling his single earring bounce against his jaw. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, teeth gleaming in a tanned, glowing face. His glitter-lidded eyes are green and gold as as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You —” David wraps an arm around his waist and scoops him in, pressing a kiss to the side of his head — “are right here. Why do I need to remember when I have you right now?” The smile wavers. The music changes to something with a heavy rattling bass. Someone screams and David smiles for a moment, thinking it is enthusiastic joy for the new song. Then multiple people are screaming, and the bass noise misses a beat and resumes in a rapid burst and David recognizes it as gunfire. “Get down!” he yells to the bartenders, and leaps the counter, dragging his lover after him and shoving him down to the floor. His hands are slick and he goes to wipe them on his tight jeans, thinking he put them down in a spilled drink, but they’re red with blood. He can’t hear the gunfire or screaming anymore over the sound of the ringing in his ears. “Remember,” his lover whispers, eyes luminous in the half-dark under the countertop. “What comes after you are afraid. Do you remember?” David is shaking but he yanks his tank top off and folds it quickly into a makeshift tourniquet. “Shut up talking like that. You’re going to be fine, okay?” He wraps the shirt bandage around his lover’s arm above the gushing wound, finding a mixing spoon someone had dropped on the floor nearby and using it to tighten the shirt until his lover winces and cries out. “Here,” someone else says quietly, and David turns to find one of the bartenders handing him a towel. “It’s clean.” David thanks him and presses the cloth against the wound. His lover is still gazing at him, lips going blue and cheeks paling under his makeup even as David watches, but his eyes still vibrant. David stares into them and for a moment he is so scared, so scared, there’s no room for anything else. There are whole past lives inside of those eyes, and he gasps in a desperate breath and he remembers . “I love you,” he chokes out. “I’ve found you, and I remember. Oh, God, fear was the only thing I knew for a very long time. But I've always loved you, from the beginning of everything.” His lover smiles, and it is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and even though David is still too small to contain it, he isn’t afraid anymore.


Taking notes from tuition, Rukmoni were walking in the road. Sky becoming dark around her. Wind were touching her silky hair and bright check . Listening songs and walking alone took her in other world. When she come back to home, it was 8 o'clock. She freshed an up and went to the chicken. Her father Mr. Roy will come with his friend's family to have dinner . Rukmoni had to assist her mother in making dinner. After cooking, Rukmoni's mother suggested her to wear saree. Around 10 pm her father reached home with his friend's family. Mr. Roy's friend had two sons Sujoy and Bijoy. After dinner the family stayed there.    Rukmoni woke up early in the morning. She went for a walk in a nearby park. There Rajdeep also come. Rajdeep was a college student. He was in final year. He saw Rukmoni and come to talk to her. Telling his name, Rajdeep gave his to shake with her. Rukmoni also shaked hand and introduced herself. Rajdeep said that he was doing B.A. Hearing that Rukmoni told him that she was doing M.A. Again they shaked hand and wished good bye each other.   Having launch, Mr. Roy and his friend discussed about Sujoy and Rukmoni's marriage. Rukmoni was unknown about it. Sujoy was well settled with their family business. And Bijoy was studying. Sujoy liked Rukmoni. Before going to home, Sujoy came to Rukmoni's room. He knocked the door and came into the room. Sujoy asked what was Rukmoni's perspective on marriage. As she was unknown, she just smiled and didn't say anything. Sujoy was getting more close to her and tried to kiss but failed.

   Few week later, went a cafe shop to fill up her H. S exam form. But the cafe shop was off. So she had to go another cafe shop. The cafe shop were busy with another guy. As she looked at him she just shocked. She wanted to returned from the cafe shop but couldn't. Accidentally it was last date of form fill up and there were no other cafe shop opened. As the guy went Rajdeep looked at Rukmoni. She seemed nervous. That day when Rajdeep saw Rukmoni in the park, he crushed on her. But when he come to know that she was elder to him. He was quite. And today he was seeing her second time at his cafe shop.   Actually Rukmoni didn't want to close with anyone. she was very beautiful. She didn't want come to any relationship. That's why she use to ignored boys by telling lies. If anybody proposed her she replied that she had in a serious relationship with her boyfriend and she will marry him. But today her lies got catched by Rajdeep. Rajdeep looked dashing. His deep eyes made him more attractive. Looking around the shop, Rukmoni told him to fill up her form. Rajdeep could say something. But thought she would feel embarrassed. He didn't want that. Rukmoni didn't explain anything, returned home.    After dinner Rukmoni checked her phone. Ten missed call and many messages from unknown number. She saved the number and searched it on what's app. She was shocked, seeing the profile name and picture. It was Jaydeep's number. She called back. Joydeep started flatting with her. She hanged out the call. Morning,afternoon, evening, night all time Joydeep called her and sent massages. Finally Rukmoni agreed to meet him in the park. Joydeep came to the park with full preparation. He planned to propose her. Joydeep reached early there. After 10 minutes waiting, she came. She was talking on phone with Sujoy. She cut her call and stand in front of Joydeep. Joydeep started talking on casual things. They walked together around the park. It was morning time. There were few people in the park. Finally Joydeep proposed her in a filmy way. Rukmoni calmly told him about Sujoy and rejected his proposal.   Rukmoni talked with Sujoy friendly. Mr. Roy fixed her daughter's engagement date after one week. And marriage date wiil discuss after her H.S exam. Before two days of engagement, Rukmoni was very sad. She cried all over the night. There was a note book where she wrote her love story with sad ending. Before two years ago, she met with Raj. When she saw him she fall in love with him. Raj was her youngest teacher. After few weeks she proposed Raj. Raj denied her proposal and told her that she was liked her sister. Friends made her joke too. After two years of this incident Rukmoni couldn't forgot him. Her point of view was changed. Whom she loved didn't understand her, because of she was a student, a teenager. From that time she started ignore love matters and kept her away from love. Many handsome boys gave her proposal but she rejected.

