My mom is old. Her vibrance gone. Bones brittle. Hair gray. Eyes glazed over from cataracts. Her skin patchworked with blood spots. And it is not cliché to say it happened overnight. Just three years ago she was getting a monthly pedicure and keeping hair appointments to cut and color her once brown hair. With her five children grown and gone, she never stayed home. From the time she woke until dinner time, she was outside roaming in her car visiting friends and shopping. She was alive and loving every minute of her new freedom that was formerly restricted from being a full-time nurse, a housewife, and a mother. Then the accident changed everything. Three years ago she stepped off a sidewalk curb and lost her balance. Her right shoulder completely shattered, and it was how she discovered she had osteoporosis. The entire shoulder had to be replaced. The surgeon picked out pieces of splintered bones and put in a round metal ball to give her about sixty percent use of her shoulder again. She suffered through the year long process and fell again, this time breaking a bone in her back and knee. For the last few years, her car has been supplanted with a recliner. The last few Christmas holidays have obviously not been the same. This one, however, will probably be the last. A few months ago I started to notice the memory problems. I visit her weekly and since the Breaking of Bones I have been spending every Saturday morning and night with her by sleeping in my old childhood room. The severity of the memory problems became more noticeable every week I returned. For the first time since I was born, my mom forgot my birthday. Birthdays are more important to no one other than a mother—at least, my mother. Birthdays were an event celebrated in my parents’ home more than Christmas. My birthday, my brother’s birthday, and my father’s birthday are all in December. My mom forgot all three. No phone calls. No cards. No cake. No celebrations. We did not remind her. We only spoke of it amongst ourselves briefly to mention that we noticed. Maybe it did not need to be broached. More than likely, we were so saddened about the Great Forgetting that none of us could bring ourselves to discuss it. Last Thursday, just four days before Christmas, my mother told me when she was a teenager that she would eat the honeycombs from real bee honey. She said it was her favorite thing to eat as a child. She and her two sisters would sit on the porch and put the comb on an English muffin or biscuits. She said she would not eat oatmeal unless she had honeycomb pieces to put in it. Sometimes she would just suck on the honeycomb before finally eating it by itself. She and her two sisters felt rich if they had it. “Honeycomb was not easy to come by in those days,” she said. “I can’t remember what it tasted like but it was the best kind of candy. I wish I could taste it again.” It is said that men have trouble listening to women. I had no trouble listening to my mom. I knew what her Christmas gift was going to be this year. I got Mom six separate quarts of honey with combs in them. I had to go to three different bee apiaries in two different states to get them. I spent no fewer than two days tracking down and purchasing honeycomb. (Apparently it is not a popular request with bee farmers.) The price was costly but would be worth it. It would be the best gift I have ever given my mom. This year will be doubly special for me because I know this will be my mom’s last Christmas. Her memory problem is exacerbating too quickly. The differences are noticeable now almost daily. But I had a secret I could not tell her for two more days until Christmas morning. Why can it not be Christmas Day right now so I can give her this gift right now! This is going to be her best Christmas. I am certain of it. I am going to drop a hint about her gift like she used to do with me as a child a few days before Christmas. Yesterday, while I was sitting on Mom’s couch with her across me in her recliner, I asked, “Mom, do you remember when you used to eat honeycombs on the porch with Pat and Dina?” She turned her head to face me with a blank stare. “Honeycombs?” She asked. “Who told you that? No, I never ate honeycombs. Those things were gross.


On Antarctica, a man was listening to his radio before the daughter was yelling. He was frustrated with no place of quiet to himself. The place was a chamber and his entire family lived there. Sure, it was cold out there, and it became very boring for his wife and the kids on some days but his job paid well. He was getting five-hundreds thousand for a year in Antarctica on research.

“Dad, look at this!” Andalusia said, wiping the frost off the window.

Outside, they saw the snowland, and the penguins sliding down some plains.

“Yeah, I see it. They’re having fun out there.” “No, no not that. Look here, to your right.” She said.

“The melting ice?”

She went past him and pulled up the thermistor. “Look at this! It’s thirteen degrees warmer than before. So, it’s real. All of this global warming thing is! Please, dad.” She wouldn’t quit. “Kid, listen to me. I know it is real, okay? It’s not what I’m here for, though. I’m just the penguin guy. You know that.”

She widened her eyes, “Dad, why can’t you listen to me? We got to do something. There’s so much carbon emission that the levels are rising. Fast.”

“Sweetie, stop. It’s enough. I know this is bad, but what can we do, really?”

She leaned forward, “Are you serious? We can plant trees, cut the economy on factories, and try to convert most of the electronics used to solar energy. This solar energy could make some big differences in how we live.”

“I love that you care about the environment, but I really have to work, okay?”

“Forget it. Enjoy your papers.” She scoffed and went to her bed, picking up a hardback.

Dad slumped in his desk and went through some files. The one on the penguin's tag was missing… He pushed the chair apart, looked under the desk. Dad tried the drawers, and another drawer on the bottom that was stuck out jammed. He fiddled with it, pushing it shut. Something glowed caught his eyes.

What was that? He knelt down and lowered his head.

There was a small circle of swirling colors. It is loose, taking a little space as possible on the floor. “What the heck?” He murmured quietly to himself.

His hands trembled, and he slowly reached for it. His index finger felt the cool air whooshed before it touched the thing. Immediately, all of his life forms vanished, leaving the pen that was behind his ear on the floor. He felt the sweats dripping on his forehead, becoming dizzy and dizzier. His hands couldn’t take grasp of anything, losing himself unbalanced, in this- A gray room?

Dad took a deep breath, nervously beating his heart rapidly. He looked at the glass wall that looked like a movie was playing. Some kind of space film. He pushed himself off the ground, leveled with the movie. “Wow. Is this high definition? Amazing.”

The movie showed the Moon insight, along with millions of stars. It didn’t play anything else, just this clip. The door clicked, and a little boy came in. He gasped, “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” He looked scared, but his face scrunched up, “What are you using?”

“I- 'm Dave. I really don’t know what happened… I was at my desk but then now I’m here. I really don’t know. Could I talk to someone, your dad, maybe?”

“They all are gone. Where have you been all along! I thought there was no one left.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Gone, that’s what I mean. It’s only me here. It was three of us for seven years. Before that, there were about three hundred of us.”

“Please, kid, can you take me to your mom?” He pleaded.

“You’re not listening to me. They’re gone.”

Dave sighed, and shuffled his way past the kid, out of the room. “What the hell? Where are we? Those look a lot like a spaceship hallway in the movies, all gray and beeping lights, and all that stuff.” He addressed the kid, “Wait, is that your window in the room? Are we in space?” He stammered.

“Yes, why?”

“So we are in space? Oh God, I must be dreaming. How is this possible?”

“I want to know where you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? I was tired of making food myself! Mom said nobody would.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twelve. Thirteen three months from now!”

“Oh, I thought you were like nine.” He observed the kid, in his tight suit who seemed to be thin to the bone.

“Twelve. Now tell me who you are.”

Dave ignored him, running away in the hall. “Where are everyone!!” He screamed. “Tell me now, please! I can’t be here. I can’t… this is crazy.”

“Calm down, I got food that can last us a lifetime. Then there would be nothing left. It’s all right. Mom said she’s proud of me. I’m the last boy there is. Maybe not, if you’re here.”

Dave rubbed his eyes, “Last boy… Jesus, I don’t understand… What- Could you explain it to me? All of this?” He teared up a little.

“How do you not know? Did they not teach this to you in history class?”

“The space stuff? I knew Neil Armstrong was the first one to Moon.” “Who’s Neil? No. I’m talking about the place called Earth? You have heard of it before, right?”

Dave chuckled, “Yes, I live there.”

The boy frowned, “Haha you can’t fool me with that joke! Earth has been gone for almost eight hundred years. Something like that, I think.”

“Don’t play with me.” Dave was pissed off. “Tell me the truth. Not this nonsense.”

“I can’t tell you if you don’t listen! Stop yelling! Come on, here.” The boy went back to his room and showed Dave the stack of papers. “This is today.”

There were tallies, the number of days he assumed. “And what is today?”

The boy was quiet, looking at the paper then replied, “2109.”

“What month? Day?”

“No use of that here. We do it yearly because time goes by slowly. But if you want to know… three.. Five, it’s July Fourth.”

“No, no. 2109? That’s like nine hundred years in the future!”

“Are you dumb? No, it’s today.”

Dave realized, the boy might be serious and all of this was real. He never felt more scared than at this moment than ever. “Okay, could you explain?”

“Alright. People said Earth died because people didn’t take care of it very well. That’s why all of us went into space. Then some ships broke down. Some were destroyed, and some others… I don’t know where. This is the last ship still running. My mom taught me everything I had to know. There’s a little garden here, and I check the engines daily. Mostly, it’s automatic stuff but mom said to check every day.”

“So, have been you here for a while? Alone?”

“Yes. I asked my mom why she was explaining all of this to me- she didn’t say. I just found her dead one day. It’s me now. Why don’t you know all this?” “I know this might be hard to believe but I’m from the year 2020. I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s okay.” The kid gave Dave his hand and brought him to the long window. “That” he pointed, “Is the Planet Earth.”

Earth he knew through the satellite photos, through NASA websites doesn’t look like this. It was brown, and there was barely any water to be seen. Most of it was just dirt. “This is Earth?” Dave asked, speechless.

“Yes. Was this your home?”

“Yes. My home. Andalusia was right.”

The kid looked up, “Who’s that?”

“My daughter. She said we got to do something about this… I didn’t listen.”

