Katie went on her first date today. I’m not upset. I mean, you have to expect someone to date again after a relationship ends. It’s been a whole year; I’m surprised she even waited that long. That doesn’t mean I liked it, though. I followed them to the restaurant. I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything; I just wanted to see what he was like. Not that she’d even notice I was there. Oh, what I’d give for her to notice me again. His hair is the same color as mine, but he’s a little taller. Got a nice beard, too. I think I heard her call him Mark. He had a pretty classy suit on, and he made her laugh. More than once. But, it’s okay; she’s allowed to date other people. In fact, I want her to. I don’t want her to stay alone just because of what happened last year. Last year. I remember that night as if it were yesterday. The stars twinkled brightly as I hung up the phone, started my little black sedan, and pulled out of my driveway that cold December night. The scarf she’d given me was wrapped around my neck and the ring I was going to give her was tucked away safely in my pocket. But, oh, how quickly life can change. Anyways, she had on the green dress she wore to our first date around three years ago. Her red hair flowed down her back like a waterfall reflecting the waning sunlight, and her green eyes shone like emeralds every time she laughed at his corny jokes. The same way she used to laugh at mine. But, instead of a quip or a riddle, the last words I would ever say to her composed a lie. I’d give anything to change that. I sunk down into an empty chair across the room and watched her over Mark’s shoulder. Usually I would think that’d be a creepy thing to do, but I don’t really care anymore. Katie seemed happy. She smiled a lot, almost too much. But I could just be jealous. Just once she glanced in my direction, and my heart seemed to flutter into a rhythm again for the first time in a year. But, soon enough, that familiar glazed look settled over her eyes, and I was painfully reminded of the fact that I didn’t exist in her world anymore. They sat and talked for maybe half an hour after they finished eating. She seemed tired, and it looked like he offered to walk her home. I followed them at a pretty safe distance; it just didn’t feel right for me to get too close. I heard her say my name, although I didn’t hear why. She was bound to bring me up eventually, though; we were together for two whole years. Snow began to fall as they disappeared around the corner of her street. I didn’t have a coat, but I wasn’t cold. The snowflakes seemed to drift right through me and nestle into where my footprints should have been. But it didn’t bother me. Nothing does anymore. I stopped living the night I lost her. My heart ceased to beat and time moved on without me. Katie was no longer mine, and nothing else mattered to me anymore.                The pair paused at the bottom of the stairs leading up to her door. I half expected him to lean in for a kiss, but instead he placed his hands on her shoulders and spoke to her softly.                I moved a couple steps closer, and I heard her speak for the first time since that night.                “I had a lovely evening, Mark,” she whispered as she swiped at the tears brimming in her eyes, “but I’m just not ready yet.”                Mark gave her a reassuring smile. His voice was oddly comforting, even to me. “I understand, and I’ll be here when you are.” He squeezed her shoulder and we watched him disappear into the night.                Katie mounted the steps to her doorway and paused as sobs suddenly caught in her throat. She leaned heavily against the metal railing and covered her mouth with her gloved hand as tears streamed down her cheeks.                I dashed forward from the shadows and leapt up the first two steps before I realized what I was doing. Shivering and sobbing silently, Katie slumped back against her screen door and slid to the ground, clutching her necklace in her fingers. Her gaze passed right through me as I caught a glimpse of the pendant in her palm. On a silver chain around her neck hung the diamond ring I’d intended for her finger. I froze as a shiver rattled up my spine, and an icy feeling I wasn’t used to anymore stole into my chest and gripped my heart. I was so caught up in my own misery that I had forgotten something very important: I loved Katie, but Katie loved me, too. Only one heart beat between the two of us. Only one pair of lungs heaved in and out with each sob, and only one set of fingers grasped the ring suspended round her neck. But two people died that night, one year ago, in the wreckage of a small, black sedan. I told her I’d see her in a bit. I never thought it’d be the last thing I’d say to her. I don’t know what happened after the accident. I don’t know who called my parents, who told Katie, who gave her the ring. They did something I wasn’t able to. But there I stood, on Katie’s front porch, surrounded by snow but not covered by it, as the woman I killed with my death wept on the ground before me. Katie drew her knees up and huddled against her screen door, sobbing into her gloves as snowflakes salted her navy-blue coat. I crouched beside her as the flurries fell through me and raised a transparent hand to her cheek, knowing that, should I try to touch her, she’d only slip through my fingers one last time. If I was capable of tears, we’d have filled an ocean as I settled down beside her in the doorway. Her breathing seemed to slow down now, and she wiped her eyes with the thumbs of her gloves. She peered down at the ring in her fingers, turning it over reverently in her hands. “Oh, my darling,” I whispered soundlessly, “I know you can’t hear me.” I turned and faced her, crossing my legs in front of me and gazed intently into the vibrant green eyes that couldn’t meet my own. “But, if you could, this is what I’d say to you. “I told you that night that I’d see you in a bit. If I’d known those would be my last words, I’d have chosen them more carefully. “I’d have told you that I love you with all of my heart and that every minute closer to slipping that ring on your finger was the best minute of my life. I’d have told you that you are the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. I was only allowed two years with you, and it wasn’t enough for me. But every second with you was one more than I deserved, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Katie leaned her head against the door and gazed pensively past me. I tried to remind myself that she wasn’t really listening. “But,” I continued anyway, “I didn’t. I didn’t get to say any of that.” I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. “So, I’ll say it now. “Katie, I love you with all of my heart. Every minute closer to slipping that ring on your finger was the best minute of my life, and you are the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen.” A sob caught in my throat, catching me by surprise. If I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn that tears began to brim in my eyes. “We only got two years.” My voice cracked. “And it wasn’t enough.” Katie sucked in a deep breath, cutting off my contemplation. She swiped her hands over her eyes and, tucking the necklace back into her jacket, swayed to her feet. I stood up as the screen door swung open, passing through me and reminding me that I wasn’t really there. Sniffling, she pulled out her keys and bent over the lock. I stepped aside and started down the staircase, waiting to hear the door open behind me. It didn’t. I turned around, and Katie was staring at me. Well, I thought she was. Her eyes quivered as they searched the empty space in front of them, convincing me that she still couldn’t see me. But then she spoke. “If you can hear me,” Katie begged of the night sky, “then know this, my darling.” A solitary tear trickled down her cheek. “I’ve always loved you, and I always will.”                With these words, Katie turned around and disappeared through the doorway.                I stood on the stair for what seemed like years. The snow ceased to fall, and the silence of a winter night settled in around me. She left me with just eight words.                But they were enough.                And for a moment, just one moment, I could’ve sworn I felt my heart beat again.


I don't particularly like to write but I've been told it's something I'm good at, and I'd like to get more involved with it. Anyways, here's something I wrote a few days ago at about 2AM. I proof read it once and didn't really take the time to give it my 100% but I still think it's worth sharing with you guys! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I remember when I first laid my eyes upon her. Come to think of it, it really isn’t all that hard not to. She had the vibrant emerald colored eyes of a treasure filled ocean, a smile that would be considered the eighth wonder of the world by most, the attitude of a Queen and the beauty of a shooting star that would send goose pumps shooting up your neck. She was powerful. Just looking at her she would carry your heart away like the strongest ocean current, and fill you with more energy than five thousand suns could produce in a billion years. Being in her presence felt almost ‘other worldly’. As if she was specifically built to make any man who was around her feel as if she were made of gold. I had never felt so ‘out-of-touch’ with reality when I was with her. I remember her cute little laughs that had her face scrunched up with her eyes swelled shut from the sheer amount of tears they themselves gave life to. The kind that would captivate an entire audience to laugh along with her no matter the situation. She was just like that. She could turn anyone's mood around in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter how upset you were about something, it was like a law of some sorts. A law of an emotional type of physics. It just happened, and nobody knew why. Not even me. There was so many ways she could go about doing it that I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was. The way she moved, the way she carried herself. That was enough to make anyone feel safe. It can’t help but remind me about those every so often times I came home from work, completely miserable. I would walk through the front door and set my keys on the counter and she would automatically know something was wrong, as if she had that instinct. She would just want me to hold her in my arms while she asked me about my day. She’d ask about everything. The drive on in, my lunch, my boss, everything. Never once would she talk about herself or her own day. Her entire focus was on me and my own. She never put herself above anybody else. I could come home, pissed off at the world and within mere minutes we would be sitting there on the couch, arms clenched so tightly around one another you would think we were living magnets, laughing. Just laughing. Tears of happiness and joy would flow out of each other's eyes without knowing the reason behind it. That was so strange having a mood so negative dissolve within seconds and putting itself together in ways I’ve never felt before. She was magical, and despite all of that..sometimes I didn’t let it happen. I can’t understand why. No matter how much I think about it, no matter how many times my mind runs in circles in the middle of the night, I just can’t understand it. Sometimes, I would get home earlier than she would. I would go straight to bed and pretend to be asleep, well knowing she would be home in just a handful of minutes. I would just lay there in bed, still as a statue. I could hear her come into the door with a moment of silence, as if she was searching for me. She would walk through the kitchen, the living room and finally, into the bedroom. I could feel her scrunch up next to me every night and I would feel her warm, always minty fresh breath fill my ear, my heart, and my soul with those three simple words yet so complex words, “I love you.”. And then.. she would just sit. She would sit there with the light on and just stare. She would stare for five -- sometimes ten minutes. I could tell she was hoping I would ‘wake up’, just so she could talk to me. Just so she could ask me about everything and anything. Just to hear my voice. But I didn’t. I never did, and I don’t know why. I would just let her stare in a stabbing painful silence. My heart would thump more intense with each beat, almost as if was trying to tell me, “What are you doing? You love this girl, remember?” Maybe I was tired, maybe I was stressed. Maybe I just didn’t want to. After what felt like centuries, she would kiss me on the cheek, turn out the light, and go to sleep.The ironic part was that afterwards, I couldn't. I would lay there, wondering why I didn’t take five minutes out of my day just to tell her how much I love her. Yet, I would do it time and time again. I used to wake up to the smell of fresh bacon and eggs tickling it’s way up my nose and floating down my throat. Just as I would open my eyes, I would get attacked with a relentless aerial assault of her soft kisses. My eyes, cheeks, nose, chin, neck, everything would be bombarded by her lips. She knew that I was a grouch in the morning. However, I can’t recall a single time where I wasn’t the happiest man in the world to be waking up to her kissing assaults, her symphonies in the shower, or her mouth watering breakfasts. It’s a completely different feeling now. I wake up now drenched in sweat, eyes burning, with an alarm clock ringing in my ear letting me know that the nightmare still isn’t over yet. It never will be. Not for me. That night is burned into my eyes with the fire racing down my throat and the sulfur pumping through my veins. She had always been the one to cash that paycheck and selflessly spend most of it on me. A new watch, shoes, cell phone cases, video games, you name it. I was the selfish one. I would find a reason to buy myself whatever it is that I didn’t need instead of bothering to get her a box of chocolates or a nice necklace, just to show how much I loved and cared for her. I hadn’t gotten her flowers in months. Now here I am, laying them upon her casket with every memory we ever had together smashing into my chest like a tsunami made up of pain and sorrow. I remember when I first laid my eyes upon her.


