The fabric of her reality seemed to be ripping apart at the seams. She reached up and used her left hand to whip the steam from her bathroom mirror. Aisha gazed at her reflection, the almond-shaped hazelnut brown eyes, the caramel-colored skin, the freckles that were sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. It was all familiar, she connected with the image, she knew that it was her.  She felt crazy, the need to ground herself like this. Her eyes started to well up with tears as she thought about the loss of her wife, her best friend. They had done everything together, they had faced the world together.

She felt a wave of anxiety wash over her when she heard the voice calling for her from the kitchen.

The voice sounded like Maya, IT looked like Maya, IT had her beauty, her smile, but not her essence. The therapist told Aisha that she was suffering from Capgras syndrome, a psychological disorder that causes one to falsely believe that an identical person has replaced a person close to you. But Aisha knew better. No doppelgänger would fool her. IT was not Maya. The timing was too convenient. Aisha and Maya had seen the spacecraft together. Aisha had captured actual photos of the event, not blurry images but crystal clear professional photographs.

Aisha had been following Senator Howard R. Ervin. Maya had gone along with her like she had on so many occasions. Aisha found that Maya provided a cover story so she could do her investigative field work without raising suspicion. Plus, it was a great excuse for having her around.

Aisha was working on a piece for the Times about political corruption, and believed that Senator Ervin had been selling influence.

They had followed him out to a remote location. Aisha pulled out her Fujifilm X-T4 camera, she felt it in her gut, this was the moment she had been waiting for and she was right. What her and Maya saw next changed everything. A spacecraft appeared from seemingly nowhere. Senator Ervin exited his vehicle and transformed into a kind of lizard man. She shook off the disbelief and snapped as many photos as she could.

She took those photos and wrote up a Pulitzer Prize winning piece and hand delivered it to her editor.

The push back was almost immediate. She was called in and suspended for two weeks. They accused her of violating the Times code of ethics. They claimed the photos were fake, and that she had knowingly lied. Never before had her integrity been questioned. The idea that others believed she was compromised made her feel

physically ill.

But Aisha knew the truth. She refused to back down. She went onto the dark web to do research on the creature she saw. The creature she learned was called a Reptilian, known throughout history by many names. They have appeared in the folk lore of different cultures across time, cunning, cruel, bent on ruling as overlords.

People speculated that they already controlled the world, using their shape-shifting abilities to take the form of world leaders.

She became obsessed with Senator Ervin. She dug through his trash, and followed him everywhere he went. She took meticulously notes detailing his every action. She knew now that the Times couldn’t  be trusted, so she went on the web. First YouTube, then TikTok. Showing photos of glitches in the illusions created by the reptilians, and focusing heavily on Senator Ervin.

But frustration reigned as the videos would get flagged, and her accounts removed. She went back to the dark web, she published her findings in blogs under the name Grillo and found a following. One night, she was arrested and charged with stalking Senator Ervin.

Maya had shown up and bailed her out, but something was off.

From that moment onward, they seemed to always be one step ahead of her. Beating her at every punch.

Senator Ervin had agreed to drop the stalking charge if she agreed to obey a restraining order and attended therapy. She reluctantly agreed. The therapist tried to convince her that she was sick. But she knew it was a lie. She tried to tell her about the reptilians, about Maya. But she didn’t believe her, no one believed her.

The more time she spent around Maya the clearer it became that they had replaced her. She knew Maya, she loved Maya. She could never forget her touch. Nor the love in her eyes, in her voice. The

Reptilians could steal her looks, but not her soul. “Capgras syndrome, fuck that.” What truth preyed upon Aisha's mind and plagued her emotions was a simple set of questions that played on repeat.

What did they do to Maya? Where is Maya? Was it her fault?

IT called out again.

“Honey, are you okay?” She summed up her strength and answered back.

“I just finished my shower, I’ll be out soon.” IT had cooked again, the smell of coffee and bacon hung in the air. She hated IT, and refused to call it Maya even in her mind. But she had to play nice. Aisha knew she had to keep her wits about her. She couldn’t tip her hand. She knew IT was feeding the other reptilians.  information. Aisha got dressed and walked into the tiny kitchen, staring at ITs face. She had seen a glitch before in ITs eyes, they had turned green, and the pupils changed to slits for a split second.

IT tried to talk to her, but IT words ran together in Aisha's mind. “I have to run, I’m late for the bus. I can’t risk missing it.” Aisha  bolted from the apartment and into the cool crisp morning air.

Aisha walked to her bank, she had taken to keeping her evidence of the reptilian in a lockbox. She couldn’t leave anything in the house with IT there.

Her mind was racing, she felt like people were watching her every move. Aisha went inside, talked to a clerk and accessed her lockbox. She took her research from a hidden compartment built into a jewelry box. There it was all her hard-won proof on a tiny SIM card-sized memory chip. She placed  it carefully into the slit she made in her left shoe .

Aisha exited the bank and held a cab. On the way to the meeting spot she felt a sense of relief for the first time in a year. She had found a group of hackers on the dark web who she came to trust, a group that had the same goal, to expose reptilian secrets. The group would hack all the major media outlets and post her story on the home pages. She had the cab drop her off a block away from the meeting spot, and walked the rest of the way. It was a clandestine business building on the outskirts of the city. It looked run down, like it hadn’t been used in years.

She followed the instructions they provided to the letter. The door opened and she was led to a room by a small motley group of hackers.

Arum_Sahan is the username of the hacker she had spoken with the most. The one she felt close to. Arum_Sahan was the group's leader. He eagerly introduced himself.

“Grollo, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Prometheus.” Grollo, it was weird to hear someone call her by her dark webpin name. She studied him. He was a short squat man, with greenish blue eyes, short red hair with a short cropped beard. “I have an encrypted computer set up. Did you bring the chip?” She reached down and retrieved the treasure trove from her shoe.

Arum_Sahan put the chip into the computer. She told him the code to unlock the chip and decode the documents and photos. Arum_Sahan  stared at the screen almost mesmerized. “This is stunning, what you have accomplished, the information you’ve uncovered.” The door opened behind her, and IT walked in. “It’s too bad that you can’t let it be,” IT said. The room started to spin, she fought for breath, as she gazed around the room everyone started to change. She was surrounded by reptilians.

They grabbed Aisha, and forced her into a chair. She tried to scream but the words caught in her throat. The reptilians tied her to a chair. Arum_Sahan walked over to her, studying her face. Suddenly Aisha heard her voice but it was coming from Arum_Sahan mouth. Her face appeared on Arum_Sahan face. Horror gripped her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. It was like looking into a mirror. The room began to spin. Arum_Sahan looked at Aisha with a smirk.

“We are everything you say we are, and so much more. We are Ananaki, the snake that misled Eve. We are Nahas.


by Bottomtexting Bob was a man, he was a small man, he was a troublemaker he has always stolen and lied. Then there was Susan, Susan was a nice tall woman and a helpful person she had to always help to get Bob out of trouble. One day Bob tried to steal a bike from a store In doing so he made a shopkeeper very mad and got beat up very bad. Susan didn't save Bob at that time because he kept getting it trouble and she didn't want to get in trouble with the cops. After Bob got arrested they had to use an ambulance to get him to the hospital because putting him in a police car would hurt him. After getting to the hospital she waited for six days and finally, she got to see Bob he was in such a bad state that he couldn’t move. Susan asked Bob, “How are you feeling?” Bob replied, “Everything hurts I can’t move anything.” Susan felt bad for Bob. “I hope you feel better.” Susan left Bob’s room and went over to the doctor “How much will the medical bill cost?” The doctor replied “About $150,000” Susan looked at the doctor in distress she knew that she can't pay them that much money. She knew that there was only one thing she can do, attempt to rob the biggest bank in the country, Big Apple Bank. She knew that it will be hard and if she got arrested she will be in jail for life. Susan went to the hospital and talked to Bob and asked: “How do I rob a bank and not get arrested?” Bob replied in a whispering voice “You need to wear a mask to hide your identity and don’t set off the alarms and run away as fast as you can.” Susan replied, “Ok thanks for the help I will get this paid off!” Then walked out of Bob’s room and started to think how to plan this out. Susan was scared but confident. “I’m ready to pull this off!” Susan said, “I will do this tomorrow!” One day later Susan put on her mask and walked to the bank and demanded the money “Give me the money!” Susan said to the bank accountant. The bank accountant walked to the vault and open the vault and Susan walked in the vault and found money gold and diamonds. She said, “Man after I rob this bank I will be a millionaire and if I don’t use the money for Bob I can be even richer!” The Bank accountant was already mad and after his company was robbed so he told Susan, “I don’t know you but by just listening to you talk you don’t deserve this money.” Susan replied, “What are you going to do print me a bill for robbing this bank?” This made the bank accountant very mad so he closed the vault door and locked Sally in the vault as soon as he did this he ran to the phone and dialed 911. Knowing the police are on their way Susan was panicking she didn't want to go to prison she was screaming at the top of her lungs “Let me out let me out!”After a couple of minutes, the police got there and started to run to the vault. The bank accountant opened the vault door, Susan yelled “I'm free!” She lowers her head and the police arrested her for attempting to rob the bank, the bank accountant told Susan “Better luck next time!” The police officers walked Susan out of the bank and put her in the police car Susan was very sad now but after thinking to herself she said: “If I wasn't tricked I would've been a millionaire.” Bob was still in the hospital on his bed and after deciding what to watch on the TV he flipped through a few stations and decided to watch the news channel and he waited to see the bank robbery after a few minutes the news reporter said “This time on the news a woman tried to rob a bank and gets locked in the bank vault.” After hearing this Bob went in a panic “She got caught and didn't run away in time and if she tells the police that I gave her all this information I will get life in prison!” This was stressing Bob out his heart was racing so fast the heart rate moderator was beeping like crazy and then it stopped. The nurses ran into his room as fast as they can but it was to late bob died from cardiac arrest. The nurses went to the phone and called the police and said “Don't come over to the hospital Bob died from cardiac arrest from unknown reasons.” After the nurses were done talking they picked up Bob and gave him to his family. Two days later Susan was at court the reason she was late is from extreme headaches she was taken to a seat and forced to sit down. After a while, all the people started to sit down. The judge stated to talk “The reason you are here know Susan is that you attempted to rob the Big Apple Bank you have endangered many lives I will sentence life in prison with no chance of parole.” The jury agreed to the judge's sentence and Susan was walked down to the police car and the police drove her to jail she was given an outfit and took her to her cell she laid down on her bed she had a bad headake she tried to get up and fell on the grown she tried to get back up and suddenly it when black. The prison guard ran over to her cell but it was too late Susan died from a seizure.