He turned around, pressed himself against the wall, and sat down. “Oh god, what have we done? God help us all.”


“Hey honey,” Chris said through the phone. “I was just calling to let you know I’m gonna be home late tonight, I’m really sorry. We are just absolutely slammed here, but I should be home by 6:30 at the latest. Do you mind making dinner tonight?” I opened the fridge, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

“Of course, baby,” I said, forcing sweetness into my voice. I opened the freezer and noticed a couple unopened packages of ground meat. “How does beef stew sound?”

“Sounds great,” Chris said. “I love you.” I bit back a laugh. “Love you too,” I said. I took the phone in my hand and hung up. The great thing about beef stew was that you could just throw a bunch of ingredients in a pot and it would taste amazing. Sometimes, if you threw enough food in, you wouldn’t be able to taste some of the less flavourful ingredients. I began by turning on the oven and setting up a cookie sheet. I took my anger out on the potatoes, slicing them furiously and nearly cutting myself in the process. I placed them on the cookie sheet on top of some tin foil, then into the oven.

Next, I took my favourite meat out of the freezer. I smiled as I unwrapped it. Chris was going to love this. I turned the stove on and started cooking the meat in the pan. I seasoned it heavily, with all of Chris’s favourite spices. Garlic, paprika, onion powder… On a separate pan, I started cooking all of Chris’s favourite vegetables. I threw in carrots, peppers and peas and cooked them so that they were warm and soft. The crock-pot was already on, I’d turned it on minutes before Chris had called me. I’d been expecting this. I threw the vegetables and meat into the crock-pot, then took the potatoes in the oven and tossed them in as well. I knew I would be making dinner tonight. I always made dinner on Thursdays.

Not because Chris was always held up at work, but because he was always with his mistress. Claire was her name. Even thinking about that blond bimbo made my blood boil. I found out about a month ago, when I’d started getting suspicious about why Chris always seemed to be home late on Thursdays. One night, I drove to his work and waited for him to leave. I watched him get into his car and followed him to a rundown apartment a few blocks away from his work.

A woman, Claire, had met him outside. She was young, younger than me at least. I’d later learned that she was 19, eight years younger than I was and ten years younger than Chris. She was perfect in every way. Short and slim, with perfect tanned skin, long luscious blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. With my curvier form, pale skin and dark hair, there was no contest. She was ten times more attractive than I would ever be.

She’d stood on her tiptoes to kiss Chris, then led him inside. I was filled with rage. That was my boyfriend. And she thought that she could just snatch him away from me? Absolutely not. Chris and I had been together for five years, we were planning on getting married! I’d been dropping hints to him about it constantly for the past year, and I knew that it would happen.

I sped home and waited for Chris patiently. But I hadn’t said anything. Not yet. The timing wasn’t right and I didn’t have enough information. So, I acted completely normal. I smiled and kissed him and made him a hot meal. And afterward, when he went to bed, I looked at his phone.

It was the most logical next step. I scrolled through dirty texts between him and Claire, that’s where I learned her name and her age. It turned out that this relationship had been going on for about a month and a half, and from what I gathered, it was pretty much just sex. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better, since they clearly didn’t have an emotional connection, or worse, because he obviously found her more physically attractive than me.

Over the course of the next month, I drove to Claire’s apartment a couple times to learn more about her. I waited for her to leave and come back, then I followed her inside and learned which apartment she lived in. I then found out her daily routine, watching to learn what she did every day. She normally left first around eight o’clock and drove to a nearby gym. She’d workout there for about an hour then head back home, probably for some healthy protein shake. No wonder she was so skinny.

Then, when she didn’t have class at the local University, she’d head off to her job at Starbucks, where she made coffee and laughed with coworkers her whole shift. Most nights she stayed in, probably doing homework. The only times she left at night were to greet Chris and occasionally go out and party with her friends. She seemed like a pretty normal college student. If I’d seen her walking down the street, I wouldn’t have thought much. Unfortunately though, she was sleeping with my future husband. That caused a lot of problems.

Last night I’d taken a little field trip to Claire’s apartment, the last one I would ever take. I smiled now as I watched the stew boil in the crock-pot. I couldn’t wait for Chris to eat it. After he did, all of this would be over. Both Chris and Claire would no longer be in my life. I would never have to worry about either of them ever again.

I sat peacefully on the couch, watching mindless sitcoms on TV while I waited for Chris to get home. I stayed planted on the couch when I heard the door open. I kept my eyes on the TV.

“Hey Rach,” Chris said. “I’m so sorry, things got so crazy at work.” I smiled. “Things always seem to get crazy on Thursdays.” I lifted my eyes to meet Chris’s. He laughed nervously.

“Yeah,” he said. “Busy day for the office I guess.” He turned his attention to the crock-pot. “This looks delicious, babe.” I turned the TV off and got up, getting bowls and spoons out of the cabinets. I scooped a couple spoonfuls of stew into a bowl and handed it to Chris, grinning ear to ear. I couldn’t help but feel joyful right now.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting down at the table. I scooped some stew into a bowl for myself and sat across from him. He dug in immediately, barely even slowing down for air.

“This is incredible,” he said with a mouthful of stew.

“Well, there’s a secret ingredient,” I said mysteriously.

“Whatever it is, it’s amazing,” Chris said, continuing to devour his stew.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” I asked. I hadn’t touched my stew yet. I wanted to see the look on Chris’s face when I told him what the secret ingredient was.

“Sure,” he said. “Wait, is it red wine?” I shook my head and laughed.

“No silly,” I said. “It’s this weird type of meat I found. It’s called Claire.” Chris suddenly stopped eating his stew. He stared at me, his cheeks full with the remains of his mistress.

“What?” he asked.

“Claire,” I repeated, as if it should be obvious. “It’s her. In the stew.” I took a small spoonful of the stew and slurped it down. “Doesn’t she give it an extra kick?” Chris spit out his stew into the bowl and ran over to the sink to rinse his mouth out. I smiled. As if rinsing his mouth out would change the fact that he’d ingested his mistress.

“Are you crazy?” he asked. “What- how?” I got up and walked over to the drawers with the cutlery, just like I’d rehearsed. I opened the top drawer and calmly pulled out the biggest knife we owned.

“Rachel,” Chris said, eyeing the knife. “Please put down the knife. It didn’t mean anything, it was just sex! I swear to god she means nothing to me, you mean everything to me. I love you, Rachel.” I rested the tip of the knife against my chin and pondered Chris’s words.

“You see, I want to believe you,” I said, stepping closer toward him. “But you’ve already lied so much. I just don’t think you should get any more chances.” I took the knife away from my chin and pressed the point into Chris’s neck. He swallowed.

“Rachel, please,” he said. “Don’t do this. I’ll leave, and I’ll never talk to you again and I won’t tell anyone about what you did to Claire. Please, just let me go.” I pressed the knife deeper into Chris’s neck so that it drew blood. He gasped.

“I don’t think that’s gonna work,” I said. “I mean, how am I supposed to trust you after everything you’ve lied about? No, I think I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Rachel, ple-” I cut him off, literally. I took the knife and I sliced violently into Chris’s neck. His head toppled to the floor with a loud thud . I smirked down at it. Finally, the world was free of the biggest liar and the biggest whore it had ever produced. Order had been restored.

*** “Hi Daniel,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Rachel.” He was much better looking than Chris. He was taller, with a more chiseled jawline and silkier hair. And, if what the pictures on his dating profile showed were true, he had some serious abs. “I hope you don’t think it’s a little weird that I asked you to come over on the first date.”

“It’s nice to meet you Rachel,” Daniel said, shaking my hand. “And it’s not weird at all. I’m honoured to have been invited to your apartment so soon.” I smiled. “Of course,” I said. “Would you like to have a seat? I’ve made a very special recipe of mine just for you.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, seating himself at the kitchen table. I made my way over to the counter, grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, and scooped a couple spoonfuls of stew into it. I handed the bowl to Daniel, then proceeded to get a bowl for myself. Once I was seated across from him, we dug in.

“Mm,” Daniel said. “This is delicious. What’s in it?”

“Oh, you know,” I said. “Peppers, peas, carrots, potatoes, all the normal stew things.”