Gabby followed her sister, Samantha, and her latest boyfriend to the door and as they were leaving, she said, "Thanks for everything. We absolutely could not have done this without your help. I'll text you soon with the date and time for the cookout."

"Thanks, sis. I still owe you. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you!" The last of the family and friends had gone home and now, they were all alone, just the two of them, and they could not be happier. "I have to pinch myself Gabe, I can't believe we are homeowners. No more trips to the laundry mat and no more lugging the groceries up a bunch of steps."

They finally had a bit of free time to sit down in their new eat in kitchen and enjoy a nice cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie. So many had volunteered, uncoerced, and had been so generous with their time. From packing to unpacking, loading to unloading, they had plenty of help and they were planning on inviting every one of them over for a cookout in a couple of weeks. Gabby looked over the top of her coffee mug and said to Gabe, "Do you mind if I go to the antique store tomorrow and see if I can find a plant stand? While you and dad were out getting some supplies from the hardware store yesterday, mom and I took a trip to that Greenhouse that's just down the road. You would not believe that place. They have some really nice house plants and I think they will add a nice touch to our living room." "That's a great idea, Gabby. While you are there, see if they have a nice wooden table and chairs to replace this one. We did promise your sister we would return it when we had something to replace it." "Sure, although I don't believe Samantha really ever wanted to get this table back". They both laughed. Gabe and Gabby sure loved each other even though they could not have been any more different in their likes and their dislikes. Gabe preferred the traditional church hymns while Gabby preferred the sweeping and uplifting worship music of Phil Wickham and Chris Tomlin. Gabby beamed with joy when they would receive an invitation to a friends' wedding. Gabe? Well he would pretend to be excited too while secretly conniving a way to get out of going. On date night, Gabe's eyes would scan the restaurant menu for the weekly special while Gabby was all about seafood. Gabby would opt for a nice glass of Savignon Blanc. Gabe? He would opt for a water. They both loved dessert though so the server would bring a nice slice of key lime pie and a couple of forks.

The vast differences touched every area of life. Even the grocery shopping! They loved fruit ... grapes, oranges, tangerines, bananas, strawberries, blueberries. And then there were apples! While the other fruits were pretty much limited to one variety for the most part, apples had a wide variety to choose from. Gala, Red Delicious, Macintosh, Granny Smith, Cortland, Idared, to name a few ... and the granddaddy of them all ... Honeycrisp. Galas were what Gabe liked to buy. They were just the right size, sweet, aromatic and best of all, a good apple for the money. Gabby? She wanted Honeycrisp and nothing but Honeycrisp. Sure, Gabe liked them too. The Honeycrisp apple was very sweet and very aromatic and of course, had a nice crispness to it. But Geesh, they were huge, and they were heavy, and they were priced way higher per pound than the other varieties. He could get eight Galas for the same price as two Honeycrisps.

But that was what Gabby liked and when she gave him a list for the store and apples were on it, well, as much as it pained him to do so, that's what he got. Well, truth be told, the one time he came home with Galas instead of Honeycrisp to save a few dollars, Gabby grabbed the keys, the apples and the receipt and off she went. "Sweetie, I'm sorry, I'll take them back!" .. but it was too late. He was waiting for her when she returned. "Gabe, I don't consider myself to be selfish but I don't think it's too much to ask to get the apple I love, even if it's a little bit pricier than the others. By the way, I didn't have any cash with me so I put the $8.46 difference on the credit card." Gabe knew better than to say what he was thinking. So, he just said, "That's fine sweetie, I wish you would have let me take them back". "I'm sorry too for acting like I did. By the time I got to the store, I was feeling pretty bad". "Well then, let's celebrate. Hand me one of those apples, please!" It wasn't too long after they had moved in that money started to get tight. His job paid well but the overtime he was accustomed to was stopped because the company was having a bit of a financial crisis. Gabby worked two part time jobs which paid more than minimum wage, but not much more. First, there were a couple of little things. The water heater sprung a leak, so it needed replaced. And not too long after that, the built in microwave quit working. Then there was the root canal. The dental insurance unfortunately only covered a part of that cost. The big hit though came when the transmission in the truck went out.

Gabby came home to find Gabe sitting in the dark and staring out the window. "Gabe honey, is there something wrong?" "Yeah, I did something today I never thought I would do. I feel so guilty. I try telling myself I am better than that. But I can't kick this guilt". All his life, he had been honest. There was that time, for instance, he got his graded paper back and was surprised to see he got an A. Looking at the marked-up paper, he realized the teacher had not done the match correctly, that the grade should have been a C. When the bell rang, he waited until everyone left the room and once, they had, he told the teacher what had happened.

"Well sweetie, whatever it is, I can confirm you ARE better than that. You'll feel better once you confess. So, tell me sweetie, what did you do that's bothering you so much?" Gabe loved Gabby and how kind and considerate she was.

"Okay, you know you gave me a list for the grocery store. You also know as well as I do that things are pretty tough right now. When I got to the produce section to get the apples you had wanted, I .. Oh geesh, I can't believe I did this. I put the Honeycrisp apples on the scale and when it asked for the code, I looked around to make sure no one was looking and then I put in the code for Galas." "Hmm ... just a second, I will be right back. I need to use the bathroom." Once out of earshot, she did her best to suppress the laughter. She knew her husband and she did know he was better than that. "Okay sweetie, here's what we are going to do. First of all, you need to thank God for forgiving your shortcomings. And after that, we're going right back to the grocery store, and we are going to buy a bunch of groceries and take them to the Food Bank." Gabe looked at her and finally, he felt the burden of guilt lift from his shoulders, and it felt good. "Okay honey, that's a great plan. Now let's have a couple apples."