Glancing at the book in her hand Maisie sighed and considered the merits of reading the section ‘Letter to his Father’ from Franz Kafka’s 'Dearest Father, and other stories'.  She opened a random page: “Sometimes I imagine the map of the world spread out and you stretched diagonally across it.” What did that even mean? Through the tiny window above her head Maisie could see the darkening sky where shimmering raindrops fragmented the glow from the streetlamps. Settling back against the bookcase she wondered if anyone in the library had noticed she was missing. How long before they sent out a search party? Would anyone remember the errand she’d been sent on? As the newest recruit, not really beyond probation, she had found herself sent all over the building, often on a wild goose chase. Just a joke, they said, when she’d been sent to find ‘Dehydrated Water’ by Davy Jones. This errand hadn’t been a joke. The young man who’d come into the library, hair plastered to his head, dripping all over the wooden floor, had looked flustered, anxiety oozing from every pore. His eyes, small black marbles, seemed to jerk around the room looking desperately for help. “I need this book, I really need this book. It’s essential for my research. I’ve got a deadline.” The words tumbled out in a disorderly flurry of disjointed phrases. “Maisie will help you,” Mrs Grant had waved the man towards Maisie at the information desk and returned to cataloging the new additions to the detective fiction section. Maisie had been covertly watching. She’d seen the latest Dennis Fisher had arrived and had hoped to disappear off into a corner and skim read it. Dennis Fisher was an unlikely detective, but had won Maisie’s heart with his slightly bulging tummy and home knitted jumpers. At the end of ‘Dennis Fisher and the Mystery of the Rubber Truncheon’ he was in hospital and there was the suggestion of a love interest from a nurse. Maisie was hoping that that story line went nowhere, it was difficult to fantasise about a character if the author had married him off. Outside the rain bounced from the roof of the building next door, its temporary sheeting vibrating as the water pulsed against the plastic. She wondered idly if it would hold and what was stored in the loft of the artisan bakery that the building accommodated. “What I would have needed was a little encouragement, a little friendliness, a little keeping open of my road, instead of which you blocked it for me.” Maisie certainly agreed with Kafka on that point, wondering whether the book was still available to buy, these were things that her father needed to understand. Certainly if it was then the flustered man could have just downloaded it and saved himself the bother of coming to the library in the pouring rain. Which in turn would mean that Maisie wouldn’t have been sent on an errand to find the book and wouldn’t have accidentally locked herself in the basement storage section for authors K – O. Kafka clearly had a father who thought along the same lines as hers did – categorically announcing that a life on the stage was no way for a girl to make anything of herself and an internship in the library was by far and away the best thing for a girl like Maisie, who spent most of her time with her head in a book living in a fantasy world of someone else’s making. Maisie had relished her drama classes – the build up to a production; the rehearsal camaraderie; the costumes and make up. She’d loved all of those things and wanted her chance to give it a go. Drama was one road that her father had definitely blocked for her. “In a way, I was safe writing” just like Maisie, sneaking round the library reading books, safe from her father’s watchful gaze. She wondered what the man dripping water around the library needed the book for, was he writing about Kafka or maybe fathers. Perhaps he too had a really irritating parent like her. The hot water pipe that ran alongside the wall was warm and the storeroom had heated up to a level that was causing Maisie to find it difficult to keep her eyes open. Suddenly there was the sound of the door opening and Mrs Grant’s voice annoyed asking her what she thought she was doing sitting on the floor – the man was waiting for the book. Taking it from her hand she swept upstairs leaving Maisie to gather herself together and follow her. She arrived back at the information desk to hear Mrs Grant announce in no uncertain terms that the book was not to be loaned out. “You have thirty five minutes before closing time and then you’ll have to leave,” and then as if remembering that this was a member of the public coming in to use the library service she added slightly more kindly, “if you give me your coat I’ll hang it on the staff coat rack – it’s by a radiator and should dry out before you need to leave. The study desks are through that door on the left.” She held her hand out. Maisie wished she had that level of confidence. It was so much easier, she thought, when she could stand on a stage and pretend to be someone else rather than mousey Maisie Grey.  Thirty five minutes later Maisie was standing outside the library under an umbrella with her hood pulled up - waiting. She wondered if she was going slightly crazy, what would Dennis Fisher have done in her situation? She needed to know who the man was and why he was studying the Kafka book. She’d slipped away from the desk and hidden in the staff toilets Googling  Kafka to discover that his work fused reality and fantasy, something that Maisie’s father had said she did in her own life. You need to grow up, he’d told her, take some responsibility. You can’t live in a fantasy world forever. Maisie had skimmed through Wikipedia: “Y outh is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it.” Which means, Maisie thought, that logically if you repeated the mantra “I do believe in fairies, I do, I do, I do” then it stands to reason that Fairies would come into existence. Maisie had taken out two books by Kafka and tucked them deep into the side pocket of bag. ‘Metamorphosis’ and ‘The Trial’ which Google informed her were essential reading for the Kafka scholar.

She spotted her prey exiting the building and leaving an appropriate two person gap between them she scuttled along the street, past the artisan bakery and round the corner into Robertson Street. There were fewer people heading this way and Maisie tried to pull her umbrella further forward so that her face was less visible, although her quarry did not seem in the slightest bit interested in anything around him.

The time was 5.45pm and he was clearly heading for the park, marching purposefully on towards the gates, which were locked at 6.00pm on the dot. Maisie watched him go through. If she followed him she’d have to eventually turn around and come back as her own home was in the opposite direction, if the park gates were locked it would mean a twenty minute detour and her mother would have tea on the table at 6.30, with the expectation that the whole family would be washed up and ready to eat. Reluctantly Maisie turned around and headed back down Robertson Street. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he hadn’t finished with ‘Letter to his Father’, maybe he might come back in to the library and Maisie allowed her imagination to wander through scenario after scenario, each one ending with Maisie and the Kafka scholar sharing tea and comparing notes on tyrannical parents!