  Mr. Roy and Mrs. Roy was quite busy. Rukmoni was their only child. They invited friends, relatives and neighbors. The engagement was took place peacefully. Sujoy took care of her. And loved her also madly. Every week they used to meet . Sujoy gave her many gifts, roses, teady bear etc. They walk together hand in hand,come more close to each other. Rukmoni was very happy, a soft corner was made for him. She liked his smile, cute face and dashing personality . She learnt driving from Sujoy. And when Sujoy come to their home, she used to make meal for him. Sujoy made a good bonding with Rukmoni's parents. Mr. Roy and Mrs. Roy loved him as their own son.

 As day pass, Rukmoni's exam date come. She prepared well and clear his H.S with good marks. Her marriage date also fixed after her exam. Rukmoni wished to higher studies. Sujoy's family was agreed with it. Rukmoni will continuous her studies but after getting married. Rukmoni was happy with that. After getting married Rukmoni came to a knew home. But family were known to her. Bijoy gifted them a honeymoon package. They went the place for their honeymoon. It was a very beautiful place. They started their married life. They enjoyed a lot and loved each other madly. And they returned home   Rukmoni admitted in a college for her higher study. She didn't get pregnant. It was their mutual understanding. They will plan for kids later.


God Remembers Cindy God asks the Man if he deserves to go to Hell. “Such a forward question.” Contemplated the Man. God urges him, “What did you do with my family’s gifts?” “Was a forgiven sin something I should’ve indulged?” Asked the Man. God fell silent. “Were the church’s totems redeemable?” The Man pressed. For he was beginning to realize, out of all the great things he had learned and accomplished, he did not lead a worthy life. Sure he had money and relished in the 20 year old women *well* into his later years. But what did he do to help his fellow man? Was there any occasional selfless acts he procured like the priests at the edge of his street? He occasionally helped people of a poor status, but only when cameras were keeping a well placed eye. “Do I deserve to go to Hell? No.” Said the Man hesitantly. He was ready to give whatever excuses if certain question’s came about. “Why do you think so?” Asked God. “I never killed anybody, and I never intentionally hurt a soul.” God looked at the Man and grimaced, for he knew the lies that would spill from his mouth. God motioned towards the boundless ocean they were standing upon. Two of Gods other creations rose from the water. The Man reacted with immediate execration; he screamed for he was in hysterics. These beings were of course, God’s angels. The angel closest to the man had several (8) eyes and they remained open since the dawn of the earth. She had neither legs or a head, instead there was a gaping hole in her chest where her eyes were held. The angels arms were nonexistent, yet the angel had hands. These hands were held in a palm side up position almost like she was expecting to be rewarded. The other angel had a buck’s head along with its antlers. Except there was no flesh, a prominent skeleton sat on his shoulders. There were two endless yellow pools where the eyes should have been, they were almost beautiful to look at. He would have been completely mesmerized had he not noticed the rest of his body. He had a long jaundiced body that ejected pools of black tar with vigor. He seemed to be breathing the tar back into his body. Everything about this angel was hypnotizing to the Man and the coldness in his chest grew with magnitude. They never looked away from the Man, neither did they react to his hysterics “Do not be afraid. These are my children, just as you are.” Stated God. God remembered a time, when the Man mentioned he read the Bible. The Man mentioned it at an office party, not fully aware the woman he was saying it to was catholic and had actually read the Bible. “What did you think about the angel’s description given by Daniel in Daniel 10:5-6?” God laughed to himself remembering how honest Cindy was to the Word of God. When it came to her religion, she had no reservations on the sound bites of fools. God’s head lowered in regret. “Take him from these gates.” He instructed to the angels. The Man began to beg, for he knew where we was being taken to. Each angel took a leg and the man fell through the water. God sat there motionless remembering all the times the Man committed a cardinal sin. This was a punishment the man deserved. The Man’s lungs filled with water, only now did he realize the water was abnormally dark. His eyes burned when they came into contact with the water. Lightning flashed continuously under the vast ocean. The Man realized the water was filled with other beings, watching the man. He gasped for air, allowing more water to seep in. They started to gain speed. Suddenly the water got warmer. *”This is it,”* he thought to himself *”I can feel us getting closer to Hell.”* he looked out towards the sea one more time. All he saw was a massive blue Iris peering back at him. He came upon the reason why the water was so tepid. **There was a monster with a mass big enough to give off its own heat to fully encapsulate the Man.** The Man couldn’t remember when he pissed his pants. He began to wonder why he hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen. The Man began to work on a bigger idea: if he is dead, and if he can’t be put to sleep, then he will be fully conscious for whatever happens in Hell.