*(2062, eight years after the Last Great War)*  The artificial rain pelted against the windshield of the car. Street sign light was warped and played with by the water droplets, casting strange and hypnotic patterns across the faces of passers-by. A tall grey brick apartment building stood, only dwarfed by new corporate skyscrapers in the center of the city. The skyline was jagged and dangerous, radio towers and hovercars populated the world above as the world below harbored the lost souls of the city. But just above the sprinklers poking out of the sides of hovering zeppelins, was dust and intolerable heat. Heath sat in the driver’s seat, a term that had become just a remnant of an age past and somewhat forgotten. The car landed across the street from the “Summerset Apartments”, located in the upper east side Manhatten, though it used to be a nice neighborhood, it was a now well-established hub for prostitution. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, flattening it on the dashboard, the words “Come back for a Kiss” where the word kiss was a pink lipstick mark, he smiled. A letter from a personal escort he had employed many times before, Chelsea Sing, a woman who deserved more credit than she got. He climbed out of the car and swiped his ID-Band across the face of a parking meter. The rain had not halted yet, it still had another twenty-two minutes before the Zeppelin would move to the next section of New York. He pulled out a respiratory mask and secured it to his stubble ridden chin and stalked across the neon-lit street. The building was grey, years of ash of burning countryside had built up on the once-white bricks. Everything below the cloudline was this way. It was a factor of life every one dealt with, everyone wore a respirator or risked lung disease. Every establishment had fans at their entrance to blow away the dust, but that was mostly unnecessary if a zeppelin was pouring rain. The muddy streets were slick beneath his feet, he dodged two cars that drove past, the raindrops reminded of a snare drum. The lobby was skinny and cluttered, an older Chinese woman sat smoking an opium pipe at the reception desk. She wore a deep red kimono riddled with holes revealing her wrinkly and sunspot riddled body beneath. A white cat laid on the counter purring softly, its eyes closed and head resting in its paws. Heath patted the cat and nodded to the woman as she sat half asleep staring out into the street He hummed a sweet tune to which he had forgotten the name. The ambient sound of muffled moaning and gasping was heard throughout the hallways. A sound that one comes accustomed to if you frequent these establishments. Taking the elevator to the hundred and sixteenth floor, it reeked of sex and cigarettes, the smell forced Heath to pull out this own and light up. The smoke caught the sepia tone light above as the soft hum of machinery joined with the subtle jazz music following him up. The elevator doors opened, he was greeted with a beautiful painting of a Rubenesque woman sitting on a silk couch. He felt butterflies rise in his stomach. He made his way down the long hallway, to the last doorway on his left. He stopped, pulled out the paper, and smiled again. He knocked in a short rhythmic pattern reminiscent of “In The Mood”. There was a brief silence 2 before the door slid open revealing a beautifully thin woman, her hair pinned into a bob, below a curvy line of pink lipstick set pursed in mild annoyance, before drifting into a soft delight. “You’re late,” Chelsea said as she turned around and headed back into her apartment, her robe barely covering her body. “There wasn’t a time on the note.” he jested. He hung his wet hat and overcoat on a rack by the door. The apartment was spacious for where it was, as she had a pretty stable income. Directly across the living space, littered with belts, sashes and articles of various lacy underwear, stood a balcony where one could look across the city. He has spent many hours watching life below while operating zeppelins, but it all felt different here, with her. With her. She tiptoed around the room, picking up various instruments and clothing before flinging them into a chest by a music box. Chelsea tapped a few buttons on the box before it whirred to life, a soft white screen lit up, showing a plethora of old-age music. She had, for as long as he had known her, played jazz while relaxing. Her robe drifted off as she glided behind a changing curtain. He caught a glimpse of a tan waist before her shadow was projected onto the translucent screen. The shadow, puppeted by a woman Heath had grown very weak for, began to change into a light pink nightgown. Heath situated himself on a couch, watching her change as the music began to drift to his ears. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander back to his youth, a time before the war. He remembered his old classics professor, who had taught him everything he knew about music and art. His fingers danced on his lap, mimicking piano keys, keeping in time with the music as it sped up and slowed down in all the perfect ways, creating a story without words of a time where life was about living and not working. He opened his eyes as he began to tear up. He saw Chelsea, arm resting on the music box watching him with tender eyes. “Do you miss it?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Heath got up and crossed to her, picked up two glasses, and poured them both whiskey. She accepted and sat down on the couch. She patted it for him to sit with her, but he turned to the balcony instead, looking over the cityscape. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he brought it to his lips. “It used to be so beautiful, before the war.” He watched as the zeppelin had started its route to the next neighborhood. The rain stopped, it would be back within the hour, never on schedule. He tapped his cigarette into a green glass ashtray. “I wish I could’ve seen it from this view before the ash and heat.” She sipped her drink, gazing out the french doors. They remained closed when the rain stopped the ash started. “It was a sight to behold. Did you know that the Empire State Building was once the tallest building in the world?” He looked for it, the once glorious staple of New York was now overshadowed by at least ten other new age architecture. Flying buttresses were strung between buildings like cobwebs in an attic, positioned so they can remain upright. He thought “If I pluck on out the rest would fall like dominos”, the idea was moderately appealing, a new start for an old city. She placed her glass on the music box before switching over to a smoother song. She glided over to him, wrapping her thin arms around him and swaying. She closed her eyes and just listened to him rambling about early twentieth-century architecture and art. Her mind began to play with the idea of a simple life with him in an apartment back in the nineteen-twenties. She began to cry. Heath turned around, knowing what she was thinking, he stopped talking and pulled her away. He knew she wanted a life with him, and he with her. But with her work, she never could, and with his mechanic job, he could never make the money to leave the city, though the countryside was worse, covered in radiation and pockmarked with craters. Everything west until California is in ruin, and everything in the city is dingy and dark. Her tears ran down her face, smearing her mascara. Heath brought her in, embracing her. Forcing from his mind the thought that he’d have to leave soon, or risk her boss finding out about them. She remembered her life before she was an escort, she was a young woman with no care in the world, only seeing the future before all that was cast away by foreign wars brought to domestic soil, forcing her to seek employment anywhere she could. She came to an old Chinese woman who owned a small escort business, signing away her life, cutting her off from any prospect of love or new life. But if she had never done this she would have not met Heath. They swayed in sync with the music, as the rain started once again. The patter of droplets on the glass played with the saxophone and piano. He heard Chelsea quietly whimper, he hugged her tighter, as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her tears flowed down his sleeve, staining it with a sadness you could never wash out. She looked up at him as if he had called her name, she reached with her fingers, found his chin, and brought his mouth towards hers. The stubble scratched her cheeks but she didn’t mind. She pulled back after a long while and looked into his eyes. She could see his feelings for her in those dark blue eyes, she saw a longing for a life with her. She wanted it so bad. But she could never do it. Her contract took away her right to leave. A hovercar passed by the window, its lights illuminating the room, casting shadows across them both. In it, a person with their own problems needs and wants. “Everyone,” she thought, “has a life don’t they.”. Seeing the car just pass by, without a care in the world made her yearn to do the same, to leave this all. She had thought of this before, and perhaps it was true, but none of that mattered if he wasn’t with her. She brought her head back to his shoulder. She began to sway again with him, knowing he had to leave soon. She closed her eyes, and so did he. The music played with their hearts, thumping in time with one another. Life could be better with her. Life could be better with him. Life could be better.