“I can’t move!” cried Aria. She was submerged waist deep in a murky swamp of brown, and green water. She’d fallen into a riverbed of squelching mud. With every struggle of movement, she could feel herself sinking and tipping off balance. She had got herself completely lost out in the wilderness of Northern England. All around her was a picturesque woodland filled with pine, oak and silver birch trees. Arms of branches outstretched in a shadowed cluster; little circles of gleaming sunlight shone through in spotlight beams over the fallen autumn leaves that hugged the muddy wood ground. Everywhere she turned there was something moving, something alive. Creatures great and small roamed the grounds; it was all so lush and vibrant, full of life, nature and greenery, but in it all, Aria could only feel great distress. The cold water clung to her legs; her tight jeans felt like they were contracting around her. Aria panted breathlessly; every breath felt like burning fire down her throat. She tried and failed to pull her legs free. Her heartbeat was like a jackhammer, so fast it set her nerves on edge. A white heat enveloped her. The water seemed to be swallowing her in long, slow gulps. Her feet were immersed deep in the sinking squelching mud which seemed to be thickening at her ankles, tightening like shackles; her shoes were the only thing to keep her on balance. The smell around her was so strong it engulfed her in a vile, revolting stench that hung in the air and all over her; it was beyond repulsive, almost as strong as sewage; she could taste in her mouth, so pungent. The sky above was a vibrant white, headachy and muzzy; the bright spherical sun glistened, catching her eyes through the rustling trees. An easterly wind blew in strong gusts, whistling through the woods like an echo; birds followed in glorious song. Aria struggled to stand; her arms flapped like a restless bird, eager to stretch its wings, and the dirty water splashed, soaking her more and more. All she cared about was escaping, being free from this filth. For a moment, she took in her surroundings, under a canopy of coniferous trees, shadowed by their long-winged branches. She’d walked through a field of cows and sheep on a long cross-country pathway; there were only two other people she’d seen on that path, and that was hours ago. She’d taken a slight detour to take pictures of the woodland area she’d found just to the side of an old reservoir. It all went downhill from there. She’d fallen, and tumbled in a sideward roll down a steep hill, and she’d hurt her legs, back and arms in the process. As she stood to her feet, disoriented and bruised, she regained her balance, but as she did, she was suddenly startled by a big black dog staring at her; its bark was fierce and gruff, its teeth sharp like razors, its eyes were white almost ghostlike with the irises red as blood. A scream escaped her as she picked up her pace, and she fled, limping further into the woodland not knowing where she was going; luck wasn’t on her side as she fell again, only this time she fell face down into a stretch of murky, stinky water, and as she came back up, she panted fearfully. She looked back up to where she’d been; the dog stood there on the embankment, shadowed under a silver birch. Its eyes glared at her, void of any emotion. She stared back, trembling; the black dog blinked, and her heartbeat accelerated, but then it suddenly turned and fled back the way it came from. Aria breathed in deeply, and then she began to wade through the river; after a few moments, she noticed she was gradually sinking deeper and deeper; she stopped and stood still. Aria shouted out for help, but after almost an hour nobody had heard her, nobody had come. She could feel herself sinking deeper. Aria had dropped her bag on her run; there was no way of contacting anybody. She felt hidden from the world, with nobody around for miles to hear her cries. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she wept. She wondered what to do, and which way could she turn. All she wanted was to escape and be back home in the peace and safety of her house. This wasn’t how her day was supposed to go. She craved an adventure, just a simple walk would satisfy, but this was beyond what she could possibly imagine, and she’d hurtled into treacherous grounds with no means of help or any civilization in sight. “Somebody! Anybody, please help me!” Aria screamed out in distress. Her voice grew hoarse the more she shouted, but she continued until she couldn’t anymore; her throat was dry and scratchy, and she desperately longed for clean water to quench her thirst. Silent tears fell, soaking her dirty cheeks, as she stood there, alone and afraid. A single thrush swept through the air and landed gently on a small hook-shaped branch. Its pleasant whistle sang for a few moments, and Aria stared at the creature, listening intently, but paralysed to move. She closed her eyes, taking in the beautiful song, and she gradually found herself calming, until her heartbeat had eased to a steady rhythm. She opened her eyes, and caught a glimpse of something under the thrushes’ claw. She squinted curiously at it, and saw it was a crumpled piece of paper; she could only make out one letter, a capital ‘T.’ The thrush stayed with her for over an hour. Aria was cold and shivering, and constantly looking out for help, but nobody came. She stared at the thrush again. A sudden sense of boldness came upon her, and she tried to take a single step through the swampy waters; as she did, she tumbled into the water. It felt like there were dozens of arms gripping at her leg pulling her under. She couldn’t see a thing as she sank under the dirty water; her eyes stung, and all around her was darkness. Aria kicked frantically and managed to come up for air; she gasped and choked on the disgusting water. She managed to regain her balance, and she stood with her legs a good width apart to maintain her upright stance. Only her head was visible as she poked out of the river. She squinted her eyes; the raw sting made her bite back a hiss. When she was able to open her eyes completely, everything ahead was a blur; she angled her body to her right, and as she did, a waft of wind blew at her face. She turned again, and was met by the thrush; it perched itself on a small twig that bobbed up on the water beside her. Aria breathed shakily. Sunlight suddenly peered out from behind the whiteness of the sky; its radiance shone through the cluster of trees, and adorned a shimmer of a bright rainbow in front of Aria hovering above the water. “What have you got there for me?” Aria whispered down to the thrush, as she stared at its closed claw holding the paper. The thrush tilted its head to one side, listening to her voice. Slowly, Aria raised her right arm out of the muddy river; the brown water rolled off her arm, streaming like a waterfall, and it fell in small droplets onto the colourful sight that now had spread wider onto the waters. Her hand lightly caressed the birds wing; the thrush didn’t appear to be frightened or welcoming of her advances, it was simply just content with sitting there. With a steady hand, she reached for the paper, curiously peeking at the ‘T’; she saw a curve which followed on the next letter, and for some reason her interest in the paper had caused her for that moment to forget where she was, and that she was currently submerged in water, trapped and sinking. Finally, the thrush acknowledged her presence; hopping from the twig, it landed on her finger, with the paper still woven through its claw. She grasped hold of the paper with her cold fingers, and just as she was about to pull it free, the thrush took off into the air leaving Aria alone again; the feeling of hopelessness washed over her once more. “Don’t go,” Aria cried. The sky darkened. Chills ran through her body. In all her life, she’d never felt more isolated than she did in this moment; fear and dread took hold of her. Occasionally the horrible feeling of isolation had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming peace, but for this moment she felt afraid. Aria wiggled her legs and feet until the numbness turned to a dull tingle, and she could feel the mud caked around her whole body. A tiny ripple bubbled under her chin. Aria raised her head, and her eyes widened; two golden silhouettes of harps shone out from the radiant sun encircled with small bright white spheres. She thought for a second she might be dreaming, or even hallucinating, but it was real, she could feel it. A calming warmth came upon her once again, only this time it felt like it was being poured over her and she couldn’t escape it, not that she wanted to. Every sensation, every heightened emotion dwindled down to nothing, as she felt this calmness envelope her. With her head raised to the sky, her eyes fell closed in a still surrender. Aria moved one leg through the clumps of slimy mud that had become stuck around her; she was almost cemented in the river like a statue. As she went to move her other leg, she nearly lost her balance again. She kept her eyes closed, completely calm in the situation, the opposite of when she started; now she wasn’t a slave to her fear. A sudden feeling of boldness and courage had taken over her fears. She dragged her legs across one by one, almost like ploughing through four feet of snow. She continued this action with all the strength inside pushing through her; it didn’t even feel like she was the one doing it. A sweet whistle hummed from above, and Aria’s eyes flitted open to see the same thrush return; it circled around her in a large halo. Her attention immediately went to its claw where she could no longer see the piece of paper. It soared in a wide spiral before finally landing on a floating log beside her. She took her eyes away for one moment as the black snarling dog reappeared on the hillside. She became distracted, and as she was, she began to sink again. The water sucked her under like a vacuum. She held tightly to her breath. This time when she opened her eyes, she didn’t feel the sharp sting from the waters’ impurities; instead, the water was clear, and the surface above was entirely visible. Aria saw the dancing trees, and the bright white sky, and then she saw a flock of birds which flew in a synchronised ‘V’ formation; they came straight overhead like a huge arrow pointing towards something. With every second it got harder and harder to hold on. Aria kicked her legs, frantically trying to reach the surface, but the mud just wouldn’t let her go. She desperately needed to breathe. The wind swept two trees right and left, creating a divide where the suns’ radiance shone through. Aria’s eyes fell closed, and as they did, the water began to disperse, until all around her it gurgled, vibrating across her body. She gasped for air as the water drained; she looked on in awestruck wonder as all of the swampy riverbed dried up into the soil. Then it came to her, that one word she was searching for, ‘Trust.’ Trust; I can!


One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Edward counted nine stalks of bamboo growing out of the small planter that lived on his kitchen counter. Edward unlocked his iPhone and opened the Compass app.

“Perfect,” he said to himself. The front of the lucky bamboo stand faced east. The kitchen timer pealed. The aroma of freshly baked eggplant parmesean filled Edward’s urban highrise apartment. He pulled the casserole from the oven, placed it on a four-leaf clover shaped trivet, and covered the dish in foil. The digital clock on the stove turned to 6:55 pm.

Edward lit three white candles that rested in an elaborate dining room table candlestick holder. It had been over a year since he used his dining room. Sheila and he ate their last meal here. Edward didn’t cook much, but he made a good eggplant parmesean. Shelia stopped eating meat because the chemo threw her taste off. She loved Edward’s eggplant parmesean. The buzzer rang. Edward ran to the door. “Hello,” he said. “Ed, it’s me,” Susan said. “C’mon up.” Edward pressed the button under the intercom. He nearly tripped on the Laughing Buddha on his way back to the kitchen. He rubbed the Laughing Buddha’s belly for good luck. “Plates, utensils . . . OK,” Edward said.

Susan knocked on the front door with a shave-and-a-haircut. Edward returned the “two-bits” with the undoing of the two deadbolts. He opened the door and saw Susan in the doorway with a bottle of beaujolais and a little box with two cupcakes in it.

“Hi!” Susan said with an extended “I,” smiling ear to ear. “Susan, come in, please. May I take your coat?” Susan paused. “I’m a cold body. Do you mind if I leave it on for a bit?” “Not at all. Come in, come in.” “A koi pond? You gotta be kidding me!”

Susan ran to the koi pond in Edward’s foyer, almost dropping the beaujolais. Five koi swam in circles, their colors swirling in rainbows, reflecting the low light of Edward’s apartment. “They bring good luck,” Edward said. “Really? How so?” “Legend has it that, long ago, a koi was determined to reach the dragon gate. The dragon gate was a magical portal that rested on top of a far away mountain that lay miles and miles upstream from the koi. Against all odds, the koi swam upstream, fighting the current all the way. Eventually, she reached the gate. When he passed through, she turned into a glorious dragon.” “Was she a luck dragon? You know, like Falcor?” “Who’s Falcor?” Edward asked. “He was the dragon from the Neverending Story.” “The legend comes from China, so I think the koi dragon probably looked more like a Chinese Dragon.” “Like Mushu?” Edward paused and scrunched his brow, looking upward. “The dragon in Mulan. Eddie Murphy voiced him,” Susan said. “Oh, yeah, I remember Mushu. Well, Mushu is the Disney version of the concept, I guess. The great Chinese dragons were much larger and, well, characatured, like flying samauri. Look over here.” Edward walked a few steps down toward the kitchen and pointed to sculpture of a chinese dragon he had in the hallway.

“Is that a pearl in his hand?” “Yes,” Edward said. “Some say the chinese dragon controls wisdom, propsertity, and power when it controls pearl. Sometimes the pearl is on fire. Sometimes the pearl can mean energy or immortality. Sometimes, it means the moon.” “Smells great in here.” “Yes, eggplant parmesean, as promised.”

Edward and Susan sat and ate. Susan poured the wine. Edward talked. Susan listened.

“Thanks for coming over,” Edward said. “My pleasure.” “It’s been a while since I’ve, well, been in the company of someone who listens as well as you do.” “Your story is . . . real,” Susan said. “Do you think all this helps? The good luck charms, I mean.” “God, I hope so,” Edward laughed.

“To lose your wife, your mother, your dog, and your job in the same year would be too much for me.”

“Are you sure I can’t take your coat?” Edward asked. “How about a cupcake?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Edward wolfed down the vanilla plain-jane cupcake with the firey icing. “Have another.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m full. And, besides, I’m around these all day.” “When do you work next? At the bakery?” Edward swallowed the devil’s food cupcake almost whole. “Tomorrow, 5 am,” Susan said. Edward cringed at the thought of getting up that early.

“What did you think of the eggplant parmesean?” Edward asked, his mouth partially full.

“Loved it. But . . . " “But what?” “Nevermind.” “No, tell me,” Edward insisted. “Ok, ok. Needs salt.” Edward lowered his chin to his chest and let out a long low sigh.

“No, it was good. It’s just that I like a little more salt, that’s all,” Susan said.

“I don’t keep salt in the house. I don’t even touch the stuff if I can’t help it.” “Hypertension?” “Don’t want to spill it.” Susan’s dropped her jaw and turned her head, eyes wide. Then she laughed wildly. “C’mere. I want to show you something,” Edward said. Susan straightened in her chair. Edward got up and headed toward the bedroom. “I want to show you a picture,” Edward explained. Susan got up from the table and followed Edward. Edward nearly tripped but caught himself. “Woah,” Edward said. “I must have had too much wine.”