I have relived this day a thousand times, and it always starts the same way: with the hiss of the coffee machine piercing the silence. At 5.45AM in summer the kitchen was already light. Since returning to work after maternity leave, I’d been getting up increasingly earlier each morning, in an attempt to grab a moment of stillness before the day began and everyone else’s needs started pulling at me. Sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the living room and the debris left from our children sweeping through. Beside the couch was Thomas’s play mat with the colored balls hanging motionless. There were the shoes kicked in a corner by my stepson, the script my stepdaughter had been learning piled on the coffee table. Down the hallway in the bedrooms, they were all quiet still. Greg in the last moment of sleep before his alarm went off at 6.15AM. Our room was dark and breezy with blackout curtains and a standing fan aimed at the bed. Opposite us was Ethan’s room, his floor a sea of electric cords trailing to his phone and TV and Xbox and laptop. “What color do you want your room painted?” I had asked him, when we moved in here four years ago. He was twelve then, and I wanted him to feel like it was a good thing his dad was remarrying. “Black,” he said, without hesitation. I had hesitated. Sometimes I wondered if my own child would be such an uncomplicated person one day. I half wanted him to barge through life the same confident way his brother did, half dreaded the thought of a son who discussed nothing more complex than sports games and You Tube video’s. I had selected a slate gray instead, unable to bring myself to cover the walls of my new home in black paint. Upon seeing it, Ethan looked straight at the queen-sized bed and big screen TV and grinned. “Cool,” he said, and as far as I knew he was happy. Charlotte, my stepdaughter, had the smallest room. Her choice. She was an anxious child even then at nine and I had given her first pick of the three children’s bedrooms, back before Thomas was even thought of, hoping to help her feel comfortable. “This one, it’s so cozy,” she’d said, hugging herself as she stood in the little room which overlooked the garden. Her color of choice was a soft hazy purple. I’d hung curtains printed with stars and a light shade strung with glass beads which reflected the sun. If I wasn’t an adult with a husband I was expected to share with, I’d have wanted that room too. And then in the room beside ours, my baby in his cot, sleeping beneath his mobile of fabric clouds. My baby. It still seemed unreal sometimes. He was seven months old and I was thirty-nine. For years I didn’t want a baby until one day I did. “I might not even be able to get pregnant anymore,” I had told Greg. Two months later I was in my bathroom, staring at a test. Relief filling me, as if I had just escaped a tsunami or a volcano, outrunning nature. I had imagined it would never happen for me, this most every day of things. I added sugar to my coffee and stirred it in. My phone beeped on the bench. I glanced down at it and saw the reminder popped up. Charlotte rehearsal 7.45AM I had been wary when she joined the Drama Club at school, secretly worried she would suffer stage fright at the last minute, but it turned out pretending to be another person was easier for her than being herself. Up on stage she shone. The big end of year show coming up involved rehearsal every morning before school that week, as well as two evenings. We had her alternate weeks, each Friday evening she moved between us and her mother and stepfather. Ethan used to do the same, but the week Thomas was born he’d moved in full time with us, after an argument with his stepfather. It wasn’t the baby homecoming I’d imagined, with Greg pacing around outside on phone calls to his ex-wife, but I’d figured Ethan would cool off and go back to the normal routine. It hadn’t happened. He told me he was sick of moving back and forward, and he was sick of his stepfather bossing him around. Bossing him around was something I’d never done, instead walking a line somewhere between fun big sister and caring aunt. It was the reason I’d always gotten on well with him. It was also the reason I felt I couldn’t tell him to pick his shit up when he left it lying around. I swiped away the reminder and the next popped up. Conference today. Venue: Golf Club. I pulled up the schedule on my phone and ran over it, even though I could have quoted it in my sleep, and possibly had some nights. The PA who was organizing it had quit the week I came back from leave, and I’d been roped into taking over. Before I had finished my coffee, a wail came from Thomas’s room. He was pulling himself up on the bars of his cot, and when he saw me, his face scrunched up in a smile, the pure kind of love no one else had ever shown me. “Hi, Tommy, hey sweetie.” I picked him up and pressed my face into his neck. Each morning, when I stood with him in my arms, it felt like my whole life had been building up to this, just to be here for this moment. In the kitchen I held Thomas on one hip and watched the microwave as his bottle warmed. I never realized how much of life with children would be spent watching the clock. Waiting for something to start or finish or be ready. Greg walked out, hair damp from the shower. “Morning,” he said. He sat beside me at the table and scooted his chair close to kiss the baby and then me. For a quiet minute we sat together, our son between us. I had worried Greg might not find our own baby special, having already been through it twice, but he’d filmed our sons first smiles as eagerly as he watched Ethan shooting hoops or Charlotte singing on stage. “It’s not like I love each kid less than the one before,” he’d said. But I was his second wife, and maybe that was why it played on my mind sometimes. Charlotte appeared next. She dropped into a chair and gazed down at her phone. “Rehearsal has been moved, it’s starting at 7.30AM now,” she said. “Can you drop her?” Greg asked me, getting himself a coffee. “Charlotte, is your brother up?” “Yeah, he’s in the shower,” she said, leaning over to tickle Thomas’s chin as I put him down in the highchair beside her. I’d worried she and Ethan would be jealous of the baby, or simply not interested, but they both loved him. Charlotte in the same way she loved playing with her dolls not so long ago, Ethan in a protective yet slightly distant way. “Is he alright?” he would ask me, if the baby coughed or whimpered. I spooned pureed apples into a bowl and wrapped a bib around Thomas’s neck. He felt warm as my hand brushed him and I paused, touched his cheek, his forehead. “He feels hot. Greg, do you think he looks flushed?” “He’s fine,” Greg said, without looking. Greg often told me he worried less than me because Thomas was his third baby, and after the first you realize they're built to survive. Sometimes though, I