Eli giggled madly to himself as he stacked the bear traps up in the trunk of his car. He had tried so many times... but he was confident about this year. Magic was a blight on the world, and one man had been using it with impunity. It was time to remove that threat from the world forever. "What are you doing?" Eli looked over his shoulder, slamming his trunk closed, "Nothing!" Rose Day, his assistant crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him. The slowly-falling snow stuck to her dark hair as she walked over to him and pulled his trunk open. "Why do you have *bear traps* in your trunk?" "They're not *just* bear traps. There's a little mechanism in the teeth, you see, and when they clamp shut, that mechanism will explode and shoot the teeth into whatever it grips." "What the hell are you *hunting*!?" "It doesn't matter. Don't you have to go visit your family or something for Christmas?" "We save our Christmas gatherings for January." "Okay, so go bother Chase or something." "He's visiting his family in Massachusetts." "Well, go be where I am not." Eli rolled his eyes, "I don't need your condescension." "Eli, you're gearing up for what looks like a *war* on Christmas Eve. What the hell could you be going after *now* of all times? You agreed to wait to ambush Farmer until after Christmas. You can't leave Chase out of that." "I'm not going after Farmer today. Go on. There's no need for you to bother me here." "I'm a little worried about you." "I actually do not believe that." "You're not the worst person in the world. Just tell me." "Fine! I'm going to kill Santa Claus." Rose paused for a second as her mouth hung open. Eli nodded. Rose shook her head. Eli nodded. Rose slowly nodded. "Jesus Christ, Eli. Santa isn't even real. Why would you waste your time hunting him?" "He is a monster that lives far beyond the natural lifespan of any normal person. He changes his name and ethnicity to appeal to whatever nation he's in. He uses vast, dark magical powers to see all the actions of the people in this world, and has speed that carries him to all who believe in him. He is in a coma for three hundred sixty-five days and he punishes children who are on the naughty list. He is satiated only by adequate sacrifices of milk and cookies. He survives the Arctic wasteland with the only documented reason being that he lives in obscurity. He breaks into people's houses while they sleep and leaves items behind, and uses his magic to warp the minds of the nonbelievers to think that they themselves purchased those gifts." "What on Earth is the matter with you? You're a grown man. If he even exists, Santa Claus is benevolent." "Ah, but his power in the hands of a madman could be dangerous!" "*You* are a madman!" "You're damn right!" "Wouldn't this put you on the naughty list!?" "Nah. There's a whole new list for what I am." Eli motioned, "Go on. Leave me to my business." "Are you sure you're doing okay? Are you maybe a little lonely around the holidays?" "I have a dog. I am not lonely." "It's okay if you are." Rose rolled her eyes, "Fine. Is there anything I can do to help?" "If you're going to bother me about it, then yes. I'm getting explosive shotgun shells and a machine gun from Sam's guy." "Your neighbors must *love* you." "Oh, they never notice. He uses magic to induce sleep in people when he's in proximity." "So how do you plan to even be awake?" "I discovered a medicine I can take that makes me immune. I get a little drowsy, but that's why I have a cup of coffee at the ready. This is not my first go with the guy." "Right, right... so you've *fought* Santa Claus before?" "Yeah. Damn bastard is a lot tougher than you'd think." "You haven't tried shooting him?" "His red suit is bulletproof. That's why I'm getting the armor-piercing rounds for the machine gun and the exploding rounds for the shotgun. I've planned this out. I'm not deranged." "Are you sure about that?" "Oh, piss off, Rose." "Why don't I come with you? Help you prepare for your war, and we can watch some Christmas movies or something. It could be fun." "Fine. We'll watch movies while I work. I finally got my VHS player hooked up to my TV, so we can make this happen." "Your willful ignorance of technology truly astounds me." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli set the box of shotgun shells on his kitchen table next to his shotgun. His living room was composed of three chairs and a coffee table. His kitchen connected right to both the living room and the dining area. It wasn't much, but it was home. However... he did prefer to sleep at the office. "Powder room's down the hall on the left if you need it." Eli pulled his coat and hat off and hung them on the rack by the door, "Don't go right when you go down the hall. That's my room." "Can I have the grand tour?" "Yeah. Bathroom is down the hall on the left, my room is on the right, and my dining room, living room, and kitchen are basically one room." "You're no fun." "I have shit to do, Rose." Eli rolled his eyes, "He comes through that wall, so I'm going to need to set up the bear traps all around there." "Really?" "The one downside to his power is that he is obligated to visit the home of every person who believes in him. He always enters from that wall." "You know, you didn't believe in immortality before... but if Santa is real like you say, then he's immortal, right?" "No. It's a mantle passed down to whoever unlocks the power. He ages slowly, and is cursed to live only for two hundred years before someone new unlocks the power. The old Santa fades to dust and the new one takes his place. But the legend holds that if he is killed, the power of Santa Claus ceases to exist forever." "Eli, have you ever considered therapy?" Eli knelt in front of the wall, setting the bear traps in place, "No, why?" "No reason." Rose eyed the kitchen, "Do you have food in there?" "Of course I have food in there." "I'm going to make us something to eat." "Don't bother. I can cook." "I thought you had 'shit to do, Rose'." Rose rolled her eyes. "Fine. But something hearty. We've got a full night ahead of us, and I need to be at the top of my game." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli hit stop and rewind on *It's a Wonderful Life* as the credits began to roll, "You've seriously never seen that before? I'm pretty sure people consider it a classic." "I don't watch many old movies." "Oh, man! Jimmy Stewart, Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, Fred Astaire, Katherine Hepburn... *Especially* Katherine Hepburn! They're the greatest of all time!" "Yeah, well... the movies of that time could sometimes be a little... prejudiced. I get it if you can separate the racism from the content, but I really can't." Rose motioned to her dark skin, "Because *obviously*." "Oh, yeah... That... that is problematic. Sorry... I... I was inconsiderate on my part." "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it." "How about more eggnog?" "Can we actually put whiskey in it this time?" "I told you I don't like the taste of whiskey in eggnog and I need to be undeniably sober when that benevolent bastard breaks into my home." Eli stretched his left arm out and checked his watch, "Oh, we're getting close. He always shows up at one-thirty-seven. The sleep spell should hit us around one-fifteen... We should take that medicine now so it has a chance to set in before he gets here." "Ugh... *fine*." Eli walked over to the kitchen and pulled out the garlic, the eggs, and the toast. He mashed the garlic and eggs together and sprinkled in some sugar. He soaked the bread in the mix and threw it on a skillet. "The hell are you making in there?" "French toast with garlic." "*Why*?" "It makes you immune to the sleep spell! Are you in this with me or not?" "Ugh! Fine!" "Then belly up to the bar. First one is almost ready." Rose wandered hesitantly to the kitchen, her eyes showing pure disgust at what Eli was dropping on the plate in front of her, "Do you even have a plan for fighting your fake opponent?" "Yeah. I'm gonna deck him in the halls." "How long have you been waiting to use that one?" "Six months." "How's it feel?" Eli shrugged, "I've had better ones." \*\*\*\*\*\* Eli checked his watch. One-thirty-six. It was time. "Positions." Eli motioned toward the hallway, "He's going to come in shooting." "Why would Santa shoot at you?" "Because he knows I'm going to be shooting at him." Eli shrugged, "Have you been paying attention at all?" "Barely." "Well, eyes forward. He's coming." Eli lifted the shotgun toward the wall, "Brace yourself." "Eli, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Santa doesn't exist. Honestly, if you're lonely, you could have just asked me to hang out with you. Like I said, my family Christmas doesn't happen till January, so I'd be free, you know. We could make this a tradition. Watching Christmas movies, I mean. Eating garlic French toast isn't something anyone should do in their life. You don't have to put on some show about preparing for an ambush from *Santa Claus*. It's really not-" The wall turned to liquid in front of their eyes. The floor shook with each heavy bootstep. The jolly chuckle echoed down the hallways. Red hat, red coat, black boots, large bag of presents, braided white beard, red and green warpaint, shotgun painted like a candy cane... "Holy shit." Rose whispered, "He's real..." Eli jumped up from behind his cover, "Merry Christmas, *bitch*!" Santa reeled back as the shotgun shell detonated against his chest. Eli pumped another round and fired again. Santa stumbled into one of the bear traps, the loud *crack* shaking the building as the trap detonated. "Got 'im!" Eli strode forward, aiming his shotgun, "Ho ho ho, *bitch*! Any final words!?" "Elias..." Santa's mouth spread into a big smile, "You're never going to win this." "I'm sorry, but which one of us got his ass planted into the ground *this* year!? I win! Your reign of terror has come to a-" Eli crashed onto his back and as Santa's boot planted into his stomach. The shotgun clattered away from his hands. Five hundred pounds of pure muscle bore down on him, gouging and striking at his prone body. Eli extended the blade on his brace and drove it up into the jolly man's belly. Santa grunted in pain and grabbed Eli's neck, raising him up and slamming him down into the ground repeatedly. "Rose! Machine gun!" Eli shouted, "Do *anything*!" Santa lifted Eli up and hurled him at the other wall, denting the drywall. Eli slumped to the ground and drew his M1911, aiming for the nightmare's face. "You've tried that before, Elias." Santa rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles, "See what happens." Eli struggled to his feet, keeping the gun on Santa's face, "You... are the worst... person..." Santa grabbed Eli's wrist and twisted, wrenching the M1911 from his hand. The black glove slammed into Eli's sternum, throwing him to the ground once and for all. "Y-y-you're real..." Rose whispered. "Of course, Rosaline." Santa cracked his neck, "Are you helping Elias attack me?" "N-no..." Rose numbly shook her head, "I am so... so sorry... I didn't believe and... uh..." "Don't worry about it. Elias and I have been at this for a long time. I suspect I'll see him again next year. Unless someone takes my place. I've already beat down five other people, and I've got about seven more I'll have to put up with tonight. It's part of the job." Santa patted Rose's shoulder, "I'll leave your present at your apartment. Which reminds me! Elias!" Eli groaned. "I brought you something." Santa walked over to Eli. Eli's head rolled up to stare at the jolly son of a bitch, "What?" Santa set a bright green box in Eli's lap. Eli's hand slowly rose to remove the lid. The tissue paper fell away as he dug his hand into the heavy box. "New... revolver..." Eli muttered, "And several boxes of hollowpoints... you thoughtful son of a bitch..." "What do you say when you receive a give, Elias?" "Thank you, you big jolly asshole..." "Should I get him to a hospital?" Rose whispered. "Don't worry about it. He'll be right as rain once I leave." "Didn't he stab you?" "Tricks of the trade, Rosaline." Santa walked back toward the wall, "Merry Christmas to both of you." Rose waved weakly at Santa Claus and watched him melt back into the wall. She looked down at Eli in disbelief. Eli felt his bones and bruises heal slowly, relief washing over him. "Did that *really* just happen!?" "Yeah. Dammit. I thought I had him this year. I'm thinking more bear traps next year." Eli struggled to his feet, "Maybe a landmine... except that I'd like to not blow up my whole apartment. If I could get a claymore aimed at that wall... I might stand a chance. I'd just need to talk to the landlord about renovating or something first." "D-do you want to just watch another movie right now?" "Sounds good to me." Eli shrugged and dropped onto the couch, "And Rose?" "Yeah?" "Thanks for spending Christmas with me. It... It means a lot." ========================================== Feedback and whatnot are always appreciated! Also, Merry Christmas to All, and to All a good night! Or Happy Holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas.