Once in the bedroom, Edward gestured to the large framed print of

The Last Supper. “ Michelangelo?” Susan asked. “Di Vinci,” Edward said. “Now, tell me what you see.”

“Well, it’s the last supper from the

Bible . If I remember correctly, this was the moment Jesus broke bread and told his diciples that one of them would betray him.” “Correct. And, who betrays him?” “Judas. But which one is he in the painting?” “Look closer,” Edward said. Susan scanned the painting at each of the figures. “I can’t tell.”

“Look for the spilt salt shaker,” Edward said. “There.” Susan pointed to the man on the left side of the table, about half way down, with the spilt salt shaker in front of him.

“That’s it. That’s why I don’t keep salt in the house. I don’t want to end up like Judas.”

“But, don’t you think Judas had a choice? He chose his luck.” Edward staggered backwards. “Excuse me, I’m getting dizzy.” “Don’t you think what happened to him was just? I mean, he sold out the Son of Man. Shouldn’t there be a special place in hell for him?” Edward coughed. Blood dotted his balled fist. “What the?” “Edward, do you think one should pay for one’s crimes?” “Susan, what are you do—”

“I know, Edward! I know everything! I know you smothered your wife! You poisoned your mother! And you killed your dog! You . . . you . . . liar! As for your job, well, you just kind of suck at being a lawyer.” Susan’s voice grew deeper and distorted as she ranted.

“How’d—“ Edward passed out and fell forward into

The Last Supper , knocking it off the wall.

Susan undid her coat. She pulled out a large machete. She cut off Edward’s head. She held it just like the Chinese dragon in the hallway held her pearl.

Then, she transformed into a beautiful yellow Chinese dragon, ate Edward’s head, and flew out the bedroom window into the night.


“What do you have there?” The voice brought the young man out of his scrutiny, and he was surprised to see a pretty woman seated on the opposite side of the table. He hadn’t even heard her enter the common room. Was this how college students always struck up conversations?            “Oh, uh, hello. I’m sorting pennies. My name’s Tom, uhhhh, what’s yours?” He paused awkwardly, unsure how to handle this intrusion.            The young woman smiled and tucked her long, brown hair behind her ear. “I’m Susan. What do you mean, you’re sorting pennies?”            Tom’s face brightened. “I just got a bunch of rolls from the bank, I go through them to see if there are any interesting ones in there! It’s like a treasure hunt, just with tiny pieces of money instead of gold or jewels.” He laughed. “Want to join me? I still have plenty left.”            “Not right now, thank you. Have you found anything interesting?”            He poked at the tiny pile of coins he’d set aside; after a moment, he handed one over with an apologetic shrug. “I’ve got a San Francisco, but that’s about it so far.”            “Really?” Susan looked at the penny briefly before handing it back. “What’s special about that? It looks like a regular penny.”            Tom laughed. “It pretty much is a regular penny, but ones made in San Francisco are kind of tough to find, so I keep them. Did you not see the mintmark?”            “Mintmark?”            “Here.” he moved eagerly around to her side of the table. “It’s the S right there, on the front of the coin. That means it was made in San Francisco.”            She furrowed her brow and squinted at the penny. “That little mark is all it takes to make it special?”            “Mostly, yeah! It’s the little things that make them valuable. A mintmark, a tiny error, a different date.” He grabbed a roll and held it out to her. “There’s other stuff that’s a lot easier to spot, if you want to look for those. Wheat pennies, foreign coins, things like that. You sure you don’t want to try a roll?”            “Well…” she hesitated, then smiled. “Sure, I’ll try one. Just tell me what to look for.”            They spent a couple of hours that afternoon going through the pennies, and Tom convinced Susan afterwards to join him on several other afternoons as well. Susan did not seem very interested in the pennies, and Tom often had to go through the ones she’d checked to find the things she missed. But he didn’t mind; he found himself becoming quite interested in Susan. Many little things about her drew his attention, like the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, or laughed when he tried to make a joke.            As the months wore on, the two of them spent more time together, and less time sorting coins. Tom still got rolls from the bank on occasion, to pick through if he was alone and got bored, but that happened less and less frequently. He actually stopped paying attention to coins altogether for a time, finding his attention utterly absorbed by this new friendship.            Eventually though, the burning flame of interest sputtered, and Tom and Susan found themselves drifting apart. Unsure what their hearts and minds were guiding them towards, they pursued different paths. They made other friends, and formed other relationships, and gradually saw each other less and less. Still, they kept in touch, even after they finally graduated and moved away.            The demands of career and life grew heavier for Tom, and his hobby became his only escape. He pursued it passionately, learning more about pennies, and getting better at spotting the little things that truly made them special. His small collection of rarities grew, growing quite valuable when he began snagging the occasional error coin. It was gratifying catching things he would have missed before, but he always had the nagging feeling that treasures had slipped through his fingers in his younger, more ignorant years.            One day, Tom dragged himself home from work and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He tried to drift off, but found himself lost in thought. It had been almost five years since college. Why, then, did his mind keep going back to Susan? Every day, she seemed to be haunting his mind. He wrestled with his confusion, and over the next few weeks found himself paying more attention whenever she posted something on social media. Seeing her online made him remember things about her that he’d forgotten, like her smile, or just her positive outlook on life. Little things, but they stuck in his mind.            When he saw that she’d returned from a long trip to Guatemala to help build houses for the homeless, he decided to call her. Not many people would volunteer to spend their summers that way, and it would be nice to get back in touch. Perhaps hearing her voice would straighten the confusion whirling in his mind. But even as he dialed, he found himself marveling at the woman she had become.            Susan answered on the second ring. “Tom! I haven’t heard from you in forever! How are you doing?”            His heart threatened to burst through his chest as soon as he heard her voice. He barely remembered what they said when they talked, but when they hung up, he was surprised to see that they had spoken for more than three hours. Three hours of little things, of tiny connections reforming.            They began calling more frequently, and each time they spoke, Tom’s confusion lessened. He eventually broached the idea of trying a long-distance relationship, and she agreed. The two of them called, wrote letters, and pursued each other with more intention than they had ever shown in college.            It wasn’t long before Tom knew what he had to do. Whenever he was free, he sorted pennies. He ripped open more and more rolls, returning more and more coins to the bank each week. Tom hunted almost obsessively, racing against the clock in his heart. An older wheat penny here, a rotated die there, he scooped up anything worth anything. After discovering that speculators bought older copper pennies, in the hopes that the government would legalize melting them someday, he began selling them in bulk instead of returning them to the bank. All the while, his tiny hoard of rare pennies grew larger, and his heart grew more anxious.            Eventually, Tom unwrapped a roll, and almost immediately pulled the final coin he needed. A 1914 wheat penny, in remarkably good condition for something from circulation. He’d found plenty of more valuable pennies in his years of searching, but this was the most special to him. He stared at the tiny coin in his hand for several minutes, absorbing the implications. It felt strangely light, for being the last piece of his puzzle. That night he cried himself to sleep, for what he was losing, and what he hoped to gain.            The next day, Tom took his entire stash to a coin shop, and haggled with the man until he’d gotten the price he wanted. He felt a heavy pang as he handed all those tiny, circular treasures over the counter, but he gritted his teeth and shook the man’s hand. The shopkeeper handed back 15 crisp, hundred-dollar bills, and Tom took them slowly. They felt so strange, these pieces of paper. There was no weight, no character to them, but he needed what they would provide.            Three weeks later, Susan answered a knock on her door, and was shocked to discover Tom standing there before her. He wore a three-piece suit and an enormous grin, and held a small bouquet of flowers. Susan blushed, and after a moment of standing there with her jaw dropped, blurted out,            “Tom! How are the pennies?”            He grinned wider, and held up another tiny, circular treasure. “They were great, but I realized I wanted something more valuable. I wouldn’t mind hunting for more treasures though. Care to join me?”


The walls of my den seem closer in tonight. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. How long have I been in here? All night it seems. I look down at the typewriter; a few sentences written, nothing substantial. The dim light shines off the bottle on the side table. *Wasn’t there was more left?* I think. These long nights really do me in. I hear steps behind me. “Writer’s block, honey?” my wife asks. “How could you tell?” I ask, giving her a slight smile as I turn in my chair. “Well, for one, the whiskey’s almost gone,” she replies, smiling back. “I thought that was fuel for you writers?” she questions. “Maybe for Joyce and them,” I say, holding the bottle in my hand, the glass heavy and cool in my hands. “But for me, apparently whiskey is nothing more than an escape.” “An escape?” she questions, her tone becoming more serious. “What are you escaping from, Walter?” I give a heavy sigh. “Myself mostly; my thoughts, my fears that my writing will never be what it was, that the well I drew from so many times has dried up.” She walks over and puts her arms around me in an attempt to be comforting, but I find it agitating, and I shrug her off. Whiskey is my only comfort tonight, and so I pour another glass. She shakes off my cold demeanor. “You’re a fantastic writer, Walter, ever since I've known you. Remember those nights where we would lie in bed, and you would read to me, read your stories and poems? I know how well you can write.” I lean back in my chair and I remember back to those days she mentioned. Things were different back then. The writing was different, my outlook was different, and our relationship was different. “But what if I can’t get back to that? What if that’s gone forever?” I ask, superficially about my writing, but implying things much deeper. She looks at me for a moment, looking as though she’s trying to read the thoughts behind my eyes. “It’s late; why don’t you come to bed?” “I can’t, I can’t leave without writing something worth keeping on the page.” She seems disheartened by my answer. “Well, write about something you know; you always said that helped you get through writer’s block.” “Yeah, I’ll try that, thanks honey,” I reply, giving her a hollow smile. She walks up to bed, and I position myself in my chair. I finish the remainder of my glass, and I unscrew the bottle. I take sizable swig of the writer’s fuel. Write about something I know, I think. I look at what’s prevalent, pressing in my life, and my fingers move to the typewriter and hammer out a sentence. **He no longer loved her.** I look at my sentence, and I sob. I grab the writer’s fuel, and I escape.