wondered if there was something in our genetic code which meant males only noticed the bigger things. The way I knew Ethan would probably jump in front of a speeding car for his baby brother, but Charlotte was the one who would notice if he pulled his hat off while we were out. Ethan came out half dressed, pulling his t shirt over his shoulders. Greg tousled his wet hair as he passed, even though Ethan stood about two inches taller than him. I’d always loved how much he loved his children. It was what made thoughts of a baby of our own start creeping into my head, when I watched him with them. Ethan’s eyes met mine as he passed me on the way to the fridge. “Hi, Sara,” he greeted me, like he always did. But there was a question in him too, in the way he glanced at me again. Two days before, I’d arrived home after picking Thomas up early from daycare and walked out to the back garden to find him and two of his friends smoking a joint. “Uh, hey,” Ethan had said, casually stubbing the joint out. “Didn’t think you’d be home yet.” “Clearly not,” I said. And then we stood in silence, neither knowing what to say. I still hadn’t told Greg, and it was weighing on me. And on Ethan too, I knew. But there was always something else happening we needed to talk about. Mostly, I hated the thought of how disappointed he’d be. “Alright, kid, you want a ride?” Greg asked Ethan. He nodded, mumbled something around a mouthful of food. I watched them leave the house together. I’d always known, since I first met Ethan when he was only ten years old, that the day would come he’d want to live with his dad. “You ready in five?” I asked Charlotte, shoving plates into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to get across town after I drop you.” My phone was vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out, turned the dishwasher on. A message from the speaker I’d organized to say her flight was delayed. “Shit, damn,” I said, wiping the baby’s face with a cloth before hoisting him out. The carefully constructed day ahead teetered. I ran over the schedule in my head, wondering what I could shuffle around. “Here,” Charlotte said, waving the nappy bag at me as we headed out. The car already felt warm in the dim interior of the garage. I strapped Thomas into his seat and put my phone in its holder. “I’m so nervous,” Charlotte said. “I don’t even know my lines yet.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. She got like this every time she had a show coming up. One night we had to pull over on the way there because she kept thinking she was going to throw up. “You’ll be fine, you always are,” I said, hitting my manager’s number and putting the phone on speaker. I pulled out into our street, still quiet, and turned toward the main road where traffic was building up. By the time I dropped Charlotte at school and headed for Thomas’s daycare, I’d already rearranged the schedule. My manager would go first, our delayed speaker would take his spot before lunch. I already felt calmer, the way everything slotted smoothly back in to a new order. No one would even notice how smoothly it all went, they would only know if there was a hitch; an empty slot, a late lunch, a cold coffee urn. My phone rang again as I headed down the motorway, away from the city. I glanced down at the number as I answered, the phone still in its holder. “Hello, Sara? It’s Nicola. Can we talk?” The voice of my husband’s ex-wife bounced around my car. I could picture her as she spoke. She was as tall as Greg, always perfectly dressed, and I was slightly intimidated by her in many ways. Maybe that was why I had wanted to have a baby. Because otherwise, she would share something with him in a way I never could. “Yeah, but I’m driving right now,” I said. “It’s about Ethan,” she said. I was suspicious yet curious. Usually, anything to do with their children was discussed between her and Greg. “Ok, sure,” I said. It occurred to me she must have found out about the pot smoking and I felt a surge of regret at not telling Greg already. A deep part of me aware I hadn’t because I felt like Ethan already soaked up so much of his time and attention. She sighed into the phone, sounding irritated, as if I'd already given the wrong answer. “I need to sort out this situation with Ethan. He can’t just avoid coming to his own mother’s house. I have to meet him at a café it I want to see him, it’s ridiculous.” “I know, he just thinks it’s best if he avoids Mark for now.” “For now,” she repeated. “He’s avoided him for seven months. He's like his father, never lets anything go. I want him to come around for dinner this weekend, so we can all sit down and talk.” I turned off down the road which led to the golf club. Cars and houses quickly gave way to flat grassy fields and rows of trees. “Have you spoken to Greg?” I asked her. “I don’t really get in the middle of –“ “Oh, stop,” she said. “My son lives with you. Don’t pretend you’re not in the middle of everything.” “But I’m not his mother,” I said, because I wanted to reassure her. Realising then that she had something to fear too. “I can’t tell him what to do.” I turned off the speaker and picked up the phone as I pulled into the carpark. The golf club stretched ahead of me, long and low. Trees towered behind it, creating a shaded garden area where we could take our breaks. “Exactly, you’re not his mother, that’s why you might be able to actually convince him of something,” Nicola said. “I can’t even get him to take his shoes to his room.” I parked away from the trees. When I was here looking at the venue, I parked underneath them and came out to a car spotted with bird poo. “I know Greg’s not going to be any help with this,” Nicola said. I got out the car with the phone against my ear still, thinking of the night Ethan turned up at our house. He’d ran through the rain and was soaked and shaking with cold and indignation. “I’m not ever going back there,” he said. Greg had snapped into action, sending Ethan to shower and dry off, putting a pizza in the oven to heat up for him, messaging Nicola to let her know he was here. I was on the couch nursing my newborn son, and saw in Greg the sheen of victory. He was happy for this, to have his son disown the imposter father. I stroked our baby’s head and held him to my breast, and I couldn’t even imagine a day when this would happen to me, that my son would run from my house. “Alright, I’ll talk to him,” I said. I dropped the phone into my bag, held my hand out behind me with the remote to lock the car. Walked toward the golf club, where the first arrivals were heading for the entrance. X I have relived this day a thousand times, and every time I imagine this is what happens next:  I stop there. I turn, look back to the car glinting in the sun. And I see him, the top of his dark head just visible. Open the door and my baby boy is there in his car seat, asleep.