“This meat is amazing,” Daniel said, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. “It’s so juicy. Is it just regular beef?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”


Choices, I choose, do I? Moving things from one place to another, trying to create order from chaos. That’s what existence is, in a way, moving from place to place and making choices. I need to get out of my room, interact, create connections. Walking is automatic and effortless, All these people, where are they going? Everyone has something to do, an objective, a mission to accomplish. That’s what gives life meaning, at least for humans. That dog looks weird, no it doesn’t, but why does it walk like humans. Wow, now it's walking on four legs, it's like it heard my thoughts, weird. Oh yeah, I am in a simulation, right, I forget. I need to get out more. Playing retro games on drugs all week definitely felt home. Home, I shouldn’t forget home, when am I gonna get back to earth? "Soon" sign instead of "Stop" sign, you guys should stop listening to my thoughts. It's creepy, why did I agree to this. If they can make it this realistic, they could easily send me home with their technology, they must have something else on their mind. Shit, everyone is looking at me now, it's all connected. I shouldn’t doubt their intentions, I wish there is a way to hide my thoughts. It seems like a riot situation going on, what is happening, why are they doing this. These people seem to need my help, how could I be useful. Why are they treating me like, a leader, I was just passing by? They are trying to overload the simulation, what is the point of doing this. We can't live in their environment, ahh, my head hurts. These riots are out of control, they are exploding everything. It seems like a war situation, aliens are responding, ahh, I am losing control. What, what key?, my room key?, I don’t know what you guys are talking about. I don’t understand you people, I need to get out of here, let me go. You guys should stop doing this, it is of no use. Shit, aliens are going to laser blast this place, these people still have a chance to escape. Yes, I found an opening, I can get out of this alone. Whose side am I on, what should I do? I can get out, using this narrow tunnel or I can help these people escape. Make a choice damn it, choose. \ Aliens in my fantasy, you can't take anything from me UFOs and flying saucers, don’t think you can frighten me I don’t scare from abductions, I don’t care for seductions. Don’t you dare to find me, don’t ever try to touch me. And remember always, I'm your fucking enemy. Enemy, enemy, enemy, I'm your fucking enemy. Enemy… , I love this song, been a long time since I heard this single. I'm gonna buy this CD, I should try talking to others. I might not be the only one here. Surely, there must be other passengers they rescued from the ship. I don’t understand what these people are saying, gibberish, I feel like I am the one who is talking gibberish. Oh finally, someone who doesn’t know where he is going. Why is he running away from me, are we not supposed to meet or something. He must know something about this place. I still don’t understand why they would go this far to simulate our environment for us. Reminds me of aquariums, this is probably an entertainment for them. Now I understand how those fish felt like being monitored all the time. What the fuck, a whale, dropped from the sky, in the middle of the road. Why whale, either a glitch or a hidden message. Oh yeah, we had whales on our ship, I am remembering things now. I didn’t even feel like I missed some memories. They are surely hiding something from us, why are they keeping us here. I need some dope, this is getting too much, I should go back to my room. Those people are eating that whale. Bunch of fucking whaleaters, they are probably aliens masquerading as humans. I miss going to the beach, the waves bring tranquil to my heart. The vastness of the ocean is overwhelming for my mind to contemplate. Sometimes I fear one of the tides rise up to be a tsunami, that must be hard to simulate. I am almost near, What the…, what is wrong with that dog. Why am I having a Deja Vu about this? Oh, that’s him, that person, did he just follow me all the way. I thought he ran away. He knows where I live now. He is still standing outside, I wanted to talk to him, but this is creepy. Someone is knocking on the door, it's not him, I can still see him from here above. He is gesturing something, fuck, the door is going to break. What should I do, I can jump out the window, no, I am going to die if I do that. Should I open the door, I think he is telling me to jump, he probably has a net. Make a choice damn it, open or jump. \ How many of them have I killed by now, this is certainly terrifying to think. I don’t know if they are my fellow humans or are they, aliens. Death is unavoidable anywhere in the universe, even if it’s a simulation. I seem to be the leader for this revolution, I don’t remember becoming a leader. I don’t know who I am anymore, am I a human or maybe I am an alien. I can't afford this crisis right now, it seems to me, this is eternal war. Death with purpose and the illusion of free will. Dying for a cause sure must give them comfort. I wonder if I am the only one who is capable of thought in this simulation. I need to get away from this war zone, what is the purpose of this simulation. Give me my memories back, even if I hate them, I know you can listen. There must be some answer to this perpetual nightmare. I need to break out of this illusion. I need to show my will. I need to show them that I can make a choice. How can I make a choice without any driving memories? I can't believe what I am seeing right now, An army of Bipedal Dogs. Why do I feel like I know that dog? Does this mean I still have some memories, are they hidden from me? I met their commander, I was the commander of my ship. This was my choice. They are killing, no, obliterating, their minds, no, our minds. I chose this nightmare for all my people. I was never alone in this place. It was the only choice I could make. What good are you planning to get out of this massacre, why choose the beloved form of dogs, Is this a mockery of mankind. I led all our hope into this abyss. Where is the cat army when we need it the most, they never really cared for us? It wasn’t really a choice. The cats never cared for humanity, they just seduced us with their cuteness. I made this deal, so those aliens would take us back home, they showed us our future. I was never really capable of making that choice. Is this the future they promised us. I don’t want to remember, enslave me, rid me of my consciousness. I choose to live in Illusion.


I am from a large and loving family that is a bit well weird in most people’s eyes but weird is fun. As a quick example, when a photographer asks for us to pull a ‘silly face’ we have to clarify “marshall silly face or normal silly face?”. We all enjoy making each other laugh and goofing off. We are all each other’s best friend. As the second generation of twelve cousins becomes older there are marriages every year and babies every other. My father is one of four and is the second oldest. First it was Aunty Jenny followed by my father Steve, then uncle bill and lastly Uncle Keith, the craziest out of them all. It was his younger brother Williams (better known as Uncle Bill) middle child Caris who was getting married. This story is from Caris’s wedding in 2010, the first wedding of the second generation and ultimately the most memorable. A Marshall wedding is not your usual wedding. Things are a bit crazier and kookier than most others. As it was Caris’s wedding all the girl cousins were asked to be bridesmaids. Having us all together we all knew it is was going to be the most unforgettable and unique wedding. There were five bridesmaids in total. Caris’s sister Lauren was maid of honour followed by Kailee and Katrina. Amy and I being the youngest were ‘junior’ bridesmaids. We have no important jobs to do but Caris did not want to exclude us. The ceremony was in the grandparent’s large backyard garden. There was a big grassy area surrounded by many trees, flowers, shrubs and a pond. Uncle Bill had been pruning and trimming the whole area for weeks and it had definitely paid off.  Caris and Toms wedding reception filled a whole ball room as Tom is Italian and the Marshalls side is extensive and large. The rooms roof was decorated with floating white sheets and fairy lights. There were lights and flowers on every table and a large flower arrangement across the bridal table, which was stationed at the head of the dance floor. The pillars in the room were spiralled with flowers, lights and matching white material as the roof raising as high as the ceiling. The dance floor was at the centre at the room and large enough for all to join. To the side stood the tired white cake. There were the usual proceedings of a regular wedding. The bridal party was introduced as we all danced to our seats. After some dancing, speeches and the Italian seven course feast it was time for the bouquet toss. The MC called all the ladies out onto the dance floor. All five of us bridesmaids gathered, arms around shoulders, ready for the toss and began talking tactics. It was Tully (Kailee) who said “Lets lift someone up”. “Like a rugby lift?” ask Trina (aka Katrina) “Yeah! Like a rugby lift” Tully replied “Okay so who is getting married next?” asked Rat (aka Lauren). “Ahhhhh… bub?! (aka Amy)” I explained. There was a quick unanimous yes despite Amy being in a very new relationship. Now this was all worked out in under sixty seconds. We talked fast and in hushed tones. All five girls in matching purple dressed positioned themselves close behind Caris for the toss and a meter or two in front of the other girls. We widened our stance and yanked up our dressed. This is where everything went in slow motion. The rest of the ladies behind us immediately discounted us because of our position. We all circled Bub, the aunties and uncles were yelling at us that we were too far forward but we waved them off, we had a plan. We turned our focus to Caris who was oblivious to where we were standing and what we were planning. Caris bent slightly to build up the throw, we all grabbed what ever we could of Bub and began to push her up. Caris launched the bouquet. It was sailing through the air much higher than any of us anticipated. We had to dig deep. Amy grew higher and higher. This is when all the Marshalls in the room smiled and everyone else’s mouths dropped. No one could believe what was happening, no one had seen it before, the MC was speechless. The bouquet crashed into Bubs outstretched hands causing the frangipani petals to cascade down on the four of us. All the ladies behind us let out a gasp or a sigh. We lowered Bub thinking she had the bouquet but she had hit it down across the dance floor! She scurried for it and easily grabbed the now flowerless bouquet. With an extremely triumphant fist she thrusted it in the air as well all yelled in celebration. Everyone behind didn’t even stand a chance. Everyone was left stunned and silent for only a few moments before the room was lit up with laughter and exclamations like “oh my gosh!” and “did you see that?”. The MC just didn’t know what to say and fumbled with his words for a minute or two before continuing with the next item. To this day we still talk about the bouquet throw from Caris’s wedding. Anyone new to the family will be told by all the Aunties and Uncles at once followed by Uncle Bill proudly showing off the perfectly timed photo, he took of it. It perfectly depicts the amazement on everyone’s faces. The people in the background included the MC and most of Toms family who were not use to this sort of thing. All their eyes are wide and mouths open. The rest of the ladies in the back look much more defeated in comparison. However, we feel no remorse for are perfectly executed and impromptu plan. This photo hangs in centre stage in Caris’s house and will never be removed. The absolute best part of this story was that Bub was indeed the next one to get married.