It’s 7:00pm, and like clockwork, Coco trots up to G, with her gray feather duster tail raised high, and cocks her tiny head expectantly. Coco has never been a patient cat. As she saw it, the world functioned according to her schedule. Who else is there to worry about? G was her entire world, so she assumed she was his too. And she wasn't far off with that assumption. “I know it’s time, baby cat, just one second.” He continues to type furiously with his left hand while reaching down to give Coco a quick scratch between the ears with his right to let her know he sees her, and he hears her. Coco feels reassured, but won’t let him forget she’s still waiting for him. Moments later, Coco starts making the calculations to take her valiant leap onto the desk, presenting herself squarely in front of G’s computer screen. She wouldn’t block much of the desktop if it weren’t for her puffy gray fur that always looked like she just came from an unfortunate run-in with a child who just learned about static electricity and wanted to test out some balloon magic. She might look like a large cat, but G swears she’s 75% fur. G is just finishing up writing his code, so he doesn’t appreciate the break in concentration. But this is what he signed up for when he adopted Coco. He never understood why people would get so upset with their pets for climbing on tables or scratching at furniture. To him, any so-called “bad behavior” was all part and parcel with pet ownership. It was easy for him to hold this opinion since Coco never had an affinity for chewing plastic, or really doing anything she wasn’t supposed to, for that matter. She liked to sit on the kitchen table, but her potentially dirty paws weren’t a deterrent to G, who usually ate at his desk and made a habit of kissing her paws ever since she was a kitten anyways. Her germs were no worse than the unknowable filth he encountered on the subway every day. Coco politely, but expectantly, lifts her white-mittened paw to G’s face as if to say, “it’s time, Dad.” With just a few more clicks, he gives in. “Ok, let’s go.” G sometimes needed to be pulled out of the trance he entered when he plopped into his office chair. He is an extremely self-motivated problem solver, and he loved how computers gave him the opportunity to solve even the most complex puzzles. During his most intense bouts of hyper-focus, hours felt like minutes. G scoops up Coco under his arm, grabs the heavy-duty pet brush from the closet, and carries her to the designated spot on the living room carpet. Only one room away in his 900 square-foot apartment, G follows the trace of his daily path on the carpet, which is slightly less flattened near the walls compared to the center line, where it’s padded down almost entirely. Coco loves the carpet because, as she’s learned, things can get very slippery on a freshly mopped tile floor. Coco knows what she’s in for and starts purring immediately. Cats like Coco require daily brushing to tame the iconic mane that  G’s friends love to compliment. Her fur easily tangles, especially on her hindquarters, making it harder for her to clean after doing her business. The long fur on her chest dips down into her water bowl. Although it’s not the most sanitary, G does not reconsider allowing her on the kitchen table. Plus, Coco loves to groom herself, which is basically like taking a bath. But self-grooming so much long, loose fur is a recipe for hairballs. Again, sanitation is not a priority in this home. Through years of attempting distinct solutions to each problem, G found that brushing her daily solved all of them at once. He was usually able to brush away approximately two kitten-sized balls of fur from her with each brushing session. Brushing was satisfying for Coco, therapeutic for G, and it only took a few minutes. After all, grooming is one of our most primitive instincts as mammals. Every mammal bonds with their offspring by grooming. It’s a way of building trust and healthy attachment, and it’s functional. G had a routine that left no patch ungroomed. He starts with the back left for 5 brushes, back right for 5 brushes, tummy left and right (5 brushes each), rump left and right (5 brushes each), neck (5 brushes total). Coco gets hand-fed a treat in between each of these self-defined quadrants. She purrs the entire time. When the routine is complete, G takes the furball from the brush, marvels at his work, and wonders how many hairballs he’s saved Coco from before throwing it in the trash. Then, Coco returns to one of her 3 beds. This time, it was the Christmas-themed one even though it was the middle of June. She grooms herself to correct any part of her fur she feels is out of place. G refills his water glass, takes a big swig, and then returns to the computer. G has never missed a brushing session, partially because Coco’s unmatched circadian rhythms would never let him forget. G has a simple and a solid job. He cares most about spending quality time with his family and friends, including Coco. When it’s the end of a long day and he’s feeling overwhelmed, the brushing routine reminds him to slow down. He checks his heart rate on his Apple Watch, a habit he probably does more frequently than necessary, and notices a dip back to resting rate after he sits back down. They say taking care of a living being is good for you, and G would agree. Sometimes, the five-minute mental break reminds him to look out the window, or to cook dinner, or simply got him out of the rut of working, gaming, or getting sucked into an internet rabbit-hole. Those sacred few minutes gave them both peace, and they returned to their assigned seats feeling calmed and accomplished.


Bing! The clone bay clings completion as you tumble out onto the floor, naked and glistening. According to Star Fleet regulations, a clone may only be regrown if the previous variation of its life form has perished. So. Your former self has died. You wipe the clone gunk out of your eyes and take hold of your situation. Fire. The room is fire. And worse than that - the air is more smoke and carbon than anything breathable. The oxygen generators must be down! Using your new arms and legs for the first time you stand up hastily, shakily, and break for the life support room on the far side of your pirate vessel. Each chamber is a worse level of hell. More fire. Less oxygen. Your skin bubbles from the flames while your lungs burn from starvation. Bing! You hear the clone bay spitting out one of your hapless crewmates into the inferno that is your ship. You're by the oxygen generator now. The charred remains of your team lay slumped against it - all unable to reset the delicate functions before the life seeped from their ravaged bodies. No time to think. You pry your own blistered previous remains off the display pad and try to reboot the system. Far across the ship, through the thin atmosphere, you hear it. Bing! Your fingers are fumbling, weak and burnt. Your eyes are glazing over as the lack of oxygen and waves of pain wash over you. You collapse. Darkness. Bing! You open your eyes for the first time. You're naked and glistening in a pool of clone gunk on the floor. Through the thick smoke, the emergency lights flicker, illuminating a wet path from the clone machine out the door towards the oxygen generator. Strange. According to Star Fleet regulations, a clone may only be regrown if the previous variation of the life form has perished. So, your former self has died. You try and breathe but your new lungs are empty and you're drowning from the lack of air. The oxygen generator must be down! You break for the life support room and follow the wet path of clone gunk but you're already weak and groggy. As you stumble down the corridor there's evidence of a great blaze. Struggling for whatever air remains you greedily gulp down lungfuls of fresh, acrid smoke. The fire that once raged (when?) left behind blackened walls, broken technology, and charred corpses. The world is starting to swim as you enter the life support chamber, and you stop, disgusted and afraid. You try and scream but can't. The wall of the interface is blocked by a pile of copy-pasted bodies. One of them, barely alive, falls to the ground and turns to look you in the eye and all you can see is terror as they twitch and pass away. In the distance, the clone bay continues to do its job. Bing! Oh god oh god oh god need air need to turn on the life support what happened why is it like this must run damn these weak muscles! Ahead, the corridor is blocked. A sea of bodies, waist-high. Down the other corridor then it's further but no choice no choice no choice please god don't be blocked! The alternative door to the life support room doesn't respond to your attempts to open it. Burnt out. Broken. Unwilling to budge. Curse this death, too quick to save yourself, too slow to spare you the agony of each cell in your body shutting down. A pistol on the floor? Make it quick. Bing! Where's the air? No air? Where's the air? What was that? An explosion? God, there were so many bodies blocking your way to the life support room. Back down the other corridor then. Around the corner to more death, dozens of more clones lying lifeless and naked on the floor. But these are different, these all are missing half their skulls. No air, but there's a pistol on the floor and brain matter dripping down the walls. Why did none of them try and open the door at the end of the corridor? Bing! You'll never know it, but the Federation ship that disabled yours left hours ago when they jumped to the next beacon.


Wurrem was believed to be the kindest wizard, by almost everyone in Evrit. He used his magic to help, and heal the sick, and wounded of the village, Evrit. Wurrem found it his passion in life to care for others. This made him very different from many other wizards who used their magic to gain power, and control. Wurrem was still young though, and had much to learn. He wanted to make a name for himself by helping the world. But this was difficult to do when he lived in such a small village as Evrit. And so Wurrem had an idea to create a wand for healing. It would be able to heal anything it touches instantly. But making a wand like this was not an easy task. He needed a branch that had to be gifted to him from the trees. This was not too difficult though, for he had helped the trees before.But the second thing Wurrem needed was more of a challenge. A bone taken from a living person. To Get this he used a healing spell and duplicating spell at the same time to remove one of his ribs. This was very hard though to use more than one spell at a time. But once Wurrem had both the branch and the bone, he was able to make the wand. To do this he used magic to mend them together. This was very tedious, but when it was finished it was like a long spiral. Then he set off on his way. After a few days on the road. And several people helped. Wurrem was stopped by a group of men. The apparent leader asked him where he was going. Wurrem answered in a cheery voice “I am off to help the world.” The leader (Koled) responded “Alright, then you wouldn’t mind helping us out. Would you?” Wurrem “Oh yes absolutely. How can I help.” Koled “Hand over your satchel.” Wurrem “I’m sorry you may be confused. I can’t give this to you.” Koled “I didn’t finish. Take off your clothes as well and give them to me.” Wurrem “No I cannot do that.” Koled “Well I guess we’ll just have to take it then.” The group then proceed to attack Wurrem, with one of them stabbing him in the chest. While going through the satchel they discovered the wand. Though having never seen anything like it they assumed it was some sort of dagger. And so Koled held on to it. They then mounted their horses to ride off. But Koled’s horse wouldn’t move. This was new and infuriated Koled. In a fit of rage he stabbed the wand through the back of the horse's head. The horse reared on his hind legs, throwing Koled to the ground. The wand now stuck in the horse’s head. It healed itself, sealing it there forever. The immortal horse named Unicorn was stuck with the curse of healing anything it touched. This is one of my first stories so any criticism is appreciated. I really like the idea of this story and kind of want to rewrite it but longer and with more detail.