A shadow passes over me, like some great predatory bird swooping low, and I glimpse the bottomless horror I almost fell into. “I can’t believe it,” I say to him. “I forgot to drop you at daycare!” I pick him up, feeling the weight of him, safe in my arms. The whole happy life full of laundry and car rides and conversations I didn’t want to have and ones I did, the small joys which were everything and the worries which I understand now were small too – it all comes rushing back to me. The shadow moves past me, and it’s just another day in my life.


Urrrrgh. Mmmmm. Guuuuh. That's mainly what my vocabulary consists of these days, grunts and groans, ever since I became a member of the walking dead, an undead, a zombie, you know, they were all the rage before they were actually a thing, I mean a real thing. I don't really remember how it happened. Memory's not exactly what it used to be. I'm guessing it has something to do with the lack of oxygen and natural decay. Honestly, I'm surprised I'm as... uh, what was the word? Well, I'm surprised I can manage with this much as it is. I'm a zombie now, and quite frankly, it sucks. There's no T.V., no books, no entertainment of any sort. We mostly just shamble around all day, I suppose it's good exercise. I've probably walked around more in the last couple of weeks than I have in my entire life. My calves would be impressive if one of them wasn't already half decomposed. Yeah, I'm one of those slow zombies, not a runner, even as a zombie I'm a loser. Sigh... Enough of the self-deprecating! Today's the day! I know it! I'm finally going to die. I don't know what the fuck some of these other zombies are on about with the brains, brains, brains bullshit. I hope you imagined the words brains, brains, brains being said all slow and real slurred like those zombies say. It kind of defeats the point or ruins the imagery if you don't imagine it like that. What was I on about? Oh, yes, the brains. Some zombies go gaga over that shit, but it tastes fucking awful, it's not cooked or anything. And there's absolutely no seasoning, not even a pinch of salt! Today's the day I'll die. Been trying to off myself since I became a zombie. I don't know if you've guessed already but being a zombie is kind of fucking awful. It's like living but worse somehow. Imagine that! But it's pretty hard to off yourself when you have the muscle strength of a toddler. What I wouldn't give for a tall cliff. If I slept, which I don't, and if I dreamed I know I would dream of shambling off the edge of a cliff and falling to my permanent death. I literally cannot express to you how much joy the very thought of it gives me. That's how much, nothing compares. So today I finally found some hope in my miserable life, a group of a humies, humans, (I thought I should at least be allowed to give a fun nickname to them since they always gave them to us and since I no longer am one of them anyway.) were scavenging a convenient store and I just happened to be nearby enough to hear them. I thought this was my chance, that surely one of them would have a gun, or a crowbar, or a baseball bat, or whatever that could finally end me. I hunched my shoulders all creepy-like and shambled over in the way I normally do and started making that I'm a zombie please kill me sound. I imagine it to sound both like a dying and crying animal of some sort. I was getting closer to the entrance way. This was finally my big day. And I'm in! And I look around to see the entire place empty. What the hell?! A door swivels closed at the opposite end of the store. A back entrance! What kind of convenience store has a back entrance!? What kind of badass survivors of a post-apocalyptic wasteland run away from a single zombie!? It was probably the groan, it was too menacing, I'll just sneak up on them all quiet-like next time. I do hope there's a next time. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_  The concept is basically a zombie keeps on trying to get itself killed but it never works out. I'm sure you've already realized, it's like the opposite of a zombie survival guide, haha, aren't jokes funny. Don't really need a critique, just interested in first impressions.