By Brianna Marshall (AKA Buzz)


Depth: 3.3 kilometers. Distance from New Alcatraz: 900 meters. Time since loss of contact: 27 hours, 43 minutes. I squeeze the grip on my M4 carbine. The on-board submarine computer sounds deeper than Barry White. I try to ignore it. All I can think about is the safety of my platoon. This is unlike any mission we’ve ever been on. Technically, the place we’re going to doesn’t exist. The US government set it up in international waters, outside of official jurisdiction. It was touted as the world’s first functional underwater prison, designed for the most hardened criminals. Completely off-the-grid with its own nuclear power source and 3D fabricators for food, clothing, weapons, and other supplies. Once you’re there, you never have to leave. And good luck trying to. Distance: 500 meters. New Alcatraz comes up on the monitors. The glass dome covering the facility looks rather beautiful. The wipers used to clean the algae are operating, so the place must still have some electricity. No sunlight penetrates this far down into the ocean. The only lights I see come from inside the prison. “What do you think happened, Commander Park?” Dax asks. He spins around in the pilot’s seat. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he’s not even wearing full body armor like the rest of us. It must take a toll piloting a sub like this one. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. Distance: 100 meters. There’s another submarine docked in the moon pool. That must have been the last prisoner transport before contact was lost. Something got in there that shouldn’t have. Docking sequence initiated… When I started out as a private, all I could think about was being the one that yelled out the orders. But now that I’m the one in charge, I wish I could turn the clock back. Because now I’m the one that has to go into New Alcatraz first. I inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly. Docked in Bay 2. “Let’s go,” I say. The bulkhead door opens. We enter the processing center. There’s an enclosed space in the middle of the room with windows where the guards would sit. We’re the only ones here. One of the doorways out of the room is locked. Another has been left ajar. My heart almost jumps out of my chest as we creep across the room… Nothing is waiting for us around the corner. We walk into a wide-open space. The circular tables make me think that this is the mess hall. Most of the chairs are set on top of the tables, but some of them have been knocked to the floor. The place looks like it should on any normal day. Except for the puddle of red on the floor. “Son of a bitch.” The acids in my stomach churn. There was a struggle of some sort, but there aren’t any remains or body parts on the ground. Just the blood. “Stick together,” I say. We cross the room and head to the staircase on the side of the panopticon-shaped prison. I feel like I’m walking on egg shells with each step that I take. The moment that we reach the second floor, an alert from the submarine AI comes through on our com link. Bacteriological agent detected. Exercise caution. My insides sink to the bottom of my chest. That would explain quite a bit. One of the prisoners must have come down with something and infected everybody else. But apart from rabies, I can’t think of any disease that would cause somebody to go berserk and take over the facility. And wouldn’t the officers screen all the prisoners before putting them on the transport sub and bringing them down here? Levels Two through Six house the prison cells. There are streaks of blood scattered on the ground without any remains to speak of. It’s as if the corpses disappeared or something. The further we go inside the facility, the sicker I feel. I’m not even behind bars, and I feel like I’m a prisoner in here. Commander, this is Dax. Do you read? “What is it?” I say into the com. Sir… there are… well… fish in the moon pool. They jumped out of the water and now they’re just sitting on the dock. My mouth falls open. That is not something that I need to know about right now. Dax does not have the best timing. “Is that all?” No, sir. I’ve also been picking up something on the sonar. Something big is circling the outside of the facility. You might want to hurry it up in there. Don’t want to stay any longer than we have to. “Roger that. One more floor to check.” The last place to explore is the confinement level at the top of the facility. We go up a final flight of stairs, moving at a snail’s pace. I can hear the breathing before we exit the stairwell. It doesn’t sound like a noise that a human is capable of emitting. It sounds guttural. Animalistic. Depraved. The prisoners are all standing in place with their hands at their sides. In this prison, the inmates wear white jumpsuits. Most of them are covered in blood. For some reason, it makes me think of a red and white candy cane. “FREEZE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” None of the inmates move. Their heads are slumped forward. They stand as still as statues. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” One of the prisoners turns around to face me. His black eyes lock on to mine. His mouth droops open. “You! What happened here?” I ask. He points to one of the solitary confinement units. Blood is caked into his hand. “The guards were annoying us… we took over… gave them a taste of their own medicine… now we own the place.” That’s when I notice a thumping noise coming from the unit. Somebody’s pounding on the door, trying to get out. “Put your hands behind your-” I can’t even finish the command before the inmate leaps forward and tackles me to the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs. My gun clatters away. Boy , he is stronger than he looks. I feel every ounce of his weight on me. He bares his teeth like some wild animal. Red spittle shoots out of his mouth and sticks to my helmet. Instinct takes over. I headbutt him and push him off. The other inmates snap out of their trance. They surge towards us. Guns discharge. The popping sound hammers against my eardrums. Some of the inmates collapse to the ground. The others don’t seem to notice that they’ve been riddled with bullets. They run into us like a football team executing a play. I sidestep one of them and plant a bullet into the face of another. Still, they keep coming like a pack of wolves. A scream rips the air apart. I almost jump out of my combat boots. One of my brothers lies sprawled on the ground. His black helmet rolls across the floor. An inmate has his face planted in his neck. A puddle of blood flows out from his body. “GET OFF HIM!” I barrel across the confinement area. Using the heel of my boot, I kick the inmate onto his back before emptying a mag into him. “SPLINTER! ARE YOU OKAY?” His face is as white as a sheet. A chunk of his neck is missing, body armor and all. He’s not going to make it. My breath catches in my throat. Everything seems to happen on fast-forward. Another scream, more bullets, a horrendous chomping sound. In less than thirty seconds, half of my platoon is dead. Only four of us remain. “FALL BACK!” We scamper back down the stairs. I never leave any of my teammates behind, dead or alive. But this is beyond hope. At this rate, we’ll all get infected. We’re outnumbered ten to one. The only thing we can do now is escape. I almost trip over my feet as we sprint past the cells on Level Six. The inmates pound their fists on the white cell doors as they chase us down the hall. A blanket of sweat covers my body. It’s hotter than hell in the body armor. My lungs scream in protest. “HERE! TAKE THIS!” K-9 throws a grenade at the inmates. I shoot forward and cover my head with my hands. Seconds later, an explosion rocks the entire facility. I feel myself lifted into the air. Pieces of shrapnel shoot out in all directions. The prison cells sway in front of me. I definitely have a concussion. “Well… fuck that …” I say. “Quick thinking, K-9.” “That was insane,” K-9 says. “What’s wrong with them? Those prisoners went crazy…” “I don’t know. Some kind of sickness or something…” I say. A big chunk of the staircase is missing, cutting us off from the horde of infected. They growl at us from their perch on the floor above. I collapse to the ground in exhaustion. I wrench my helmet off and toss it aside. “You know, the guards are still stuck up there in the confinement cells,” K-9 says. “How do you think we’re supposed to get them out?” Before I can answer, I notice a crack on the glass dome overhead. It looks like a spiderweb. “Oh shit…” A trickle of water breaks through the glass. The trickle turns into a gusher. Water flows down through the opening in the center of the floor and falls straight down to the ground level. Soon, the whole fucking dome is going to be flooded. “RUN!” I shout. It sounds like we’re next to Niagara Falls. Water splashes around with each step we take. I hear a shattering noise above us. The hole in the glass widens. Soon, the whole fucking thing will cave in. I look over the balcony down to the ground level. The water looks taller than me now. There’s no way we’ll make it in time. “Guys! We have to jump! The water should be deep enough now!” I throw my rifle away and step onto the railing in front of the balcony. It seems like I’m on top of Mt. Everest looking down. My head swims. “You sure we can make that?” K-9 says. “Come on!” I force myself to take a step. For a moment, I feel weightless. Then I fall into the abyss. The floors of the facility rush past me. I keep my body as straight as a pencil. The water rises up to greet me. I close my eyes… SHOOM! The moment I hit the water, I kick my feet in front of me so that my body levels out and stays parallel with the floor. Fortunately, our body armor works underwater. I’m still able to breathe. I swim back up to the surface and see the rest of the platoon jump in after me. The water is almost up to the second floor now. “Everybody okay?” I ask. “I think I broke my butt bone,” K-9 says. “Good. Let’s go.” We go back under and swim through the processing center towards the entrance to the facility. The double doors prevent the moon pool from filling up with water. I gasp in relief at the sight of the submarine waiting for us. Commander… do… a… on… when… My com starts to crackle. It must have gotten damaged in the fall. I can barely make out what Dax is saying. “Dax, can you hear me? Come in… do you copy?” That’s when I notice the colony of fish swimming around the sub. At first, I think that they’re barracudas, except for two things. The first is that they have wings at their sides. Some of the fish jump out of the water and soar over the dock before going back in. My jaw detaches from my mouth as I watch them fly through the moon pool. The second thing is that barracudas don’t have razor-sharp teeth. These fish do. “What the hell…” I have no time to react as one of the fish jumps out of the water and shoots toward K-9. It latches right onto his chest and hangs erect off of him. “Holy shit! Get this thing off!” He tries swatting at the fish. It keeps its death-grip on him. I unsheathe my army knife, grab the fish by the tail, and slice it in half. Finally, it comes loose. Then two more fish jump out of the water and take its place. One of them bites into K-9’s neck. A stream of blood shoots through the air. Soon, the fish shoot out of the water at us like bullets. It’s a deluge. K-9 is literally knocked off his feet and sent flying backwards. I slice through as many as I can, but each one I kill is replaced fivefold. COMMANDER! GET OUT OF THERE! WE’VE GOT INCOMING! Now the com decides to work. I ignore Dax and try to find K-9. I can’t even see him under the horde of fish. I make a move towards him only to have the rest of the platoon wrestle me back to the submarine and in through the bulkhead door. “NO! STOP IT! WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! LET ME GO!” Everybody else knows that it’s too late. I want to scream as loudly as I can but my voice escapes me. Crimson blood covers the dock. The fish continue to enter the moon pool. Some are even stuck to the submarine now. “Strap yourselves in!” Dax says. “We’re leaving!” The nuclear engine hums to life. A blanket of monitors flickers on in front of us, showing feeds from different cameras attached to the ship. All systems operational… proximity alert… switching to stealth mode… The lights dim throughout the submarine and are replaced by a red glow. I hold my breath. Nobody says a word. We’re going to have to be dead silent if we want to slip by whatever’s waiting for us… Suddenly, there’s a pounding noise from outside. It sounds like somebody’s banging on the bulkhead door. I take off my seatbelt, bolt out of my chair, and look through the glass dome on the door. “Oh no… no no no no…” It’s K-9. He’s just like the inmates now. Infected. Blood drips from his mouth. He bangs his head against the door over and over again. My stomach feels like it’s about to expel its contents. He must have contracted the disease from the fish in the moon pool. The sub starts to descend. We leave K-9 and the rest of the infected behind. Darkness covers the camera feeds. Outside of New Alcatraz, there are no other sources of light nearby. “How far away are we from the nearest port?” I whisper. “19 km,” Dax says. “Have them get a medical team ready for when we arrive,” I say. “Because we’re going right back in there and-” The submarine lurches to the right. Something pushes against it from outside. My seatbelt digs into my chest. A siren blares. WARNING! PROXIMITY ALERT! “Dax! What the hell is going on?” I needn’t have asked him. I can see them on the camera next to the radio antenna. The infected fish. Thousands and thousands of them. Acting together as a single predator. The submarine is their prey. “Get us out of this!” I say. “Can’t… there’s too many of them,” Dax says. “I can’t steer this fucking thing!” We’re doing donuts underwater. It’s almost impossible to believe that something so small could have so much power. None of our weapons work against a threat like this. We’ve got to do something. If we crash into the seafloor or a cliff, we won’t make it. One of the cameras shows a plume of smoke erupting from a crevice in the ground. There must be some sort of volcanic activity nearby. There’s no way the fish could survive that heat. An idea takes shape in my mind… “Dax! Head to that subduction zone over there!” “Sir, we’ll be killed! The submarine can’t withstand those temperatures!” “It’s our only shot! We’ve got to get them off! Do it!” Dax shoves the joystick forward. I almost fall backwards as the sub shoots ahead. Fire belches out of the fissure in the seafloor. Time to use our surroundings to our advantage. WARNING! EXCESSIVE HEAT! TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! STRUCTURAL FAILURE IMMINENT! The alert falls on deaf ears. We’re going too fast. It’s impossible to change course. The dot on the sonar follows us right into hell. The fish won’t let us go. It’s as if they know that there are healthy hosts inside of the submarine for them to transmit their disease. We go right over the subduction zone. Fire shoots up around us. I feel the rumble of the Earth below. The submarine rattles like a child playing with a toy. Every single camera feed turns white. It seems like the fire goes on for hours. TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! ABANDON SHIP! There’s nowhere else for us to go. This is a real trial by fire. I send a pray up to whatever God may be there in the sky. “Commander! I think I’m getting control back!” Dax says. “The fish are dying!” The fire diminishes from one of the cameras. Then another. Eventually, we make it out of the subduction zone. The submarine holds up. The fish float in the water behind us. None of them are moving. They’ve been charred to a crisp. I collapse back into my seat. It actually worked. We made it out in one piece. “Holy shit,” I say. “That was insane. I don’t think we’ll be seeing them around again.” “Maybe next time they should stick with an aboveground prison,” Dax says.