In the town on the way up to the cottage, I buy lightbulbs, bread, and a new hunting knife. The salesman is a gruff old man in tatty Camo shorts and a grey t-shirt, with the look of a veteran about him. This man is wider than I was tall, a wall of meat, but despite his outward appearance is was kind and charming. That's most of what convinced me to buy the knife in the first place. From there it’s another hours drive and a twenty minute trek up the hill, once my car can go no further. Half way I spot the aptly named halfway house, boarded up and rotting. Its a ghost story, something we tell the kids every year as we bring them up. Apparently a mad monk used to live in there, some unknown time ago, and he would horde money in the chimney. One day he tried to get it out and got stuck, and now he haunts the little cabin ever since. Some of the newer staff assume I make the story up, but really I don’t know where it came from. I was told it when I was little, and I’m sure the previous leader was told the same. Finally I get to the bridge that marks the entrance to our land, and spot the cottage atop the final hill. The sheep are keeping their distance for now, though no doubt they will have swarmed the house by morning. You need to go up every now and then to do maintenance, to keep everything in order. This is no challenge, my day job is as a plumber, but its still never pleasant to rip out the pipe leading in to the stream under the bridge, or deal with the decrepit toilet and sink inside. Before I put in the key I turn the knob out of habit, and to my surprise the door creaks open. The lights are on, as is the heating. No one was supposed to come out here for at least another week, not until I got everything sorted out. I pull my new knife out of its sheath, and watch my steps as to not be too loud on the stone floor. “Hello?” I yell, “Anybody in here?” The lightbulbs, a row of four awkwardly wired in to the mantle, flicker and sizzle. The third always burns out, its the only one I ever have to replace. I weave around the wooden table and chairs, and begin to climb the stairs to the cramped second floor. “This is your last warning, leave now and we won’t have any trouble.” Footsteps tap behind the door to the bedroom. “I’ll give you to the count of three, when I come in put your hands up, I want any weapon on the ground.” My heart beats against my chest and in my ears as I begin to twist the doorknob. “1” “2” I hold out as long as I can, hoping to give the intruder more time to reconsider. Without a three, I barge through the now open door, knife raised, yelling like an ancient warrior going in to battle. A figure swaddled in blankets screams as I enter the room. Andy. He puts his hands up, and I lower the knife. “Wha\\t are you doing here you silly bastard?” He adjusts his hearing aid. “Sorry Gareth, should have called, I thought it was free this weekend.” “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” “I'm sorry, I thought I’d come up for a few days, enjoy the peace and quiet.” Andy is a Jr officer, about twenty two or twenty free, I’m not sure. He has dark blond hair down to his neck and a scraggly neck-beard. As my nephew, he has been the glad enjoyer of a vast degree of nepotism, but I can only handle so much. “Next time you come up here, call me, yeah? I almost stabbed you for gods sake.” “If I had heard you, I could have defended myself.” he says, nodding to the old axe leaning against the wall. I figure it could chop flesh as good as it could firewood, so im glad his hearing aids were switched off, for once. “What were you even doing?” “Well I was trying to sleep, its not easy with all those damn birds screeching all the time.” I rake my fingers through my hair, strain setting in to my jaw. “Fine. But from now I’m going to have to ruin your peace and quiet. I'm going to be up here doing repairs all weekend. And far from napping all day, you can help me. Call it payback for nearly sending me to the emrgency room.” “Says the guy who waved a knife at me.” “yeah, and I still have that knife bucko, so maybe be a little more polite.” Andy chuckles, turning back off his hearing aid. Enough excitement for one day, time to make a fire. Just before I set off, I remember the lightbulbs. I swap them all out, not paying any special attention to the third. No more flickering, for now. I really should get the wiring fixed, but that's not really my expertise. Andy is training to be an electrician, but at this rate I will have a better chance of becoming prime minister than he will of finishing his training. I take the axe, and lay it against a log next to the fire pit. A tree grows just outside the cottage, in the perimeter of the thin metal fence, but we decided long ago we wouldn’t chop that down. Its been with the Boys Brigade longer than I have. And anyway, there are plenty of other trees, and sticks laying around – the farmer wont mind me taking some. The fire is finished just as it begins to get dark. I arrange the wood in a pyramid shape, sprinkle over some lighter fluid, and light the kindling. Before long it crackles and spits, puffs of ash stinging my eyes and smoke burning my throat. I tried calling to Andy, telling him to come down and enjoy the fire, but he doesn’t listen. Probably has me on mute again. In want of company, I fiddle with my radio. I turn the knob, filtering through the static to see if I can pick up any local stations. Never been a fan of those big corporate stations, playing songs everyone knows. I like the rustic feel, bands who probably couldn’t even sell five tickets, who will never release an album. That's why I like radio, its impermanent – not recorded. A particular order of songs will only ever happen once. Finally, I turn to a local news channel. Nothing much to note. ‘Farmer x reports sheep missing’, ‘Police break up rave in abandoned barn’, that sorta thing. I zone out, enjoying the static and the aestheticism of the thing, until a phrase catches my attention. “...advise everyone nearby, lock your doors.” I begin to worry I’ve missed crucial information, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Out of all the things, its a strange feeling to have the police call you. I answer immediately. “Hello?” “Good evening sir, this is Constable Wortham.” “What can I do you for Constable?” “Bad news I'm afraid sir. Do you have a weapon at hand?” “Erm, yeah. A knife and a wood axe. Why? Are they having an amnesty?” “A little more serious than that. Are you familiar with Everwood prison?” “Yes sir, its just a few miles down the road.” “Exactly. We have received reports that a prisoner has escaped. He is extremely dangerous, and likely armed. Stay inside, lock your door, and don’t build a fire.” His last words chilled me, I watch as embers sizzle and fly in front of me. “do you understand?” “yes sir,” I stutter. “Good. Its probably nothing, just better same than sorry.” “Definitely. Definitely.” After this, the Constable politely ends the call and hangs up, as If he hasn’t just dropped a massive weight on my shoulders. First things first, the fire. “Andy, Andy.” I yell as I run up the stairs, adjusting his hearing aid, he grimaces. “What?” I explain the situation, and he looks at me with a sort of bored panic. “Come with me, we need to put this fire out.” “How do we do that?” “Fetch the buckets, go down to the stream. I’ll start getting water from the sink.” “Why do I have to go down to the stream?” he whines. “Fine, fine. I’ll do that.” I say, murmuring insults under my breath. I take a torch and the large metal bucket, and walk down the hill to the stream. Its nearly pitch black now, and the torch provides my only light, beaming out like a tunnel in front of me. I dredge the bucket through the water, trying to avoid stones and bits of driftwood, when I hear a rustling in the reeds. Knife, where have I put the knife? Its in my pocket, but I put it in my off hand for safe keeping. Its still sheathed, but it makes me feel more comfortable. After the third pass, the bucket is full, and heavy enough to make me lopsided. I grasp my knife wielding hand to the handle, supporting the other, and pressing the wooden grip in to my palm. Quickly however, I realise the obvious. I cant hold the bucket, the knife, and the torch at the same time. Weighing up my options, I put away the blade. I begin my trek back up the hill, when the rustling starts up again. Like scratching, or shuffling, through the long reeds, something splashes in the water. I peer over, projecting my light in to the stream. “Quack.” Greets the duck, staring up at me with blank eyes. I chuckle, and carry the water back up the hill. When I return, Andy is running too and fro, tossing a small glass of water on the fire each time. Dumbass. With one large throw of the bucket, most of the fire is dying down, and I stamp down the rest. “Nice job Andy, we will make a firefighter of you yet.” “Oh shove off, its not my fault we didn’t have anything bigger.” “The bowls? A vase? No?” He adjusts his hearing aid, and walks back in to the cottage. Fire dealt with, on to the next step. What did the constable say? Lock the door. When I get inside however, I notice the lock is completely broken. Andy, most likely. Impatient fool, I spot him lounging on the sofa. Still, neither of them were locksmiths, so there was nothing to be done. I pat a hand on his back, and he turns his artificial ears back on. “Yeah?” “Locks busted.” “Not my fault.” “Whose fault it is isn’t the point. I wouldn’t feel safe leaving that door unlocked at the best of times, and with that maniac on the loose…” “You don’t know he’s a maniac. He could have been put away for, like, tax evasion or something.” “Extremely dangerous, that's what the Constable said. Oh, you’re no use. Go and lie down upstairs, its all your good for.” “Fine. Suits me well. Just hope the killer gets you first, might get my peace and quiet back.” He laughs spitefully and then goes back upstairs. I can’t sleep in the same room as that oaf, so despite everything its the living room sofa for me. To address more important things, the door. I prop the Axe against it. It won’t keep anyone out, per se, but it might just warn me if anyone comes in. I set up my makeshift bed, turn out the lights, and play the radio on low. I doubt I’ll sleep much at all tonight. Taking out the knife from my pocket, I roll the handle in my hands. I may not be some beefy giant like the man who sold it to me, but I can protect myself well enough. And anyway, nothing will happen. There are tons of buildings between here and the prison. Why would he come here of all places? As I begin to dose off, rain begins to patter outside. It grows heavier and heavier as it pounds against the dirt paths, and I hear the first crack of thunder. Its almost comforting, like rain on a car roof. I awake to a great crack, but the rain has stopped. I grip the knife tighter, beginning to shake under my blanket. Looking over at the door, my worst fear is realised. The axe has fallen over. Surely there must be some simple explanation. The wind, probably, or maybe some stupid sheep looking for cover from the weather. I check my watch, 4 AM, still about an hour before it gets light. I hide my head under the blanket, and try to get back to sleep despite my racing heart and screaming mind. But I can’t do it. I'm restless, body and spirit. I force the blanket off my face, and then peel it down the rest of me, getting out of bed. I don’t stand up, just sitting on the edge. Waiting for my fear to pass. When suddenly, the door begins to creak open. I feel for my knife, staring at its sharpness. Am I prepared to use this on another human being? “Hello?” I whimper. The door opens wider and wider, footsteps coming closer and closer. Too many footsteps. “Baaaaa” Goes the sheep. I release my breath, and laugh at my stupidity. Just a sheep. I go over and close the door on its face, chasing the curious creature out. It isn’t yet light, so I turn the lights on myself. Now that the fear has passed, I don’t worry about anyone seeing. But then I notice something. The third light bulb on the mantle. It isn’t on, it isn’t flickering, it’s gone.     ( Based on a true story.