In a small old room with sunlight running through the yellow drapes, a seemingly ordinary clock ticked and tocked. The clock had colorful fur all around it and it was very huggable. A boy then held the clock close towards his chest and he heard his heartbeat match the rhythm of the clock. Walking backwards clumsily, he let his knees fall to the soft embrace of the bed and let go of his arms. The clock remained there in his chest, until the boy’s breathing got deeper and deeper till he was in a deep sleep. By the time he opened his eyes, he immediately caught the scent of grilled steak. He hopped off the bed and took off and down a flight of stairs. ‘You’re awake! Steak’s piping hot and ready!’ It was just the mother and the son sitting on the wooden table. The steak’s size was half of that of an adult’s and there was only one. ‘Go on ahead. I’ve eaten mine.’ The mom was looking him in the eyes with admiration. ‘Say, Jean. What do you think of your new toy?’ Jean mimicked how he hugged the clock and the mother smiled, ‘It’s so fluffy, and it makes the cutest chimes.’ Suddenly, a low tuned chime rang throughout the kitchen and it seemed like it came from upstairs. Jean, visibly frustrated, chewed on his meat faster, gulped it down, and walked quickly to the flight of stairs. Jean’s mother after seeing her son walk out and away from her sight, started sobbing quietly in the background. After climbing the set of stairs, the relentless chiming came to a complete halt. When he peeked inside his room, he found the clock on the bed and jumped up to the bed to hold it once more. Like he always does, he closed his eyes and embraces it. But very quickly, he opens his eyes and places his ears onto his toy. There was no tick tocks left to be heard and the second hand went dead. He then saw his mom peeking on him with concern. ‘I’ll buy you a real toy this time, okay? I promise you’ll like the next one.’ She gently approached the bashful boy and went to bed beside him. ‘You really love the clock?’ She whispered. After a few seconds of silence, he turned towards his mother. Jean spoke, ‘Jean believes the clock will ring again.’ He then felt the warm touch of his mother patting him on the shoulder. She then heard Jean sniffling and saw him holding back his tears. The next day, in the school premises, Jean emotionlessly rummages through his backpack inside the locker and pulled out his fluffy clock. He hid it underneath his shirt and headed back to his seat. Then, he discreetly placed it underneath his desk. He pressed on it gently but got interrupted by a group of cheery students. ‘Jean, come sing with us!’ In response, Jean refused politely, but the other surrounded him instead. The people around him seemed to be searching for something on his body. His friends spoke, ‘Wow is that a musical box I hear?’ ‘What a cute chime.’ ‘Show us. We want to know!’ ‘Ah! Here it is!’ One of the boys picked the clock from underneath Jean’s desk to his surprise. Jean, perplexed, asked his friends. “You can hear it?’ The boy replied, ‘Yes, and everyone else in class! Right?’ The others nodded in unison. He then explained his situation to the 4 students surrounding him. The 4 of them replied in succession. ‘You’re saying that after listening to the chimes yesterday, you can’t hear them anymore?’ ‘There’s no way, it must be that you’re imagining things! Like not being able to listen to it.’ ‘You should go see a doctor.’ One of the girls nudged the mean boy on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be mean. Although it’s most likely that you are hallucinating in reverse.. This really is a cute clock. Mind if we borrow it? Once the hallucination stops and you can hear the chime again, tell us and we’ll give it to you! I swear I won’t bully you or anything.’ She declared quite confidently in the whole class. I nodded in agreement. She then went back to her table and carried her favorite toys in her arms. With outstretched arms and a warm smile, she spoke, ‘Please have fun with these!’ ‘Thanks, Jasmine.’ Day by day went, and every time Jasmine brought out the clock in class, he wasn’t able to hear its melody. One day, Jean was too tired to wake up. His legs felt like jelly and he felt a bit nauseous. He then opens his eyes and sees his mother driving late at night. ‘mom…how did i get here..’ ‘oh dear. Oh dear… we’re going to be there soon, okay? The doctor will make you feel better.’ Rinng. Rinng. The melodious chime that he once heard came back to him. ‘Jasmine gave the clock back to you while you were sick because she knows you love it very much. Thank her later, okay?’ The lovely tune vanquished all the darkness that seemed to clench Jean’s heart and once again, he held the clock close to his chest and hugged it tight. Then, it went quiet again and the second hand stopped moving.. like how it used to be.