I drummed my fingers lightly on the table. The guard standing next to me shifted uncomfortably. The interview was set to start in two minutes. "Are you gonna be here the whole time?" I asked looking up at him.  "If that is what you wish, but he will be handcuffed. He will not be able to hurt you." He said without looking down at me. I looked forward towards the door that leads to the interworkings of the prison.  "Actually, I think it would be best if it was just me and him. He might be more comfortable that way." I said without taking my eyes off the door, looking for movement behind it. He gave me no response. I looked down at my watch. One minute until show time. I fiddled with my notes again, checked the tape recorder once again to make sure it was in working order. I didn't want to miss a single second of this.  "Keep it movin'," I heard a surly voice say from beyond the door. The guard glanced at me then shifted again. Keys jingling, then the knob turning, and then there he was. The most prolific serial killer in the history of the state of Arizona, looking right at me.  He was neat, clean-cut, freshly shaven. He's been in solitary for the past three weeks, he must have cleaned up special for this. He must be able to feel my repulse and excitement rolling off of me in waves. He gave me a small smile. I turned to the guard next to me, gave him a nod as his cue to leave, he hit me with a looked that asked me "Are you sure? Really sure?", but my gaze didn't waver.  Once he was secured, and the doors were shut, it was time to begin. They had cleared out the visitor room just for this, we were seated at a small table near a window that overlooked the yard. I knew they would be watching us. He cocked his head at me, shot me that grin again. The smile never reached his eyes. I cleared my throat, reached for the recorder, and started the recording.  He glanced at the recorder, then back at me. "Hello Ms.Ward, it's nice to meet you. My name is John Doe", he made the motion of going in for a handshake, but fell short due to the restrictions. I tried to smile.  "They told you my name?" I asked with genuine interest. I hadn't exactly agreed to be the interviewer until yesterday. He seemed delighted with this.  "Well yes, I know everything about you, Ms. Ward. It truly is a pleasure to meet you." He stared at me as he said this, his cold eyes never leaving my face. I laughed lightly despite the panic rising within me. "What exactly do you know about me?" I said trying my best to keep eye contact. He drops his eyes, then slowly pulled them back to meet mine, that grin never leaving his face. "I know that you are originally from Portland, left when you were 18 and then hopped from state to state until you found a place that stuck. I believe you lived in California, Washington, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and Utah. Ah, yes, with a brief stay in New Mexico. You work for the East Valley Tribune, and I know that you're the new kid on the block there, don't exactly fit in. Haven't made any friends despite being here since January. Stick to yourself, don't you? I imagine you living in a small, neat apartment, short lease. You never know when you might want to pack up and leave again. No boyfriend, I suppose no romance has entered your life in the past decade. From the divorce I suspect." He spoke with a calm tone to his voice. It felt like I was talking to one of my teachers in elementary school.  "I've read everything you've written. Talented writer I must say. This doesn't really fit with the rest of your work, does it? You've stayed away from crime. I think you got stuck with me because no one else had the balls to sit across the table from me. Is that close? " Silence fell for a moment. His face never moved. "Right on the money," I replied. I looked down at my notes, lost for a moment. "Let's start, shall we?" I said. His expression didn't change. He eased back in his chair.  "Fire away.


A reflection of the azure-blue sky must have been the last thing the ring-necked pheasant saw before he flew into my floor-to-ceiling panorama window. I heard the house rattling thud and rushed to my balcony where I found the stately bird looking like a pile of pretty feathers. Sadly, the angle of his neck, and his half-opened vacant eyes told me he was a goner. It was a distressing moment, for sure, but the home chef inside me soon pictured a steaming, crispy-skinned entree stuffed with apples and brown rice. The living and dying were done. Only plucking, cleaning, stuffing, baking, and eating remained to provide a proper denouement for the handsome bird's life story. At least, that’s the way I saw it at the time. Eating, no matter how scrumptious the meal, can’t be called dining if you’re eating alone. My gourmet meal had to include last-minute company. My dream companion was any woman who looked ravishing in candle glow. However, keeping it real, I settled for my next-door neighbors, the Van Winkles-Al, and his wife Val. I’d sensed that the neighborhood thought of me as an oddball, and I could see how a fifty-year-old bachelor moving into a big house, in a gated community could come across that way. This sad occasion was my chance to show them what I really am: a gracious, congenial, humorous, gourmet chef. I got Al on the phone and after a long hesitation and a whispered exchange with Val, he accepted my invitation for dinner. He offered to bring wine, but I told him I had two bottles of Petite Syrah, which goes well with pheasant. “Just bring yourselves and a hearty appetite.” We ended the call on that cheerful note, but I must have been unclear about the time. Al and Val showed up much too early, as we shall see. I carried the carcass to the backyard, where I’d covered the picnic table with newspapers then sat down and began ripping the feathers off the drumsticks, rump, belly, and back. The downy feathers from these parts come off easily, provided the bird is still warm. I never scald fowl before plucking because hot water pre-cooks the skin, making it tear and lose moisture; spoiling the presentation. With the feathers plucked, except for the head, wingtips, and tail, I went to the kitchen to set the oven and get a sharp knife, to open the torso, and a cleaver, to chop off the head and lower legs. I checked to make sure I wouldn’t need a trip to the store and found I had plenty of bacon to wrap the bird which is a tasty way to keep it nice and juicy during roasting. I also grabbed a plastic container for the giblets. The heart, gizzard, liver, and sweetbreads, dusted in white flour and pan-fried in garlicky olive oil would be tomorrow’s delectable luncheon ─ big plans.  On my way back I heard the doorbell. When I opened the door, I was stunned to see my guests standing on the porch wearing obligatory smiles. They could probably tell that something was wrong by my startled expression, but I gathered my composure and extended a welcoming hello. “Come on in. We’ll hang out on the patio while I do some final prep. We can talk and get acquainted while the bird is in the oven.”

Trying to think of what we could talk about for the next two hours made me nervous, especially when Val offered to help with the cooking. I hadn’t mentioned that the main course was window kill and that I’d be removing its bloody innards and chopping off its legs as we chatted and joked. Before I had a chance to respond to her, we’d stepped onto the brick patio. I was startled − transfixed − not able to process and react to what I was seeing. The pheasant was standing in a pile of its own plucked feathers; looking at us. However, “looking at us” does not begin to put across what the naked bird was doing. He was communicating − speaking volumes with facial expressions and body language. With his half-opened beak, a slight cocking of his head, his brow knitted (not furled), and a subtle hunching of what passes for shoulders, he was asking a question as old as life itself: “What the fuck happened?” He could not have made himself any clearer - even if he had mastered human speech. I turned and watched the color drain from my guest’s horrified faces.