There's a little neglected drag of cobble half a mile up from the banks of Possible's stream, where the eddies gurgle rapturous and wide making glee faces at men that dangle their little heads over the edge of possible's bridge. The little cobble streets that bob and teeter like a broad with a gut full of beer have become otiose, wringing not person, other than the cheese maker of hungry french memories. Horny lads, feet clicking, cluck, cluck, as they sauntered sheepishly in the evening, searching for a lass to loosen their wallets for. The new age saunterers in their barely worn pea-coats, pry grimaces from the cheese maker. The sound of flats and flimsy conversation bouncing off the old street and into the cheese maker's ears. He hated them. The cheese maker had lived alone since his wife had died 8 years ago. I would see him now and then as he stopped in the diner I worked at and had a cup of coffee. Nobody really knew his name. Nobody really cared enough to inquire. His presence seemed to go unnoticed as he strolled through town. Maybe he likes it that way. I called him the cheese maker because that had been his profession. He owned a small farm outside of town that he had purchased after returning home from WWII. His sons ran the farm now and they routinely delivered the cheese and milk we used in the diner. They had booted their father out into a nursing home. I learned all of this because they would engage in small talk with my manager who was an old childhood friend of theirs. I can't tell you exactly why I had become so infatuated with his life story. I would get off work and walk past his nursing home. Sometimes I would see him out and about, smoking a cigar outside a grocery store, or rummaging through a thrift store. I never had the audacity to approach him. It's been a few weeks since I last seen him, sipping on his coffee. I wondered where he had been. What he had been doing since he left the diner. I finished my shift without one sight of him. As I was walking home, I heard a yelling sound coming from the yard of the nursing home. I moved in closer to get a look. It was the cheese maker and another elderly man yelling back and forth at each over the white picket fence built around the nursing home. "You filthy fucking rat!" stammered the cheese maker. "Don't call me a rat, you goddamn wrinkled shit." I hid behind a tree and listened as best I could. "She loved me, Chester. She was married to me. She had my children." said the cheese maker. "You only stole her from me! She was going to marry me, if I hadn't thrown my ring into that goddamn stream!" yelled chester in fury. "I go to her grave every morning. And you, the guy she married won't even bother to visit her!" "FUCK YOU, CHESTER, FUCK YOU, you sniveling little fuck." The cheese maker picked up a rock from the ground and hurled it at chester. The rock missed chester and landed in the street behind him. By this time, the care taker's had come out and were ushering the cheese maker, who was mumbling curses, back to the house. Chester inched his way down the sidewalk past me. He had a cane in his left hand and leaned half his body on it as he walked. He didn't see me and I passed him and went home. I was so fascinated. The two men, in this perpetual state of conflict all over a woman that had passed away years ago. A few weeks had passed since their last quarrel. I couldn't pacify my intrigue. The sullen moments at work and the blandness of the regular social interactions between people left me craving their passion, their hatred. I began cutting by the nursing home more and more often. Checking to see if they would be there yet again, like a rerun of an old show. Then one day he appeared. The cheese maker himself. He waddled into the diner and sat in his regular spot and ordered a black coffee with two sugars. I brought it out to him. He didn't look at me. He stared straight out the window, almost as though he was expecting someone to walk in. He finished his coffee and left. Chester had died that day. I read it in the obituary later that night. He had a bad heart they said. I thought this was ironic. I went to the burial. I stood in the back away from everyone else. I took a cigarette out and puffed on it. I looked over to my left and noticed the cheese maker walk up beside me. "You got another one of those?" he asked motioning towards my pocket. "Yeah, sure." I handed him a cigarette and we both stood there silently.


Hey. It's been awhile, hasn't it? I just want to start out by saying that, before you jump to any conclusions about the meaning of this sudden outreach, that I am not dying, nor am I in some financial trouble. In fact, nothing of any major significance at all has lead to me writing out this message to you. Does there really have to be a reason? I mean, I know we didn't leave things off on a good note, or even a bad one. I know you said you never wanted to see or hear from me again, and for a good while, I was okay with that. I realize now that that's only what I told myself, what I wanted to believe, that I never should have let you be a part of my life. I was wrong; You finally get to see me say that. In spite of everything that is different about us, you are still, to me anyway, my own and only daughter. Did I ever tell you how you and I first came to be so? It was a cold night, wet and miserable, the kind where it threatens to rain all day but never commits. I was a young man then, new to the job, fresh-faced and very sure of myself. The shift had gone on without incident for more than half its length, and I doubt I need to tell you that I did not feel it could end soon enough; The thought of chasing down some crook or pulling over some speeding civilian in that weather was an unpleasant one. It was, however, at that time that I drove through the old industrial neighborhood of Olney Heights, I think you know it. In those days, it was in a bad way. The economic downturn had shuddered more than a few businesses, and the neighborhood as a whole was like a patient with terminal cancer: A ravaged, emaciated shell of its former self. The only lights that were on as I passed through were the street lamps and my headlights, reflecting the water vapor that so readily hung in the air that evening as I drove along the cracked, unmaintained streets. All along, I could make out the husks of former factories and warehouses, doors boarded and padlocked, windows smashed by hoodlums or disgruntled ex-employees, the shattered glass left to reflect in the light of the lamps. It was then that, out of my peripherals, that I saw what looked like a lightning flash to my left. My mind naturally assumed it was so, at first. A few seconds passed, however, and it happened again, more intensely, and I noticed then that it was not coming from the sky, but from somewhere very near. What's more, it was not a brilliant blast of white light, as lightning is, but a deep full red, like a digital alarm clock blaring its tune. I didn't stop, I never stopped in neighborhood like Olney Heights, but I did slow down, and I craned my neck to get a better view of what, if anything, was causing that light. A little ways behind me now, an old steelworks plant stood, and it was there, for a third time, more clearly now, a terrible flash of red flooded the empty windows of the building's third floor. What would have happened if I had just kept going on, I sometimes wonder. It doesn't matter now, I suppose, because stop I most certainly did, and I got on my radio to report what I could only describe as a "possible disturbance" on private property. Waiting was what I would have preferred, but this was Olney Heights, on a night with miserable weather to boot; I knew nobody was coming any time soon. So I braced against the cold, turned off my car, and stepped out, my maglight in one hand, and the other hand at my gun holster. There were two things I noticed straight away, that gave me pause. The first was that the chain link fence that often surrounds such defunct properties as this had been cut open in several places, neat human-sized holes all in a row, the cut sections left where they fell. The second was the feeling on the air. It was not cold, as it had been everywhere else that night, but actually comfortably warm, the kind of warmth that extends from a radiator. I pressed on, my hand at my waist now gently undoing the holster clasp that held my gun in place. With a deep breath, I drew it forward, balancing the piece on the other arm that still clutched the maglight. I don't think I need to tell you that I was more than a little nervous now. The human mind cannot conceive of unnatural things actually occuring to it, and I could only think that it had to be some dispossessed and desperate people seeking shelter, no matter what little sense that made in retrospect. As I walked across the yard of the not-long-before vacant lot, I scanned across the way, back to the street. No cars parked there, save mine. The flashing continued, and the temperature was steadily increasing; It was like being in a bathroom when a shower runs without a fan now. I made it to the door, and another pang of fear hit me; The heavy padlock that had rested on the door had been cleanly cut through and also left where it fell, the door jarred open just enough for someone of average build to squeeze through. As I said before, I should have been much more cautious, but being the young upstart with ambition, I went ahead anyway, keeping the flashlight pointed downward and the gun at the ready as I pressed myself through the passageway. The first floor was barren; Anything that could be stripped away and sold had been so for enough time that dust gathered visibly on the husks of old machines and equipment. I scanned the room, first very quickly, then very, very slowly. The heat was becoming a bit hard to tolerate now, like I was hugging the radiator and not just in the same room as it, and I was sweating bullets by the time I worked up the courage to step forward, further into this decrepit place. I couldn't see the flashing light now, but I could hear something. It was faint, but unmistakeably the sound of people talking. No surprise there, but it still unnerved me. I pressed on, towards the stairs knowing the elevator would be inoperable. The stairwell was all metal, and I took great pains to ascend it as quietly as possible. The flashing was visible again, coming from the third floor just as I had seen from the outside, reaching downward and painting the otherwise pitch black stairwell with its malign intermittence. It was like I was in a hot bath now, and the flashes were so frequent I could have carried on without the maglight, yet I was mesmerised, my upper half barely moving as I crept up the stairwell, to the third floor. The feeling upon reaching the door to my destination was overwhelming. The flashing was so saturated in my vision now that I could see red even when it fell dark again. I could hear the voices more clearly now, though they did not say anything that made sense to me, repetitious chanting of some foreign tongue, and it was joined now by a sort of low buzzing drone that picked up with every flash of that damned red light, like an engine running then revving. It felt like I was on fire; I couldn't bear it a second longer. I steadied myself for only a moment before I kicked in the door as hard as I could, and advanced onto the floor, shouting my trained words, "Police! Hands where I can see them!". I don't quite remember what happened next, honestly. I saw three figures in the center of the room, black silhouettes against the source of the blaring red light they could somehow tolerate. I believe they turned to me and all nerve and levelheadedness vanished from my being. They say that, when you are a policeman in a life-or-death situation such as that, you cannot think, as there's simply no time to. So I acted; I fired and fired and fired again at the figures and perhaps irrationally at that horrible light. It was all over in an instant. Suddenly the room was cold again, the sound had vanished. It was replaced with the soft patter of rain hitting the building and the floors where the windows were smashed. I regained my composure, and looked around. The light had vanished, and then I heard it; The soft cry of a baby. This is where you come in, I'm sure you've guessed. Where once the figures stood and a terrible light blared, there was now just a baby, nestled on a cloth on an improvised altar made of an old office desk. The three figures lay slumped on the floor, shot through several times each, with ragged patchwork robes obscuring the form of each. Looking them all over, they seemed utterly normal, two were men, one a woman, all shaved of hair, but undeniably human. My attention fell then to you. You were a bit pale for a newborn, but you had all the signs of one; Closed eyes, miniscule form, thrashing about with a freshly cut umbilical. I had never been a father before, but I am a brother, and despite my police training, I heedlessly scooped you up off the floor. You stopped crying almost immediately, and I tell you this now: I loved you straight away. I never told anyone this, not even you. I hid you away for a time, reporting to my supervisors only that I had run across some odd cultists that had been trying to start a fire who had resisted arrest. I never told anyone why your eyes were a natural red, or your skin pale yet unharmed by sunlight. I lied about who your mother might be, and I'm sorry to tell you that to this day I do not know, though I fear we both might know who your true father is. I'd wager that this letter is either a life-changing shock, or what you've already gathered to know as truth, simply missing the last puzzle piece to tie it all together. It doesn't matter. This letter was meant just as much for I as it was for you. No matter what you do with this information, no matter what you might think of me now that it's yours, know that I still consider you my only daughter, my only family, and I hope that you feel the same about me.