Please note: This story contains use of strong language and adult themes. Marti returned to the register, the beer from the six pack dropped by the local drunk causing her shoes to stick to the floor. “Hi,” she acknowledged, hoping to avoid as much conversation with the plump, middle-aged man as possible.

“Why are you in such a bad mood? You should smile more. You’d be so much prettier,” he admonished.

“You need gas? Where you at out there?” She eyed him indifferently, ignoring the comments so typical of insecure men. It was like they were reading from a script.

“Maybe you should be nicer to your customers, you little bitch?” He leaned across the counter.

She took a step back, her shoes making a loud peeling sound. “You need gas? Which pump?” She jabbed at a key on the register. “Are you the Escape or--”

“The silver one,” he interrupted.

A hint of a smirk crossed her face. “Okay. Paying for everyone.”

“Listen here, you little smart ass—what’s your name? Give me the number to the store. I’m going to call your boss and report you!”

“Keep in mind that I get paid $5.15 an hour, so go for it. Now, do you want gas or not? ‘Cause if you don’t, please leave. I got stuff to do.”

The door buzzer sounded and Marti was almost relieved at the interruption. “Hey! It’s you!” a voice exclaimed.

She looked over and pretended to be glad to see Gary, a regular from her former job at the hardware store. “Hay-ey.”

Gary stepped in front of the middle-aged man. “You done here, man?”

“Good luck with that little bitch! She got a terrible fucking attitude!” the man retorted as he slammed his palm against the glass of the door, leaving a print behind as he left. “You little cunt.”

“Yeah, fuck you too!” Gary hollered after him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, smiling broadly. “I got you, girl.”

Marti sighed. She really didn’t want to ask. “How you been?” she offered. She glanced into the lot. Empty. Great.

“Aw, you know how it is. Keeping busy—hustling.” He curled his chin towards his shoulder. “You’re looking fine,” he continued. “You should go out with me. My woman left, so I’m all yours, baby.”

“Treasure the thought,” she countered, “but I’m a lesbian.”

He shook his head, raising his eyebrows and looking at her chest. “I’m okay with that. I’ll treat you right. You and your fine little ass.”

“That means I don’t..like..dick.” Oh, mama—why, why?!

“I’ll make you change your mind. Come on, baby. Marry me.”

“Listen,” Marti demanded, her voice rising, “If you were the last fucking person on the earth, you still wouldn’t have a chance with me. Now, if you don’t mind, I got shit to do.”

She took two long, sticky paces towards the end of the counter before the phone rang. She stomped her foot. “God!” As she padded over to the phone, she glanced at the clock—1:32. Less than half an hour until Brant would arrive and she still hadn’t even gotten a chance to count cigarettes, yet. “Salem bp. How may I help you?” she cooed.

Static crackled momentarily on the other end of the line. “Hello?” she wondered.

“Hey Marti. It’s Brant. Hey, I’m not going to be making it in today.”

“Did you call Pam?” she demanded. Sure. Less than half an hour before he’s supposed to be here. Great. Stuck here ‘til 10:30 pm? Probably.

“Nah, man. You can call her. I gotta go. Later.” The line went dead. Marti snorted.

“Bad news?” Gary wondered. “You gotta stay late? I’ll keep you company.”

Marti glanced out the window. The lot was filling with cars. She rushed around the counter, over to Gary. As forcefully as she could, she pushed against him. “Get out!” she demanded. As she pushed him towards the door, he grabbed her butt cheek. She smacked him in the face before turning and padding back around the counter.

“Alright, baby. I might be back later. You like McDonald’s? I might bring you some food.” Gary responded, over his shoulder, bumping into a short older lady, who was attempting to come through the door. “’Scuse me, ma’am.” He nodded at the lady, before pointing at Marti and clicking his tongue.

“Hi, dear,” the lady began. “That pump out there isn’t working. Could you help me?”

Marti smiled. “Sure thing.” She followed the lady to the pump. Just as she thought. Why did people always stall out at selection of the grade? “You want regular?” she wondered.

“That should be fine, dear.”

Marti pressed the button for 87, squeezed the handle, and let the latch slide into place.

“Oh, bless you, dear,” the lady offered.

“No problem.” Returning to the store, she was greeted with a line.

“Twenty,” the man in front demanded, throwing a wadded bill on the counter. He pushed past her, knocking her in the shoulder as he went.

“Where?” she yelled after him, as the door closed. “Whatever,” she mumbled. She made her way to the end of the counter.

“I need a pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, before she even reached the register.

She took a few more sticky steps. Peering out the window, she searched for the first man.

“Did you hear me?” The second man reached across the counter and waved his hand in front of Marti’s face. Annoyed, she grabbed the wadded twenty off the counter.

“Did you see where he went,” she asked the second man. Gawddamn customers. She returned her gaze to the lot as the door buzzed.

In the doorway, the first man reappeared. “Hey, I’m in a hurry. I ain’t got time for this! My pump isn’t working.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t tell me where. What number?” she wondered.

“I ain’t got time for this,” the man repeated. Holding out his hand, he rushed to the counter. “Forget it! I’ll go somewhere else! You just lost a customer! Gimme my money back!” He yanked the wadded bill from her hand.

“Have a nice day,” she responded.

“Pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, again.

“Full flavor?” she wondered, stepping to the rack and fingering a pack. No response. She plucked the pack from the rack and returned to the counter. The register beeped as she scanned the pack.

“How much?” the man demanded.

“Three sixteen,” she responded.

“Damn, you guys expensive,” he complained. “I can get a pack at Speedway for two ninety-seven.” He threw a five on the counter as Marti offered her hand. He picked up the pack as Marti scooped change out of the register. “This ain’t right. I needed menthol,” he stated.

Marti closed the drawer and attempted to hand him his change. He offered his hand, before jerking it back. Coins scattered over the counter, some rolling onto the floor.

“Did you hear me? I told you menthol,” he repeated, gesturing towards the rack.

Marti laid the bills on the counter, grabbed the pack, and returned to the rack. “Marlboro, right?” she wondered. She pointed to a pack.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Impatiently, he held out his hand.

The door buzzed and suddenly, the smell of gas permeated the store. Marti handed the man his pack, then looked over to see the little older lady, her clothes permeated with gas.

“I just don’t know what to do,” the lady fretted. “My husband just died and he always used to pump the gas.”

Marti glanced outside. The nozzle of the pump the lady had been using was lying on the ground, gas still gushing from it. Fuck! She ran around the counter. As she passed the customer at the counter, the woman reminded her that she had been “waiting for quite a while.” How many more things can go wrong? It was impossible for Marti to avoid stepping in gas in her new Adidas to get to the pump. Figures, she thought, bitterly. Maybe things were finally looking up. At least I won’t stick to the floor after this, she thought.


Stupid cat! Puddles stop scratching at the door! My shows are on! The cat paid no heed and continued scratching until Albert opened the door for him. Good Human! With a flick of its tail it was soon off to find the source of the delicious scent that had caught his nose. Leaving the door ajar Albert returned to his old recliner with a groan and a plumpish thud. Gidget wrinkled her nose at the latest beau across from her, sucking hard on the straw her dimples cute as ever trying to beat him to the bottom of the double Chocolate Sundae. That slurping sound as the milk runs out filled the room, Albert smiled at the memory of it. He had done the same thing with Shirley before he'd marched off to Korea. Smiling as he adjusted the sound for the umpteenth time that night on the TV, you're going deaf old man he mumbled to himself. Siri had extended the docking port until it met the solid stone aggregate that formed the foundation of the structure that had been built over the top of their vessel. Making some fine adjustments the collar began to vibrate at an extremely high frequency until the collar extension began to push through the hard material like a hot knife. It was a precious use of resources as the wan lights and crystals within the ships hull began to dim and flicker. Sen had been monitoring the situation carefully and fortunately the collar had done its work before the power was entirely spent. The collar emerged into the sub basement with little noise or damage to be greeted by a small furry green eyed mammal. Sen met Siri at the hatch as she cracked it open for the first time in years and felt her laughter wash over him as she greeted the mewling feline with the words” Take me to your Leader!”. Perhaps it was the mixture of gases in the atmosphere or perhaps it was relief but it felt good to be outside of their vessel. There were strange odours and machinery within the space they had emerged, the small feline seemed enamoured with Siri as it was wending it's way between her legs making a high pitched buzzing sound in its throat. Sen extended his hand and ran a finger across a small device that emitted a scanning beam in a 360 degree sweep around them. Electron technology the Humans call electricity was the power source, passing his finger over the small device again a small conduit began to emerge from the docking collar until it was long enough to merge with one of the many metal tubes running across the walls of this room. It would be slow but the electron flow would replenish the fuel cells eventually. Sen noticed Siri's disguise flicker as she stepped under one of the overhead lights and made a mental note to make the necessary adjustments for 50 to 60 hertz magnetic fields, Human Technology leaked a lot of energy he mused. In the next room Siri had found a wall of small doors and a polished metal table. There were more tubes on the walls and a large domed light above the table, Puddles stopped when Siri stopped. The scent of death and antiseptic was strong in this space. Her curiosity aroused Siri opened one of the small doors to be greeted by the toes of a deceased Human. She sensed no life in it's form and tilted her head slightly to read the small white card tied to its toe. Complications from Pneumonia. Mrs A Erickson. 83. Unclaimed. Come see this! Siri's mind chimed into Sen's. This must be how they dispose of their elders Sen vocalised scratchily through his new biology. The language and speech absorbed while they were in stasis via the sustenance unit. They store them before incinerating them in the device in the first room. The thought of it horrified Siri. Our Elders are absorbed into the Biome so all may share in their wisdom. We mustn't judge them Siri! They are primitive and have there own rituals and customs Sen reminded her. His hand held scanner chirped at sensing the vital ingredients they were searching for. The drawer squeaked breaking the silence as Sen and Siri withdrew Mrs Erickson from the dark hole in the wall. Albert's ear twinged! Sensing the odd sound coming from down the hall. Puddles was probably into something he shouldn't be he mumbled to himself as he rose. Stupid cat! Being a Caretaker and Custodian at a Nursing home had its benefits, peace and quiet being one. But having to stand in for security because of budget cuts was clearly not one of them. Albert's knees cracked as he stretched and pulled himself upright. He hit the mute button on the TV remote and listened again before heading to the door. Silence and the flickering of the TV screen his only companion. Albert was not the nervous type. Korea had seen to that and steeled him for everything life might throw at him, there was nothing here he couldn't handle despite the passing of some of the residents upstairs. The short walk down the hall covered quickly he reached for the light-switch on the wall beside the Morgue entrance. Click! The hum and buzz of fluorescent lighting flickering and flooding the room. Albert's heart however was not prepared for two grey headed alien heads on Human bodies sipping through straws attached to the base of Mr's Erickson’s skull. The slurping stopped abruptly. Two pairs of enormous black eyes peered simultaneously at the figure in the doorway and watched as it's hand clutched at its chest. The metal pipettes used for extracting the biologicals suddenly forgotten as their small mouths went agape. The Human was clearly in distress as it's knees hit the floor. It was dying! Sen and Siri rose to go to its aid. Too late though the massive heart attack had done it's work. Sen placing his fingers on Albert's temples trying to communicate directly sensed the calamity and absorbed Albert's passing thoughts as life left his body. We frightened it! Siri's concerned thoughts clearly distressed now entering Sen's already busy mind. Yes! Replaying the encounter from Albert's point of view in his mind and sharing it with his mate.