Gathering my wits, I moved quickly.  That’s when the confused bird spotted the knife and cleaver. Putting two and two together, he let out an infuriated squawk and flapped his bare wings, ready and willing for a fight to the death. Val and Al disappeared, scurrying home sometime during the ensuing violence. The pheasant got in one painful peck to my nose before the table upended and the plucked feathers and newsprint scattered across the patio with the goose-pimpled bird screaming screeches that could be heard for blocks. I finally subdued him using my greater weight and wingspread. I tied his legs together and hung him upside down until he mellowed out. My cheeks were badly scratched and my favorite white chef’s jacket was ripped to shreds.   Holding a bloody dishtowel to my nose, I called the Van Winkles, but I have not yet had any response to my nasal, muffled explanation on voice mail. I should have made up a story instead of trying to make sense of what really happened. On the other hand, I doubt if even J.K. Rowling could come up with a story that could put me in good graces with the Van Winkles, or anyone else who lives within squawking distance. The Wildlife Rehabilitation Hospital assures me that re-fledging has begun and that the pheasant is well on his way to a complete recovery. Lucky him. He’ll soon be released back into the wild and I’ll still be cooped up in this gated community where everyone still thinks I’m an oddball. The End


Lily sits at her desk, her office is bright with the afternoon sunlight, the south exposure extends Lily a warm embrace.  Lily is distracted by her thoughts, “what made me think this was a good idea?” as she stares at a blank screen in front of her, she suddenly realized that the dream of telling her story just became her nightmare. “No turning back now”, she says, and proceeds to type the words she’s been holding on to for the past 25 years. “To my dearest family, with all my love I write to each of you personally, sharing my most personal and deepest thoughts, with love and forgiveness, always yours, Sister and Daughter” Lily could feel a lump in her throat, “how am I going to do this?” She asks herself, “dig deep girl, you know you can” and begins to type again. “I am strong, I am worthy” she repeats quietly to herself. Soon the words just starting pouring out of her, “Dear Dad”, she takes in a deep breath, and releases it, “I know you fought hard against the demons in your head, you fought against the emotions you couldn’t express.  There were many nights I cried when I found you had left us, again and again, my days were filled with sadness, but I held on knowing you would always come home, and you did.  Dad, that version of you has long since passed, and now here you are with little time left on your clock, I want you to know how proud I am of you for coming out of the darkness and for being part of my life.  I will always love you, now and forever.” Lily stopped typing for a moment, taking in the words she wrote, knowing how many more of these letters she has to write and all the emotions that are surfacing.   Lily wanted this so badly, but had no idea of the cost that would come with it. Lily took a sip of water, and proceeded to type once again. “Dear Mom, So many years have gone by, I miss you with each passing day, your smile and your laugh are always with me.  I want you to know how sorry I am for never really hearing your words, or understanding what you needed from me, I had no idea of the battle you fought each day, alone with your emotions, alone in your fight.  It’s too late now, you have left us, but I promise you this, I will share your story and make sure that those who are lost are heard.  I’m so sorry Mom, you are and always will be part of my soul.”  Lily stops and smiles, she knows her mom is there with her as a light breeze comes through the window, goose-bumps run up her arms. Lily had buried all these feelings, emotions for so long, and as she thinks back, she realizes that everything she accomplished was based on a fabrication of her life, she hasn’t faced these emotions and now here she is taking them on, to what end? “I need to do this, someone out there needs to read this.” She says matter of fact, and proceeds with her next letter. ”Dear Jackson, My dearest brother, although we are of the same blood, we are from different fathers.  What I do remember is how we were as siblings, we fought a lot, but I do remember as we got older we started to develop a bond. Sadly, with the interference of religion, we never really had a chance to get to know each other as grown adults.  To this day, I only know you by name, you care so deeply for your congregation, and I forgive you for not understanding my choice to leave the religion, but my life is sound, my life is mine and I am happy.  I love you and I forgive you.” Lily pauses, “i lost my family because I chose a path to a more fulfilling life.”  She gives her head a good shake, “they lost me.”  She quietly whispers.  Lily looks around her cozy office space, it’s furnished with a rustic white desk, light grey bookshelves, a white lounging chair accessorized with hints of yellow splashed throughout.  Lily came from very humble beginnings, and worked hard to get here.  She was proud of her accomplishments, yes at a cost, but she knows that her emotional luggage is what was packed years ago to get her here. Lily had one more letter to write, and this one was to her sister.  Lily, looks at her computer knowing she has to finish strong. “Dear Sis (Rachel), Growing up we were inseparable, we were practically attached at the hips, right up until I graduated.  We were best of friends, with so pinky swears, secrets to take to our own graves.  When I chose my path, our bond began to fray, slowly, day by day, i knew you weren’t allowed to be in my life any longer.  I cherish each moment, the walks to school, the kick in the shins you give me for walking too fast, sharing lockers, even going to the same classes.  These moments I hold dear to me, as they made me who I am today.  I only wish you happiness in your life, please know that I will always be in yours, always in your heart.” Lily sat back, letting a tear roll down her cheek, “I really needed to do this.”  In saying this, she also felt like a weight had been lifted from her, it was as though the clouds had cleared, and the sun was brighter, her senses were so heightened, she could feel the flow of freedom run through her body. Lily stepped away from her desk, feeling wonderfully satisfied, but a sadness overshadows her moment, she keeps thinking “did I really sacrifice my family, for my happiness?” It was in that moment, Lily looked in the mirror and looked into her own eyes, and exclaimed “this is exactly where you are meant to be right here, right now!”


I highly recommend checking out the video version here - But if you're more of a reader than a watcher, then read on: In the middle of 2013, Adobe went through a huge security breach in their systems with huge bits of their software code stolen and posted online. The hack was inevitable as Adobe had been criticized for its pricing practices among its user base for a very long time. My very first memory of using an Adobe product is a bit vague, but the feeling it gave me, is still very vivid in my mind. I was confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. Photoshop was the first Adobe product that I used and I didn’t know what to think of it except that now I can manipulate digital memories however I want. Photoshop was then of course just the beginning of what would lead me into a never ending curiosity of exploring other Adobe products like Premiere Pro and After Effects which then led me into digging deep into the past of two businessmen, John Warnock and Charles Geschke, the guys who found Adobe in the December of 1982. Initially being a math failure in his ninth grade, Warnock went on to grab a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics followed by a PhD in computer science. Warnock’s genius in mathematics was at full on display in the form of his 1964 master’s thesis where he solved the Jacobson radical row-finite matrices which was originally theorized by a leading algebraist in 1956. Warnock took his understanding of math and computer science to the next level when he wrote the Warnock Algorithm designed to render a complicated image of a scene. If the image is simple, it’s immediately rendered, but if it’s a complicated piece of pixels, then it’s divided into smaller parts and the rendering process repeats itself. On the other hand, although he never came up with a unique invention, Charles Geschke, Adobe’s co-founder was on a parallel level to John Warnock with his MS in mathematics and a PhD in computer science. He went on from a teaching job to working at Xerox where he formed and headed an image science laboratory, directing research activities notably in image processing. This is where the two masterminds crossed paths when Charles hired Warnock at his lab and the two came up with the idea to commercialize InterPress graphics language for controlling printing. But Xerox remained unconvinced and the two along with a third collaborator, Dan Putman left their jobs at Xerox to build Adobe. The company found in Warnock’s garage, went on to the level where Steve Jobs once negotiated to buy it for five million dollars, but to Warnock and Charles’ credit, they refused and instead sold him 19 percent of the shares for five times more of what the company was evaluated at the time. Reaching the mid-1980s, the company launched Adobe Illustrator that would change the face of how people would draw in the future to come followed by Photoshop nine years later that would become its flagship product. Two years later down the road, the world was introduced to Premiere Pro and After Effects that would redefine how movies would be made. Fast forward to the Summer of 1993 and the company finally came up with the PDF format that would allow us to send electronic documents anywhere, view and print them on any machine. In Warnock’s own words “Imagine a digital document viewer equipped with text searching capabilities. You can find all documents that contain a certain word or phrase, then view that word in context within the document. Entire libraries could be archived in electronic form.” Being incredibly successful with all of its products, it’s quite astonishing that Adobe flash was met with a lot of backlash most notably from Steve Jobs who opted not to support Adobe Flash on iPhones claiming unreliability and security flaws with the software. Jobs even posted an article online expressing his thoughts on Flash and the rise of HTML 5. Adobe eventually went on to discontinue Flash in the December of 2011 and refocusing all efforts on HTML 5 for mobile devices. With its share of success, Adobe has faced continuous criticism due to its security designs. Hackers have been successfully able to breach it to gain access to computers worldwide. The vulnerabilities became so bad that the company itself revealed in 2013 that about 2.9million customer data had been stolen including encrypted credit card information along with bits and pieces of Photoshop’s source code that allowed programmers to duplicate its engineering techniques and making it incredibly easy to pirate Adobe’s product. Back in 1994, Adobe bought Aldus Corp., the manufacturer of Free Hand that was a direct competitor to Adobe Illustrator. But Adobe was forced by the Federal Trade Commission to sell the software to Altsys, the company which was then bought by Macromedia, the organization which was then bought by Adobe in 2005. Adobe bounced over and took back control of the only two leading illustration programs in the world. What’s more mind twisting is that Adobe is now diving into the AI industry collaborating with NVIDIA to speed up its Adobe Sensei AI which is going to deliver some very powerful features like auto lip sync in Adobe Animator CC and face aware editing in Photoshop CC. I’m an Adobe user and I’ll always be an Adobe user, because I can never really be sure what amazing new mind twisting direction Adobe’s going to be moving in, but whenever I finally see the end results, I’m confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. I definitely haven’t used all of the Adobe products, but the softwares that support the process of filmmaking definitely keep me enticed to be an Adobe user as I go on. All of this made me think as to what crossed the founders mind to take this garage based company to worldwide domination and that was the inspiration for the video version of this story. Everything you see in the video has been done very frugally and with very limited means.