The tension from what would be their final fight grew and boiled as they shouted, until it felt like a metal rod shoved into both of their chests, keeping them planted in place, tortured, unable to walk away, and then he said some words he couldn’t take back and twisted it, and she did the same, and then they both twisted further, and finally the rod snapped in two. They turned and walked away from each other, him first, then her, the sounds of the city muffled by the haze of their anger. The only thing they could hear was their footfalls, asynchronous on the hard sidewalk, her heels clacking, his sneakers scuffing. Pick up your fucking *feet* when you walk, she thought, and she turned around to tell him that, and then she stopped and was silent. She watched his funny, loping gait as he walked away from her, and realized she had not turned to tell him that. She had turned to see if he would look back at her. For a second she stood, frozen, waiting for him to turn, trying to will it to happen telepathically. If he would just *turn* they could be together again--it felt like if she just believed it enough it would happen. Didn’t some mental connection between lovers exist? But he didn’t turn. He continued to walk in his off-kilter way, and, trying to conceal her hurt with a crisp show of grace and defiance, she pivoted on her heel and strode forward. Her sharp footsteps broke his focus on angrily walking forwards, and before he realized fully what he was doing he stopped and turned and watched her. Now *he* was caught watching her, waiting for her to turn. If he yelled it would be cheating. Any attempt to draw her attention destroyed the point entirely. He needed her to turn, and see that he had turned too, and they would know that they both loved each other, and everything could go back to the way it was. But she didn’t turn. Her sundress swished back and forth as she walked away, one foot directly in front of the other as if she was walking a tightrope, and she showed no sign of responding to his desperate mental pleas. She seemed to be accelerating. He awkwardly bent down and pretended to pick up his keys, just in case she saw him, and then spun around and walked away, faster, the suppressed pain in his chest spurring him on, his only goal now to escape. She came to the crosswalk. The walk sign was illuminated. She knew that this was the point of no return and once more, she turned and looked at him, now small in her vision, threatening to be swallowed by the city. He didn’t turn, and so she did, and then he reached his crosswalk and turned to her but she was already across and away, obscured by a bus. The distance between their backs grew and grew as they both fast-walked in a straight line away from each other, trying to forget, trying to justify why they left, trying to understand why the other hadn’t turned around, wishing they hadn’t been so weak. Both of them, in sync without knowing it, became determined to never look back again, to keep their head down and walk in a straight line until they reached some endless ocean that would swallow them. Their paces increased. In that massive, ever-expanding space behind them, something began to grow. With each step he and she took, a new doppelganger of each of them was created, directly behind them, facing the opposite direction. One by one, the doppelgangers ran backwards towards the center, where the two lovers had started their journey outwards. He and she both heard the footsteps of their hundreds of thousands of copies, sounding almost endless, behind them. They both of them wrote it off as a trick of their imagination, trying to get them to turn around again, and they continued forward with new determination even as the sound of sprinting feet behind them grew exponentially. The first of their doppelgangers met each other in the middle, exactly where the real versions of them had first turned from each other. The doppelgangers leapt into one another's arms and began to kiss. Then they were slammed into by another set of copies, who groped for one another as if they were in pitch blackness, and then another pair reached the middle and began to claw at each other's eyes with hatred. Every second a new pair of doppelgangers reached the middle and fell into love or hate or embrace or murder with the other--they began to pile up, their bodies twisted and wrapped around each other, until there were millions of them, fighting or loving or looking into each others eyes. The pile of copies grew in height and width like a tsunami. The writhing bodies ascended up the sides of buildings, breaking windows, flooding into apartments, destroying cars and buses with their weight. He and She both heard the noise of it, but they couldn’t look, they had to keep walking forward, they knew that they wouldn’t see what they wanted. Behind them the endless copies of their bodies grew until it looked as if they had somehow become a towering organism in their own right, one massive living body made from millions of tiny ones. The body of bodies loomed over the streets and plunged everything into shadow, until finally, the whole massive stack of them, almost a mile across, tipped on its side, crushing buildings, leveling entire neighborhoods. Every hope and dream and future and fight contained in that enormous pile released all of its destructive potential, and the city was engulfed in dust and fury and chaos--all the doppelgangers screamed, the millions of copies of her holding onto the millions of copies of him tightly as they fell, and thousands of city-dwellers screamed in fear and agony from below, being consumed and swept away by the massive ocean of squirming, identical couples. The noise grew to an unspeakable level, and the dust reached out for him and her, and the screeching of millions melded together, sounding as if New York was some sort of giant monster that was just waking up and realizing it couldn’t move, buried under buildings and concrete. Finally she stopped, and then he stopped, the noise somehow still growing, threatening to pop their eardrums. They were about two miles apart now. Exactly at the same time, in sync without ever knowing it, they whirled around and looked at the stretch of street behind them--and saw nothing there at all. All was quiet and still--the other person nowhere to be seen. They both stared at the empty street for as long as they could, hoping to will the other person into existence. Finally, after an eternity of staring and silence, both of them turned back the way they were going, and took another step apart.


"Welcome to the Wild West, young pardners! After striking gold, you and your band of prospectors were robbed and taken hostage. You managed to escape but the robber rigged the saloon with all sorts of tricks to keep his loot secure. Your mission: break in and steal back your gold. Yee haw!"

I usually spoke that part with gusto- my shoot-em-up not-too-hokey Western accent, grazing my hand against my pretend holster, tilting back my head just so, a machismo wink- this time to a group of young boys- while I drawled, “You got it, pardners?” But then I saw him. My swagger faltered a bit. Coach Bowie, standing in such a familiar pose- arms crossed, staunch, glowering- that I was thrust back into high school; twelfth grade speech. His gut had grown considerably, and he appeared stouter, shorter, than his giant-sized persona back in high school, but still imposing.

I pushed a button on my Ipad and the iconic sound of wind rushing through the sagebrush whistled from its tinny speaker. I snuck a quick glance on my device to look at the kid’s name (much could be gleaned from digital waivers) but it pulled up right away: Bryce Bowie, aged six, birthday Wild West Extravaganza. Thoughts skittered- this must be Coach Bowie’s grandson; Colton Bowie’s son, had to be. Colton would be..what, 28, 29? He was four years older than me, had graduated by the time I started high school, but Coach had a daughter two years older than me- Carissa? Christy?- and a son my age, Jacob Bowie.

Flustered though I was, I had to keep the show going. “Saddle up!” I clapped my hands and the boys squealed in delight. I led them into the saloon, wondering if Coach recognized me, but then immediately dismissed the thought. Of course he didn’t. I was a drama kid. Not that I tended to parse the variances of human nature into categories, compartmentalizing them into some Hollywood version of high school: meaty jocks, ditzy cheerleaders, nerdy brainiacs. Football players could be sensitive too, right? Didn’t High School Musical already cover that ground- upending the status quo and all that? Everyone knew who Colton Bowie was; not because he was the football star (he’d started strong: varsity quarterback his freshman year, reduced to second-string his sophomore year, and then to JV his junior year, and then dropped out completely by his senior year). These days everyone had a psychology degree from Google University and could see that the relentless pressure his dad put upon him had withered away soul. By his senior year, Colton had grown his hair long, had a dramatic relationship with a girl, where he’d punched a few walls (misplaced anger, obviously) and then had gone of to a four year university (a mid one, nothing to brag about), married young, had a kid young…. Wait a hot second. Was this the kid?

As expected, the boys didn’t look for clues but manhandled all the props, they went straight behind the bar- cheap plywood with fake liquor bottles. I sidled up to Bryce and said with a wink. “Got an ID, pardner?” He grinned at me and his friends clamored around me. At this age, reality blurred with fantasy, and so most of them thought I was a true cowboy straight from 1880’s dusty New Mexico.

I jostled with them a bit, while Coach looked bored from the sidelines. “All them rattler bites get to your brain, pardner?” I said to Bryce, tapping him on the side of the head. I was straying too far from my comfort zone. Except for a few stock phrases, I didn’t know much beyond basic cowboy lingo. I wasn’t supposed to touch the guests, especially kids, but I was feeling reckless, Coach Bowie stirring things up like a mean ol’ viper’s nest.

Depending on the age group, the Wild West escape room could be a real head-scratcher. The management wanted to keep the script versatile, marketing for all age groups (to line their pockets) which meant adapting from the intricate to the simple. Such as: How much was the bounty on the wanted poster? The liquor bottle dates. The sheet music on the piano. The deck of cards. The menu. It all added to clues which led to a code which ultimately led to the safe.

For the young ones, the clues were so basic that I’d basically let them whoop and holler around the room until they found the code by me hinting at the clues in some Barney-like, Western-style yippee-yay in which I’d always let the birthday boy become deputy to allow them access to the jail, where the safe held their “gold.” But dammit, Coach Bowie.

I swaggered over to them, loose-limbed, and slightly bow legged, tilting my hat. “Okay young cowboys. You don’t want the robber to come and getcha!” I flourished this by lunging at the boys while they squealed and darted away. I pulled my fake gun from my holster. (The management thought guns, even fake ones, might cause some controversy, but ultimately decided that this being the Wild West, they warranted that they be props, always sheathed, not brandished about. I was of the anti-gun mindset myself, but this was a learning moment. And Coach Bowie the intended audience.)

The kids wanted to hold it. I put it into Bryce’s hot little hands, glancing over at Coach. Byrce immediately pointed it into the air and tried to fire. He whined, “But it’s not real.” I said more angrily than I intended, “Whatcha doing, Cowboy? Your granddad there not teach you about gun safety?” This got Coach’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at me. The bullet had found its target. I took the gun from Bryce. “Guns kill people.