I’ve been a police officer for 13 years today. When I came to work this morning, my shift started with a cake offered by my colleagues, it was a chocolate cake with pink sprinkles and pink hearts on it with a large number 13 in the center. It was their way to mess with me, because I was the only female in our department. My cake was left unfinished as my partner and I got called in for a domestic violence case, and off we went.  A neighbour had called 911 after hearing argument sounds coming from an apartment below theirs. As me and my partner pulled up to the apartment building, we heard the yelling coming from one of the open windows on the second floor. I rushed up the stairs with my partner right behind me, we knocked on the door, but there was no response, we knocked again, nothing. We could hear the man yelling and the woman crying. They were speaking a foreign language, so we didn’t understand what the argument was about. It was the third time we tried banging at the door without a reply, yet the yelling and screaming and weeping continued. We decided to knock the door down.  Moments that followed were chaotic to say the least. The abuser was nowhere in sight, but his wife was laying on the floor, bloody and crying. I wen’t ahead with my gun pulled looking for the abuser. The woman was frantically yelling and crying, her black curly hair straight at the ends because of the sweat and blood, her eyes red, cheek bruised. Bruises on her arm showed that this was not the first time she has been physically abused. I made my way through the apartment and found the first bedroom, the room was open, I slowly looked inside only to confirm that the bedroom was empty. With my partner behind me we moved forward looking for the husband and found another bedroom. This bedroom was closed, I turned the doorknob slowly with one hand while holding my gun tightly with another, opened the door and saw a small bed, with pink curtains around it. A princess room. A child’s room. The room looked empty and dark so I figured it was empty too. I was about to turn around when I noticed something in the corner of the bedroom. I moved further in and saw a small child, maybe 4 years old, laying on the floor with her face down in a pool of blood, clearly shot in back from behind. What kind of a coward would do such a thing? With pain in my chest and tears filling my eyes I turn around to call for my partner and I see him. The husband, the father of this dead child, pointing a gun at me. I didn’t have time to react as I heard a gunshot, then another one. The husbands eyes widen as he falls down. Then I blacked out. One bullet shot from the gun my partner was holding, hit and killed the abuser. One bullet shot from the gun the abuser was holding.  Today marks the last day of my 13 year long career as a police officer. Today was my last day alive.  \*Please be honest, but kind.


Llau watches him quietly at her mother’s bedside, still clasping her wrinkled, withered hand in both of his own, his head bowed in a facsimile of prayer. Like a statue he stayed motionless, even after the rest of the mourners had run out of tears to give and goodbyes to leave behind. He sat there, unmoving, even as the sun dipped down below the mountains and the moon rose to shine solemnly above them both. Llau’s own sorrow still lingers, her tear tracks not yet dry, but she engulfs the emotion in her heart as she wanders unsteadily towards them, on legs too weak to fully support her. Her mother had never gotten the chance to see her walk in the end. She had always grown slower than the other children. While her nursery mates began to totter unsteadily on their feet she had still rolled happily on the ground, her uncoordinated limbs getting trapped in the underwrappings. While they began shooting up in height, beginning to run and play she had crawled complacently after them, her body still round and soft while theirs began to sharpen, their muscles growing strong with action. Now they tower over her, comfortable in bodies which have reached adulthood while she still stagnates in the thralls of childhood. She reaches her parents finally and tugs gently on her father’s sleeve. Her mother she glances at only peripherally, almost too scared to look closely at that gentle, peaceful face, in case she fools herself that her mother only sleeps, that she will wake up to smile and kiss her cheeks lovingly once more. But she looks anyway in the end, to imprint her elderly visage in her mind, because even then she realises that she must keep her mother’s memory safe, from time and the failings of her own mind. Her father eventually stirs at her third tug. He releases her mother’s hand reluctantly, arranging it beside her body almost in a quiet trance. He turns to Llau belatedly, his face frozen still in grief even as he tousles her hair with gentle, wrinkled hands. He looks back at her mother once again, before finally closing his eyes to turn away and stand. She had known her father as an old man first. Now he shifts, slowly and gradually. His bent back seems to straighten like a flower rising up to meet the sun. His grey, thinned hair turns black and abundant, his wrinkles ironing out of his skin and all the age spots which Llau had known like landmarks disappearing into nothing. Finally his body stands before her, young in a way she had never known. The stranger kneels before her in a way her father would never have been able to accomplish with his stiff, rickety knees. He opens his arms invitingly and speaks in a voice that sounds different, erased of all the hoarseness of age. “Let us go, Llau.” She hesitates. The stranger simply watches her with all the patience of something ancient. It is a strange sight, to see familiar eyes exactly as she had known them for all her life but transplanted into a unfamiliar young visage. Later on she will return to this town, the site of her mother’s grave. She will see it changed by the toll of decades, see her mother’s legacy grown and spread into half-legend. She will see her old nursery mates old and withered, yet content with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren while she still lingers in young adulthood. She will weep in the knowledge that her passage of time lies separate to all others, a knowledge that she will never be able to reconcile. But now she wipes her tears away with the clumsy hands of a toddler, before stepping hesitantly forward into her father’s embrace. Now she simply lays her head down on her father’s shoulder, sniffling as he patiently wipes the last of her tears and snot away with a sleeve as they finally leave the healing wards, to disappear quietly into the night.


One of our favorite activities together was taking walks in the snow. Winter time always feels sad when you’re alone, but in a relationship, it can be a wonderful time for bonding. Any time it snowed, we made the most of our days off from work or school, gallivanting wherever we wanted to go. Some days it was a trip to the park with the dog, others it was a trek down to the local coffee shop to sip on a glass of warm, sugary hot cocoa. Some days we’d walk with no specific point B in mind, just a chance to enjoy the day and clear our heads. We had been together for a few months, both fresh out of long-term relationships that had grown dull. We both missed the excitement of starting something new. We missed the conversations over a cup of coffee where we’d explore each other’s minds, learning what made the other tick. We missed the thrill of adventuring together for the first time and planning exciting dates, hoping to impress the other with our hobbies and interests. We missed the walk up to the other’s door and the seemingly infinite moment between saying goodbye and whether or not we would share a kiss for the first time. With each other, we had reclaimed these moments. I would take her to my favorite places, she would take me to hers. On days when we couldn’t drive because of the weather, we’d take our walks in the snow. The snow sprinkled our bodies like powdered sugar topping a dessert. I grasped her hand through her maroon, knitted wool gloves. We made our way down the icy sidewalk, carefully plotting each step to avoid slipping. I had not prepared for the weather, and the wet snow barged its way through my canvas shoe and into my socks. She kept her body close to mine, giving off a warmth, but not just a physical warmth. The kind of warmth that feels like the bright, morning sun shining in through the windows of your soul. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay in a moment forever. The kind of warmth that makes you forget all about the flurrying snow, the slippery ice, the wet socks. My last relationship ended because I was complacent in life. I had abandoned responsibilities, be it in life or to her. I was in a living cruise control mode, just going through the motions, every day the same as the last. I did not concern myself with the future, and I barely paid attention to the present. She had grown tired of listening to me reminiscing about my high school days as if they were the only good times I would ever have. “I don’t think you know what you want - and I know I don’t want this”, she said to me before leaving. Those words ingrained themselves into my memory like a burn mark on a slab of wood. I had made adjustments for the better, but it still seemed like a charade. Around others, I was a hard-working, motivated young man who learned from his mistakes - but in time spent by myself, I found it easy to slip into old habits. It was almost like a split personality, and it was confusing to tell which was the real me. On the surface, I told myself I’d changed, but deep down, it was questionable. She liked me for who I was, but wanted to be with me for who I’d become. However, the relationship was still fresh, and as long as I was still interesting - she was mine. But was it just a matter of time until my old habits overcame my new ones? Was it inevitable that she would get fed up and leave, just like the women of old? We made our way to her house, trudging through the frozen, packed snow. We approached a small area of grass in between a pair of townhouses where the snow had gathered rather high, deprived of human contact. “Let’s jump into it!” I exclaimed. She was hesitant, like any other normal human being, she had no interest in getting her clothing wet or catching influenza. I grabbed her by her wool glove again and motioned her towards me. “I’m going in whether you like it or not, now are you coming with me?” She let out a shy laugh and came closer, and we both fell backwards into the snow. The warmth of the moment overshadowed the snow encompassing our bodies, and we giggled like children on a playground. This was new, and I had captured her interest yet again. And like dropping a coin into a parking meter, I had bought myself a little more time. She would love me a little bit longer.