The ground shakes but not in a pretentious way. She isn't bitter; she's not mad at any one person. There is no need to feel angry when you are already dying. What's the point? Ending your time while thinking of the last person that hurt you. The ego that gives them, even if they're dying too. Her demeanor is soft, but her builders are vicious. The ocean, the land, the rivers, the sand. All break their silence, and in doing so, hurt each other. She'll watch as her creations tear it all apart. Nothing we could do, "where would we even start?" Nothing can be done when no one wants to change. Nothing can be done when someone says the problem is common, natural, and discreet. But it can. It could have, anyway. We can go back and try again. Still, we'd of learned infrequently. Even if we knew what we faced before we were sent back for another round, we'd convince ourselves that evil could not strike twice. It's ironic calling someone evil when you have been the one torturing them endlessly. Day after day, we humiliate and punish her for merely being. We own her; she belongs to us because she can not speak. We can do what we want because who will stop us?

We can destroy an anthill because there is no consequence. We fear no vengeful ant. A thousand ants are no match for one hose. We may expect nothing from the ground, but the ants' creator will have the last laugh, even in her demise.

Felicity releases her tight grip from the sycamore and falls to the shaking ground. Her notebook flies away as if destined to transport the final word to the last decider. If only Felicity had more time if only her creator could place a hold on her destruction. The tree moves forcefully, the roots coming out inch by inch. Felicity feels feeble, though she's surprised to find she feels anything. She looks up at the suicidal tree, which is beginning to lean towards Felicity. Her exhaustion won't allow her to move from danger; just as well, there are hundreds of trees encompassing the young woman, hanging on despite its numbered days. Felicity wills herself to begin rolling right at the very moment the tree comes crashing down. She screams at the 30-foot tree as it falls with little regard for the panicked human. Her roll picks up speed and just barely evades being crushed. The tree strikes against the ground, making a frightening noise in the sea of ominous sounds. Joining the variable stars exploding in the sky and onto land, the city buildings a mile away collapsing to the pavement. How much longer will this last? Felicity stares at the sky, red and furious. She hates the smugness of its demeanor. How confident and sure it is of itself.

The wind howls through Felicity and makes a screeching sound that can not be ignored. Her fingers fork into the grass and dirt, trying to hold on while nature sings her 11 o'clock number. Felicity covers her ears with her shoulders, pressing them against her creator's wondrous creation. Her fingers, covered in mud, are now free from the ground, and therefore, free from stillness. Felicity rolls violently across the forest, hitting toppling trees and piles of leaves. Her hands try to lessen the impact and protect her face. Branches stab at her and hit her cheeks. She yelps, but against the wind's music, she may as well have said nothing. Thus begins the end for Felicity. She hangs onto a tree when she lands high on the hill overlooking the city. In the brief moment the wind stops its ballad, Felicity looks out to her old life. What used to be full of skyscrapers and flare is now filled with debris and fire. Collapsed buildings turn into fireplaces for giants, and parks turn into the wood. As the ballad of the wind picks up instruments, it's itching to bring Felicity with her. At first, Felicity fights it, holds on with all her strength. But as she looks out at her helpless home, she wonders what she's even holding onto. To see more death or to die more painfully? What we all thought was a distant potentiality is now a lugubrious reality.

She looks at her right hand clutching the soon-to-be-dead tree, takes a breath, and releases her grip. She submits herself to Her device and lets nature gobble her up. "It's unbelievable," Clara lets out a sigh as she puts the coffee pot back on the hotplate.

"Two weeks of gloomy clouds and rain. It's infuriating". Clara groans and grabs a seat beside Felicity, who's filling out a crossword puzzle from an old New Yorker magazine.

"Eh, what can you do?" She asks with little interest.

Clara huffs, "I tell you what, if this keeps up I'm moving out of this exhausting town."

Felicity breaths out of her nose and looks up at Clara without moving her head.

"Clara, city council didn't put this weather into legislation," she says with a smirk.

"I know that! But it's gotta be better anywhere else, right?"

Felicity looks to the side and considers her following statement. She debates the impact her hypothesis would have on Clara. So she chooses to agree, "right," she replies with a poor attempt at a reassuring smile.

What Felicity knows, however, is that Clara will not be leaving this town. Though not because of logistics or change of mind. But because there won't be any point. It will all be the same. Manhattan will host the same fiery clouds as Seattle. Tampa Bay will light up from the same type of fire as Ontario.