Bryce was undeterred. “I’m going to kill the robber!”

Coach Bowie was the high school’s football coach, and he was a legend. A legend. But as legends go, they tend to lose their luster if they don’t eventually vacate their perch of greatness, because nothing lasts forever, right?

And it was clear that Coach Bowie, as most egotistical pricks, never thought his number with the football gods would be up. He’d led the school to three state championships, won two of them, but by the time his son came to high school, his star began to wane; and maybe because he’d lost that razor-sharp detachment, and with Colton’s lackluster performance, the public began to see the rage monster behind Coach Bowie’s facade.

But damn, isn’t verbal abuse, especially among youth, passe by now? Don’t we know so much more now? About emotional needs and sense of self and all the wisdom and knowledge amongst Tik Tok shorts and Youtube gurus? Aren’t we all so much more enlightened now?

Like I said, no surprise, I was a drama kid. And for some reason, as though my guidance counselor enjoyed tormenting me, she sprinkled the outliers (and only in a football state was I considered an outlier), a theater kid, a band kid, a chess club kid- just a few, and tossing us, like a garnish, into a whole class with athletes.

Bryce handled the gun with deftness, alarming, in my opinion, for a six-year-old. It looked like he was trying to open the chamber (there was no chamber on this cheap-ass fake gun). “Where are the bullets?” he asked me? “Where are the bullets?” I said in mock outrage. “Where are the bullets ?” Then I winked at them. “You gotta find the magic bullet.” I told them that it was a magic bullet, a gold bullet, and that we were going to shoot the bad guy with it.

Whoo-boy that stirred them up. They went hollering all around the saloon. I was thinking on the spot. I was changing the rules. Screw the clues and the code. This was about a bullet now. This was about a gun.

Colton Bowie shot someone dead the spring break of his senior year. He’d gone to a shooting range with his buddies and accidentally shot a woman (just a girl, really, nineteen years old), just an employee. No one knows if it was a misfire, or him being reckless, or a little of both, but truly no one thought it was intentional. It was clearly an accident. No one could fault him for lawyering up, for the coach wanting to protect him by getting the best lawyer; no one could fault him for that. But what we could fault him for was the fact that his own family- his dad and mom and sister- pillars of the community- did not give a damn, for this young woman, for this human being. And yet, his younger brother, Jacob, the same age as myself- he did care. During the time we spent together in high school, he looked gaunt, miserable, keeping to himself, looking pained to be associated with his father, especially his brother. These days, from my social media stalking, it’s clear he’s estranged from his family. (I say this facetiously- stalking- just an expression. Let’s just say I kept up an interest in Jacob.) He lives a more granola lifestyle, living in Seattle, committing the cardinal sin of being a liberal, liking all sorts of posts against guns and school shootings and so forth.

I hadn’t hidden the gold bullet. In the mayhem, I’d rooted around in a drawer for a tarnished old bullet that we’d kept among other “Western” knick-knacks in a drawer behind the bar. “Maybe it’s by the piano!” I said, to misdirect them. The bullet was real, an antique, belonging to an old shotgun that we didn’t keep on the premises. The coach still stood there, scrolling through his phone, underwhelmed. He was probably only waiting for the birthday cake in the party room. I edged by the coach and he looked up long enough for us to have eye contact. I smiled at him- a genial Cowboy smile, and he gave me a curt nod in reply.

One of the bottles behind the bar table knocked over but luckily didn’t break. The boys looked in every nook and crevice. A golden bullet! Under normal circumstances this would be a terrible idea. I managed to catch Bryce’s eye and give him a quick shake of the head. Over here . Luckily, like the sly little devil, he got the hint. Behind my back, I pointed to the drawer. “I found the bullet!” Triumphantly Bruce held it up, not knowing that it wasn’t exactly gold. You couldn’t bite down on that nugget- it would break your tooth.

“The birthday boy found the bullet!” Luckily the boys were too young to notice the game was rigged; that the boy of the hour had coincidentally found the prize. I took my hat off and gently set it on top of his head, in which it wobbled and slid low on this face. “I hereby declare, as the sheriff of Wild West Extravaganza, that Bryce Bowie, six years old, is now my deputy.” “Does that mean I can shoot the robber?” I kneeled before him and said soberly, “Bryce, what do bullets do to people?” “They kill bad guys.” There was a short gruff laugh from his grandpa. A ‘that’s my boy’ kind of chuckle. It pissed me off.

I uttered with all the sanctimony I could muster, “That’s true, Bryce, but bullets also kill innocent people too.” This got the reaction I expected. “What the hell did we pay for?” Coach groused. “This is supposed to the Wild West!" I stood up and stared him in the eye. “Boys, I just spotted the bad guy.” I retrieved my handcuffs- real ones, also a prop- and dangled it before them.

The boys spun wildly around. “Where’s the bad guy?”

I smiled at the coach, a gleam in my eyes. “Right there, that old guy there. That’s the bad guy.” “That’s my grandpa!” said Bryce. “That’s not your grandpa.” I widened my eyes at him, with a wide grin, appealing to Bryce's sense of fun. But I was dead serious. This was a reckoning. “Go get em Cowboys!” A little mob of six-year-old boys, attacking the old man, grabbing his hands, clutching at his legs. He didn’t look pleased, huffed a bit, but what was he to do? He wasn’t expecting, however, for me to pull his arms back and flip open the handcuffs, to lock his wrists in place. That set him off, but he managed to stifle his rage. Only a matter of time though. And I was here for it.

The girl’s name was Alexis Fernandez, and she was the granddaughter of the shooting range, part of a larger property that had been in the family for generations. They weren’t wealthy, didn’t have the resources to pursue both a criminal and a long drawn-out civil suit. But they loved their daughter, and the public responded. The story, as it goes, is predictable: the criminal suit was ultimately dropped, not because there was no fault, but because culpability was so buried under legalese, the Fernandez lawyer didn’t have the means to excavate. But buried there, a jewel, a simple truth. That Alexis Fernandez was a human being, and she didn't to deserve to die.

Everyone speaks of shame like it’s the hot lava core of emotional pain. Food shaming, body shaming, sexual shaming. But for Colton and Coach Bowie, they could have used a nice dose of shame, in its purest form, shot to the core of their black hearts. Because they felt none. And boy did we try. And by we I mean the social media swarm, where we fought valiantly to support the Fernandez family, trying and failing to appeal to the justice system, and then to the community, posting pictures of Alexis, appealing to their humanity. Our hive grew, the outrage grew, surely the Bowie family would cower in shame; surely Coach would quit; surely Colton would go into hiding. Only Jacob kept quiet; only he kept his head down; only he felt mortified. As for the Coach, it’s not hard to feed your ego when you know where to look. The audience might have been smaller- some sycophants at a smaller watering hole- but it could be a puddle and he’d find a place to drink. Colton went to college and posted shamelessly on social media- his buddies, his fraternity, his girlfriend, now his wife, his child, his church, his upstanding morality. No matter that the hive swarmed his comment section, reminding him, cajoling him, it did nothing. It did not penetrate into that part of the soul called conscience. While I was at school, his daughter was a cheerleader, flaunting her good looks, and charming the teachers. Again, it didn’t matter that most of the student body despised her. She would only look to where her ego needed nourishment. That’s what the Bowie family did.

“Let’s take him to the jail!” I hollered and the boys crowed.

I was so off script, there was no script. I shoved him into the jail, the final room, where typically the boys would find the clues- for the young ones, they just needed to count the “scratch marks” on the wall to produce the key- in order to open the safe where’d they’d find the cheap bars of gold. But not this time. “As my deputy, slam the door, Bryce. You’ve got the robber!” Bryce slammed it so hard it clanked open, and so I had to help him lock it. “All right, all right, let me out,” the Coach said warily. “Let’s get this over with.” I put a hand to my chest. If drama kids irritated him, I would be Oscar-worthy. “You are the worst kind of blue-bellied, grass-feeding, bottom-feeder devil in all of tarnation.” The boys laughed so tauntingly, it reminded me of the novel, Lord of the Flies .

He was getting angry, but it wouldn’t take much for him to barrel his way out of the cheap jail, past me to my manager, where’d he’d take pleasure from getting me fired.

Fired? This was beyond getting fired. I knew how to get him. I sidled up to the bars. “Hey, Coach, do you remember me? I was in your twelfth grade class ‘bout...oh say, five years ago.” “I don’t care who you were, you get me out of here, or you’re gonna get your ass served.” “No problem, Coach, sorry for the trouble. Thought I’d give your grandson a little show, right?” I gestured to the sweet child, who was still holding my gun and going “phew phew” around the room. I called the boys over and announced the code to the safe, told them now that they had their robber, they could open it. Bryce shoved his way to the front, demanding it was his birthday, but all the little boys were trying to shove their fingers onto the key pad.

I turned back to the coach. “Say, you heard from Jacob recently?”

Coach glared at me. “Get me out of here you good-for-nothing scum.” “Of course, of course.” I dramatically patted my pockets. “Well shoot….I thought it was here.” The temperature was rising. The joint was going to blow. I only needed to throw the match.

“You know, Jacob and I were friends in high school.” I leaned in, said conspiriatorily, “Special friends, if you catch my drift. Let’s just say…we liked to play cowboy and robber.” And then I winked.

Implosion. I tapped the record button on my Ipad.