The waitress, a short, homely woman of about fifty, bumps into the table as she goes by, and my glass of water is knocked to floor. Water spills everywhere. I put my fork down, pancake still speared on it, and look up. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” the waitress cries out as she realizes what she’s done. She immediately pulls out a crumpled paper napkin from a pocket on her apron and places it on the table. “Here, mop it up with this. I’ll to go back to the kitchen to get some more for you, hun. I’m terribly sorry, really, I am.” “It’s only water,” I say. “It’ll dry. Thank you for the napkin. But don’t worry, it was clearly an accident.” She’s insistent. “No, don’t thank me for nothin’, sugar, it was all my fault. Now just hold tight, I’ll be right back.” As quickly as she came, she whisks herself across the restaurant toward the kitchen and disappears out of sight. With the waitress gone, I survey the damage. It isn’t too bad. Nothing spilled on me, a small amount latent on the table, and the rest already half-dried into the springy, soft carpeting underfoot. I uncrumple the napkin and lay it on top of the table spill. Wait. There’s something written on the napkin. I snatch the napkin up and examine it. It’s dripping wet from the table, and a few drops fall onto the table and onto my pants. But I’m focusing on the words inscribed on the napkin. In dainty, loopy cursive, the words read, “Get out of here now, while you still can.” A million thoughts race through my head at once as the restaurant becomes blurry around me and everything starts to spin. The din of voices and the clatter of silverware sink into the background. The napkin falls out of my limp hands onto my lap, and I gently place – or perhaps slam – my hands on the table to steady myself. “Again, real sorry for the mess, honey. Here you go.” I feel a small stack of more paper napkins brush my hand as it’s placed on the table. I snap out of my stupor briefly and see the waitress standing above me, a sweet, genuine smile stretched across her face. I feel comforted, if for just a brief moment. “N-no, ma’am, you – you’re okay, really,” I manage to stammer while hurriedly balling up the moist napkin and hiding it in my hands. “Just a little spill. I’ve got it under control.” The waitress loses her grin for a second and glances at my clasped hands before beaming even brighter and looking me in the eye. “Thanks a million for your chipper attitude, darlin’,” she says. “Too early to be dealin’ with grumps. Good to know there are still polite people like you in this world.” I’m stunned, but I force a nod and a smile. “No problem, ma’am. Thanks for your help.” She blinks, smiles a little wider, nods in return, and goes. I lay the mass of dry napkins over what’s left of the water puddle, and I use the one on top to clean up the drips from the wet napkin – the wet napkin with the warning. Speaking of which, what does it mean? I think of the diner scene from Pulp Fiction and smile to myself, but then I remember that this is a serious situation and the smile goes out like a light. I don’t have time to think it over, I decide. The instructions are rather clear. “Get out of here now.” That’s all I need to know. I eat at this diner all the time, and since I always order the same thing, I know already what the bill will come out to. I pull out the correct amount from my wallet, plus tip, and set it down on the table. Slowly, so as not to alert anybody, I slide my wallet back into my pocket, grab my bag from the floor below the chair, and start for the door. I want to search out the waitress to thank her properly, but I decide against it, as it might take too much time. The period of “while I still can” may pass. As I inch ever closer, I count the distance in my head. Only thirty feet or so ahead to the exit, to safety. Twenty. Ten. “Everybody get on the fuckin’ ground!” Shit, shit. I wasn’t fast enough. I wonder whether to run or get down as ordered, but the KRAK! of a handgun shot and a bullet hole in the ceiling overhead do the thinking for me. I get down. My back is facing the rest of the restaurant, so I can’t see anything besides the parking lot outside. I see a family piling out of their minivan across the lot. They’re dressed nicely. Probably here for a nice late breakfast after church. They don’t deserve this. I hear wailing behind me from a gruff, husky-voiced man. I recognize his voice as the manager’s. “No, Helen, please, you can’t do thi – ” KRAK! A thump as the heavyset man falls lifeless to the floor. I bite my lip and try not to cry out. Helen? That was the name of my waitress, the one who gave me the napkin! It couldn’t be the same woman, could it? Could it? A kid starts crying, loudly and annoyingly, choking, wheezing sobs of dead, harrowed fear. A chill goes through my spine, and I shudder a bit. There’s another gunshot, and the crying stops. I don’t know if the gunman – or gunwoman, apparently – shot the wall or the kid. I pray to God that it’s the former. As all of this unfolds, I can see the family outside growing ever closer, blissfully unaware. They’re perhaps fifty feet away now. I glance behind me quickly and catch a glimpse of a woman standing with her back turned and brandishing something in the air – the shooter and her weapon, but I don’t look for long enough to see any defining features – and I realize that I have enough time. I wave my arms frantically at the family to get their attention, point behind them to ward them away, and put my right hand to my ear like a phone to notify them that I need the police. The father nods at me in understanding, puts his arms around his two children, says a few words to his wife, and then hurries with his family back to their car. Hopefully to go find a phone. The national response time is three minutes, if I remember correctly, and it’s a relatively quiet Sunday morning, so the cavalry should arrive soon. That is, if the father calls the police. He may be too concerned for his own safety and rush home, forgetting my and the rest of the diner’s plight. But I trust him – I have to. He’s our only chance. Behind me, I hear no sound but footsteps. Someone is pacing around the floor of the restaurant. The shooter, surveying her targets like a hawk circling above a mischief of mice. She’s the predator; we’re the prey. The footfalls on the carpeting are almost silent – it’s not much more than the weight of the person moving around that lets me know that someone is indeed there. But by the entrance to the diner, in the area immediately behind me and around me, there’s not carpeting, but linoleum tile. The soft footsteps along the carpet crescendo gradually. They become harsh click-clacks as the person makes her way to the linoleum. Then they come to a halt. Shit. She can’t be more than a few feet away from me. My heart stops, my blood quits pumping, my breathing ceases. This is it. I stare at the asphalt outside, freedom. So close and yet so far. I prepare for the bullet. “Sugar?” I force myself to remain inert. It’s bait, I’m sure. She wants me to move so she has an excuse to shoot me dead. “Sugar, d’ya hear me? I’m sure you do.” Not a muscle moves. “Come on now.” I don’t even allow myself to blink. Footsteps resume. The click-clack draws nearer until I can feel the waitress’s presence above me. I stay immobile, not allowing myself to look at her or acknowledge her in the slightest. The smallest move could spell my death. Then, to my surprise, she pushes the door open. “You were always such a nice customer, darlin’,” she soothes. Her voice is so soft and smooth. How could she be who she is with such a voice? “I loved seein’ you in here. So get goin’ now, I ain’t goin’ to shoot you. Come on now. Get.” I blink, turn my head slowly, and look up at her. She smiles. Feeling safe, I ease myself to my feet and stand facing her for a moment in disbelief. In the moment, I realize that I have a few options. I could try to subdue her now, while she isn’t focusing on killing anyone. I could try to talk to her and get her to stop, calm her down until the police arrive. Or… I could just let go. Listen to what she says. Get. But I can’t do that. I would never be able to face myself again. I can’t leave these people to die. I can’t. I feel the eyes of everyone in the restaurant on me. I feel the earth below me, the air around me, and the sky above. I feel the stomach-churning horror of the atrocity in front of me and the endless freedom and security in the peaceful forever behind me. And now I hear sirens, and see blue and red reflected in the glass of the door. Helen, the waitress, turns around in desperation and starts firing with reckless abandon. I see a few bullets eat into the walls, and I see several people get struck, scream, and fall. I see blood, and I can smell it too. There’s running from behind me, and it’s getting closer and closer. I rush forward and try to grab Helen, but then I feel a hand push me aside, and I fall to the ground. There’s more confused shouting and a few gunshots, and then all sound ceases. The world stops for a few moments, and I feel nothing. I consider the fact that I might be dead. A hand grabs mine and hoists me to my feet. A young officer eyes me with concern. “Sir, are you all right? Are you injured?” “I’m perfectly fine,” I answer. “I’m not hit. The fall hurt, though.” A weary smile of relief etches itself into the officer’s face. “I’m sure it did. I’m sorry I had to do that, sir, but I’d rather you fall and get hurt than be shot.” “I understand, officer.” I nod curtly, and look around. “Am I free to go?” “We’re going to need you to answer a few questions, of course,” the officer says. “So you’ll be coming down to the station with us after the ambulances arrive and we can get the injured and dead cleared out.” This has been a bizarre, almost unreal day, and I think I should be the one asking the questions. But I acquiesce. “Yes, officer. I’ll wait right here, if that’s fine.” He nods. “Of course. Just sit tight, it won’t be long. You’re sure that you aren’t injured?” “I’m not,” I confirm. “I feel right as rain.” “Good.” He goes, leaving me alone. I’m standing, but my legs feel weak, so I sit on the asphalt. I press my back against the wall of the restaurant, facing myself away from the carnage inside. I hear the wailing cries of the wounded inside as the officers search the building and clear out the survivors – and the dead – and I have to put my hands over my ears, close my eyes tight, and roll up into a ball right there on the parking lot. It doesn’t work completely – the horrible stench still hangs in the air – but it helps. Time passes just the same, and after a while, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I uncurl myself and sit up to see the same young officer from before. “We’re taking you downtown now, sir,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest, but we do need you to answer a few questions. So we can get a full report on the situation. Try to figure out what was going on.” As he pulls me to my feet and escorts me to his vehicle, anger and sadness well up inside me and they pour over. “Why?” I scream at him, at the sky, at Helen. “Why?” “Sir,” he says. “trying to answer that question is what my job’s all about, but I still couldn’t tell you. I’m so sorry.” But his sorry falls on deaf ears. I’m no longer listening – I don’t think I’ll ever listen again. I am a man who has witnessed firsthand the greatest malevolence dreamt of by the human heart. I will never forget it, and it shall haunt my dreams forever to know that such a thing can be done so cruelly, so indiscriminately, so ruthlessly. And with such little warning, except for in the form of a paper napkin. I do not know why I was spared; I do not think that I will ever know. But never forget this: tremble at what man is capable of, but fear more the mask under which he hides it.