Felicity feels it when she walks outside and slowly chokes on the air. She sees the growing amount of dead bodies of homeless people on her commute to work. New York officials will say it's the heat or an overdose. Most will believe them while still yelling for them to do better. Yet Felicity sees through their efforts for them to remain calm. She notices how billionaires have begun constructing barriers and air filters on their mansions. Or how actors' Twitter accounts have vanished and have now dropped out of future movies and television engagements. The public figures it's a strike for noble causes. Felicity knows those people would never leave the spotlight willingly. She knows they're preparing for what comes next. Well, they're making other's prepare for them.

It's when the clouds turn red that the notifications begin to report.

Weather watch: unhealthy air alerts spread across the U.S from this record-breaking heat. Air-related illness and death are reported across the country. Citizens are instructed to remain indoors as much as possible and to wear facemasks when outdoors. U.S President reports the air quality is set to improve after the heatwave. It never did improve. The clouds that smothered the sky were not the result of nature but the result of selfishness.

Americans across the country began to suspect the reality, though they managed to convince each other it was a temporary inconvenience.

 Clara puts the cream back in the refrigerator, grabs her mug, and takes a sip of the burned drink. She grunts and says, "I swear, there is nothing worse than burnt coffee."  	Felicity looks out the window and see's hell inside the dark clouds. She could swear it was a fire. The sky begins to open up, clouds disperse rapidly from each side, leaving a hairline of the sky. Only the sky is not blue but a dark red and orange.

Heat absorbs the room instantly, and Felicity comes to realize this may be it.

Clara sighs, "they have GOT to fix this air conditioning," as she waves a paper plate across her face. Felicity sees objects shooting into the sky. She wishes it was only war. And in a way, it is. She walks to the window and closes the blinds. A few more minutes of ignorance is what she craves. Her desire to be as clueless as Clara, to believe anything that gives her zero responsibility.

Felicity takes a deep breath as Clara adds sugar to her coffee.

Feeling an inevitable end, Felicity thinks to do only what she has the power to do, pretend. Play the innocent and ignorant. Be insolent and impotent. Pretend there is no end. Hold that Earth will not scold. Believe you can pull off naive. Be angry when you die and ask the world 'why?'

Felicity breaths as best she can. She grabs her plastic bottle of Diet Coke and takes a big sip. Her last, it will be. The heat gets worse, the noises outside are weary. The wind is haunting and irregular. For a moment, the floor shakes in the break room. Clara looks down and tells Felicity, "I don't know why they don't just do construction on Saturdays."

Felicity shrugs, completely ignoring what Clara had to say. She takes another large gulp of her Diet Coke.

"You know, you're really not supposed to use plastic anymore," Clara snides, looking almost annoyed. It'd be a fine thing to critique if you didn't work for Chevron.

Before Felicity thinks about replying, a sudden rumble of the floor begins to grow stronger. Glasses on the counter start to shake. Clara holds onto the counter, furious at the construction workers.

Felicity decides she would hate to die in the office of the sinners. She is one, of course. But maybe her silent disapproval will give her amnesty.

She sits up from her chair and begins to walk through the shaking room.

"You should leave the building with me," Felicity tells Clara. No one should have to die that way.

"It's just some construction babes," Clara tells her with a hint of irritation.

Felicity doesn't object; she just grabs her purse and walks out.

The stairs are across the break room. She expects a crowded stairwell, but instead, Felicity's met with just herself.

She races down the stairs as the grown growls. She stops herself from falling several times, holding onto the fragile handle for dear life. Though the goal is only to have a better end.

She get's to the main floor, where the front desk worker stays submissive to his char.

"Tony, you should leave the building, it's going to fall." She can barely convince herself to find the point.

"They told me to stay, Felicity," responds Anthony.

She was going to ask by who, but she knows it's the executives in space, riding it out.

She hears a loud noise from above, almost unbearable. It's happening. She doesn't yell for Tony; she just runs out.

She sprints for her life, for her death, for her identity. She hears the building being returned to its original landlord. She doesn't look back; there is really no use.

Felicity lays on the grass in the park. She breaths and cries as she looks for her old office building, though only dust and debris fill the air. Felicity gets up and walks further out of the city and into the park. Alone with only her thoughts, Felicity grabs a notebook and a pencil from her purse. As the winds sing and the ground shakes, she writes its lament.

The Ballads of the Wind - Felicity Von Brandt Play the innocent and ignorant.

Be insolent and impotent.

Pretend that there is no end.

Hold that Earth will not scold.

Believe that you can pull off naive.

Be angry when you die

then ask the world, 'why?'

The ground shakes but not in a conspicuous way. She's not bitter, not any more than yesterday. Why be angry when you're already dying? Ceasing your time while they continue lying. Concluding while recalling the person that hurt you  The ego that gives them, even when they're dying too.