HOME HELP Ann Martin Trigger Warning: Self-harm By the time Ellie went to make them a cup of tea, Marian knew she would get the job. Interview? Hardly. Two strangers talking through tears. It was hardly a job either. Ssix hours a week light housework. But it would serve its purpose, which was to give her something to think about, something to pour into the emptiness. A quick scan of the room while Ellie Roberts was in the kitchen told Marian a lot. Furniture good, but shabby. Carpet ditto and with the kind of indelible stains that come with small children. A plastic crate in the corner filled with a colourful jumble of toys. A Sesame Street book half under the couch. That hurt. A wedding photograph in a frame on the coffee table that she gazed at for longer. Ellie younger, but with the same soft, dark hair and eyes under a pearl coronet and a billow of white tulle. She was gazing up at her new husband not just with love, but sheer, raw adoration. And why not? Hugh Grant boyish, with his hair slightly rumpled and a grin on his face as though he’d won first prize in a lottery. Nice couple. Happy couple. Ellie came in and set down a tray on the small table before sitting herself back down to face Marian. Tea-party niceties were observed, tentative attempts were made at connection “Milk? Sugar? I’m sorry, I thought we had biscuits, but the children seem to have finished them.”  Ellie’s voice, too, was soft. A gentle, slightly nervous woman with shy, searching eyes. Searching for what?? Searching for something she might just have found? “That’s fine. I try not to nibble between meals. I have serious issues with the size of my hips, these days.” Marian smiled, much easier at seeming at ease, but possibly only because she was some thirty years older. She gave Ellie her cue to begin. “So, you want someone to come in three mornings a week?” Ellie nodded. “Yes, I don’t get a lot of spare time during the week and the little I do have, I want to give to my children.” Her eyes went to the wedding photograph. “Chris died just over a year ago. Cancer. So it’s important that…” Tears pooled, her voice thickened, wobbled and stopped. “Of course,” said Marian. It was a long time since she had needed to speak to anyone this tenderly. “I know what you mean. My husband died twenty eight years ago, when our daughter was six. She became everything. I had to love her enough for both of us.” Ellie picked up the incongruously cheerful red teapot and began to pour, her fingers gripping firmly and an equal grip on her voice, but the tears got away.  “I don’t know what I’d do without my mother. She’s my one true angel. My lifeline” She paused and groped at a box of tissues, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “Sorry, sorry. I do try not to do this.”  A gulp of air and she went on rapidly. “I drop the children off to her at the unearthly hour of seven am, so that I can be at work by eight. That way I can finish at four. My boss is very kind. Mum takes Layla to kindergarten and then looks after Joey for the day. She picks Layla up at three and I’m at her place by five. It’s not perfect, but we do our best.” “We always do our best, don’t we?” said Marian. “It’s all we can do.” As tentative as it had seemed when she applied, she now really wanted this little job. “Tell me about your children.” “Layla is five and Joey’s two,” said Ellie. “I would have had them here today, but Mum has taken them to a puppet show in the Botanical Gardens. I told her she didn’t need to, with it being Saturday and she’s had them all week. But she wanted to. Well, you know what grandmothers are.” Oh yes, Marian knows. Grandmothers are women who get bruised in the heart. Women who give those hearts completely and unconditionally to children who are theirs, but not theirs. Then comes the karate chop to that heart when their only daughter gets a job in some world away city and takes the grandchild with her. It could be forever and the pain in the wounded heart never seems to grow less. Now the tear-mist was her own.  “Can you start tomorrow?” That was sudden. . Ellie was brisk now, taking charge, spelling out the arrangement. “I can give you a key right away. I’m afraid our paths won’t cross very often, but just come in at about nine and do whatever you think needs to be done. You don’t have to worry about the children’s laundry, I take that to Mum. There’s a Chinese ginger jar on the hall table, I’ll leave your money in there on a Friday. Cash is ok, isn’t it?” It was all so simple arrangement and so right. Just a few hours a week when she wasn’t alone at home, yearning for the child that she’d cared for every day for three years. When Jessica had found herself pregnant and then kicked the father out of her life, Marian had struggled with it all. But not for long. With Jessica keen to get her Masters, who else but her mother to give the devotion and support she’d always given? Who else but Grandma to look after baby Bryn? It had been so beautiful, so good. Just the three of them. It had filled Marian up in a way she hadn’t been filled since Jessica was born. It had been so good and she was missing it so desperately now it was gone. Incey Wincey Spider and blown kisses on Zoom could never be the same. Even though she so readily took on working for Ellie Roberts, she wasn’t prepared for the blows that would bruise her heart afresh. The primitive, love-filled drawings fixed with magnets to the fridge. Mummy and Layla and Joey. Love you Mummy, Granny in the park, each one labelled in an adult hand, Layla K1.

The Beatrix Potter decorated bedroom with baby animal mobiles. The cot stripped down to the waterproof under-sheet after an accident in the night (she would gladly have washed the sheets).  A small, balled up, inside-out sock under a single bed. Sticky finger marks on the wall beside a high chair. Pooh Bear and Piglet tableware in the dishwasher. A blue tortoise stool to help short legs reach the toilet seat. The unmistakeable smell of baby talc. Photos by Ellie’s bed. The husband, alive, still rumpled, still grinning. Two small painted faces; a fairy princess and a pirate. It hurt, but it was somehow a healing hurt.  Therapy to cure an addiction.  By the time she’d been cleaning that house for three weeks, she knew that she needed to keep on coming. She knew, in fact, that she needed more. She needed to meet those children, to hold them in her arms, bury her face in their hair and soak herself through and through with the very feel and sound and smell of them. She hadn’t seen Ellie in person since her interview, but there had been notes – sometimes even smiley-face notes – and her money had always been in an envelope in the ginger jar. That wasn’t enough, so Marian devised a plan. It was a simple plan, just a tin of home-baked cupcakes iced with kitten faces. A little gift delivered on a Saturday.

I knew you wouldn’t mind. Another cup of tea together and then the offer. “I do know you have your mother, but if for any reason you ever need someone else … a sitter….”  After all, she and Ellie had already connected, bonded even, over tea and tears. It would be ok. It would be good. So why an ambulance? But there it was outside Ellie’s gate, one medic closing the doors, another starting up the engine. By the time she had parked, they were speeding down the street. Marian struggled with her seatbelt. Fumbled with the door of her car. Finally made it to the gate. She wasn’t the only one. Greedily inquisitive spectators were already gathered to mull and murmur and stare. Marian grasped the arm of a woman with fuchsia pink hair, leopard-skin pants, tattooed breasts and a cigarette poised between fingernails that matched the hair. “What happened?” Marian could hear her own voice, thin and cracked. “What? The woman looked at her with eyes black-rimmed and turquoise lidded  but not unkind. “Tablets, love,” she said with a smoker’s rasp. “Sleeping pills. She’ll be ok. But only because I saw her bedroom light still on at ten this morning. Gut feeling, you know.  Then she wouldn’t answer her door.’ She gave a half grimace, half grin. “Pays sometimes to have nosy neighbours!” Blowing smoke sideways, to miss Marian’s face,   “I’ve seen you, haven’t I, coming and going? She wasn’t expecting you today, that’s for sure! ” The woman went on, happy to tell her story anew. “I did keep half an eye on her after her husband buggered off with that woman from his office. He was an arsehole, that one.  I knew that the first time I met him. You can always tell. But she thought his arsehole was the sole source of the world’s solar energy. I tried to be a friend after he left her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. He’d tried to hit onto me once when I asked them round to my place for Christmas drinks and I think she picked it up. Anyway, she wouldn’t have a bar of me.” She waved her cigarette towards the bunch of neighbours who now felt free to comment as loudly and speculatively as they liked about the woman whose gate they were gathered around. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with any of us. She had her mum though, and they were very close. I think with her mum still there, she might have pulled through. But when her mom died a couple of months ago, well, I worried something like this might happen.” Marian felt her legs trembling, her face go white and cold. Stiff and clumsy mouth didn’t want to form the words. “B.but... the children.... What about the children?” The woman spluttered on her cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and stomped on it as though it was a venomous insect. She stared at Marian “Children?” she wheezed. “What do 'ya mean? Ellie doesn’t have any children.” Marian got back into her car. She sat for a long time and gazed down the street. Then she began to weep. On and on she loudly wept and wailed, for all the hurts she knew about and for those she did not, for things that happen and things that don’t, for things that are stolen and things that are lost. For everything.  When there were no more tears, when her eyes were stinging, puffed and raw and she couldn’t breathe through her nose, she wound down her window and called out to anyone who would answer. “Where have they taken her? Do you know where she’s gone?”


The Pope betrayed me. Hey everyone, sorry that I haven't given an update on the grease war recently, I have had some minor setbacks which have forced me to rethink my existence. The most recent one being that the Pope has betrayed me which is something that I expected, but something that I never could have foreseen. Anyway he suddenly disappeared and left only this note: [Dear fleabag, I have four things which no other human has... they are all fingers. Yes, I have four extra fingers. I spoke to my doctor several decades ago about having them removed so that I would have just 12 fingers like a normal person but he said that that would involve effort and so he will not preform the surgery. I am fine with this because I do not trust doctors. Besides, it's just like my mother used to always say, "having four extra fingers is like having four extra toes, just on your hand instead of your foot." Now if you are reading this then you may be wondering what the point of this letter is, and, well, I regret to inform you that the point of this letter is not my extra fingers. Have you heard of the black plague? It happened a long time ago. It also is not the point of this letter. No, the point of this letter is the matter of my sudden disappearance. Sorry Ronald, but I had to leave. I have mysterious Pope stuff to do, you wouldn't understand. Also, I took the shovel with me in case I have to dig a hole or hunt a large army of tobacco farmers. I also took your lawnmower, I think that it was your neighbor's but it's ok, I took it anyway. Actually there are a couple reasons that I took the lawnmower which I feel that you deserve to know, first of all I needed a speedy mode of transportation and that thing can go like eight miles an hour, second of all it is my hope that you will think that I am doing mysterious landscaping stuff and not mysterious Pope stuff because that is a secret. So if you are watching the news and the headline is "Pope mows the grass in the Vatican City with stolen push mower" that is not me, that is a different Pope, he is probably Mexican or something. Finally I must conclude this letter, but before I do, I have a favor to ask of you. Please inspect the back of this page and see if there is a small man taped to it. He would be about 3 feet tall, with a 17 inch nose and six foreheads stacked on top of each other, it would be his belief that he has a double chin which he does not, but he is very self conscious about his chin so don't mention it. His name would be Yeewee Bastard but don't call him that as that would get him on the topic of endangered species of unnamed plants, something which he is rather passionate about. If he is there, he is not real, he is a hallucination, ignore his hatred of fossilized fruits, do not let him persuade you. Now for the favor, please go find one of those Vietnam veterans who hold the cardboard signs that say "anything helps" and donate this letter to them, it should help, the sign says so. With unmatched hatred, farewell crusty, we shall meet again soon.] So there it is, now I have been left shovel-less, Popeless, and with my neighbor's lawn mower no longer hidden in my chimney. I am actually so upset right now that I literally went outside and paved my neighbor's garden for him. At least those pesky plants won't be bothering him anymore.


Samantha was behind the counter, as usual, stocking the counter with coffee take-out containers and straws. The window behind her was slightly open and a sudden gust of wind that came out of nowhere, shut it with a speed that startled Samantha.

“What did you drop this time?” asked her manager from the store room. “Nothing, it was the wind,” said Samantha, in a faint voice, just above a whisper.

“Ok, get done fast. We open in ten.” Her boss disappeared and closed into the warm little room again. Samantha, in her mind, was in that room, looking at all the boxes strewn around the place. The old neon sign stating ‘Cups and Brews’ lay on the ground. Cleaning the now useless sign was her boss. She did not care if it was in use anymore or not, she just wanted it clean, and her boss had to be servile about it. She stood there, mighty and tall, watching her scrub the old sign clean, though it had been replaced with a new one.

The first thing that caught a person’s attention was the new sign.

She clutched a Styrofoam cup tightly in her palm and it was crushed beyond repair. She saw the damaged cup before her boss could see it and find another reason to yell at her. If only she didn’t have to pay for her own gas. Her parents had told her that if she wanted to own a car, she also had to take care of it. She had taken up dog walking until one day she needed a new shot after the smallest of the lot bit her. She had then taken up a job at the library. But the constant sound of her munching crackers at the table had made sure that she was a blacklist at the place. The only other place she could think of was the coffee shop. There were tips involved and after all, how hard could it be to make a cup of coffee?

Apparently, a lot harder than Samantha had imagined. The first day of her job, she had broken a mug, a plate and the coffee container. After a lot of begging, pleading and apologizing, her boss had let her keep her job.

She had broken another mug the following week, but had paid for the broken mug.

On the fourth week, of her job, new autumn drinks were introduced. She now stood behind the counter, dreaming about being her boss’s boss when there was a knock on the glass door. She snapped back to reality to notice a young man pointing at his watch. She turned the sign to open before unlocking the door for the first customer of the day.

The young man, accompanied by a pretty young woman, walked into the store, probably for an early cup of coffee before going on a leisurely weekend hike. They were dressed for it and carried a large enough bag to fit a bonsai.

There were many different types of coffee seeds, bottled and kept on the counter, all for aesthetics. Behind the big jar of arabica seeds, Samantha tightened her pony tail and wished to her stars that they didn’t order the new autumn drinks. She had been tutored and given the recipe for each drink but she was still under confident. She did not want to mess up anything else for herself.

Before she had unlocked the door, she had seen the woman staring at the board that had been set up outside, informing the customers about the new arrivals.

The couple walked up to the counter. “I’ll have a large cappuccino,” said the man. Samantha quickly smiled to herself and typed in the order. She could make that. “And I’ll have the pink punch. The new one that has been advertised outside,” said the woman.

Samantha stared at the woman for a long time then typed in her order. The couple settled on a couch that was set up on one corner of the coffee shop. Who orders punch at a coffee shop, Samantha cursed under her breath. She started to make the cappuccino. She noticed that the two of them would be there till the end of their drinks and would probably tell the manager how bad the punch was. She was certain, she was losing her job that day.

She snatched the ingredients for the punch, from the closet above her head and started to put in the ice cubes into the large glass cup. She pulled out a fine straw and set it next to the glass. She took out a bottle of lemon squash from the refrigerator and poured a little into the glass. She put in all the other ingredients, in the order that the tissue paper, where she had copied the recipe mentioned.

She finally added the pink colouring and set the drinks on the tray for the two of her first customers for the day, to pick up. She noticed that they had been reading the menu and hoped that they didn’t want anything else. Just to tip her and tip her big. She turned to the tissue paper and stopped in her tracks. She saw the slight blue colour, that must have made its way onto the paper during her trial session, stare back at her from the corner of the paper, which was now upside down. She could not believe what she had just done. She had made the blue drink instead of the pink one and had just added the colour pink instead. The pink one was not made of lemon and was certainly not a citrus drink. She knew she had messed up big time, but how will that woman ever know. She had after all, merely mentioned the colour of the drink. She had been given what she wanted, just not exactly. She saw the man taking small sips of the drink while the lady stared at her drink.

Samantha’s heart started to beat fast. She had been reading the new menu and had figured that her drink did not contain what it had promised to. She was certainly going to lose her job. The lady stood up and walked over to the counter. At the same time, the store room door opened and her boss walked out. Samantha wanted to cry. She could not hold a single job.

“Can I have an extra tissue paper?” asked the lady. “What?” asked Samantha, a little too astonished.

“An extra tissue paper,” said the lady, looking at Samantha like she needed to get help soon. “Sure,” said Samantha and turned around, picked two and handed them over to the lady. She sat back down but still drank her drink in slow sips. She offered the drink to the man and he tried it too.

This time she had definitely found out. I know, I messed up, I’m sorry, Samantha wanted to scream out. But they didn’t budge from the seat. Finally, after finishing their drinks, the two of them got up. The man made his way to the door. The lady made her way to the counter and pulled out her purse from the back pack she had on.

She pulled out some notes and handed them over to Samantha. “Keep the change, you deserve it. That drink you prepared for me, really made my morning. Now I am truly energized for my hike. Thanks,” she said. “Thank you,” said Samantha staring at the notes in her hand.

Her boss watched her from a distance. Once the couple left the shop, she walked over to Samantha and said, “Good job kid. You are finally learning the tricks of the game. Keep doing work like that.” She patted her on the back and headed back to the store room. Samantha stared idly at the tissue paper that was flying away from the counter.

She could not believe what had just happened. She didn’t even know if it had been a joke and the lady had been sarcastic. But the notes, she still clutched in her hand, led her to the right conclusion.


It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.

*** Two ghostly men walked side by side, the powdery flakes passing through their luminous heads and shoulders before settling on the path. Their feet left no prints as they went.

“I like the cold and snow,” one man, whose name was Jack, said to the other, “makes a good setting, but I hate the word ‘terribly.’ We’ve got to change that.” “Fine, fine Mr. London,” the other man, Hans, said with a thick Danish accent, “then what would you suggest?”

*** Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth- bank, where a dim and little-traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. *** “My goodness,” Hans exclaimed, “all of that in one opening sentence? And how is the word ‘exceedingly’ any better than ‘terribly?’ I also notice you have decided for us already that we are in the forest and our character is a man. I did not agree to that.” “Alright,” Jack said, “Fair enough, I guess we should determine where this is going to happen and who we are going to do it too before we really get started.” “And what do you mean by ‘do it?’” “We both know that at the end of our cold and snowy story we are gonna have to kill somebody.” Hans paused in the snow and gave Jack a scandalized look, “I will not kill anyone.” “Don’t give me that. We both know you killed the little matchstick girl. Sure you might have made it look nice the way she went to be with grandma and God, but you’re the storyteller, so it’s still your fault she died.”

“‘Killed’ seems like an indelicate way of saying it, but your point is taken.” Hans cleared his throat abruptly and continued walking. “As for character, I would, of course, prefer a young girl, but it seems you would prefer a man. Shall we compromise and make it a boy, not too young, but not too old either?” “Sure. But he’s got to have some proper cold weather gear. I don’t want anything to do with barefoot nonsense. No one is going anywhere in the snow barefooted.” “I seem to remember your yukon man had issues with freezing feet.” “Getting your feet soaked is entirely different then running around with nothing on them.” “Very well then.” Hans cleared his throat again. On the path in front of them a boy appeared. He looked to be about 12 years old. The snow settled in the curly brown locks on his head. An oversized coat hung heavily on his shoulders, and his feet were wrapped in rags bound with strips of leather. He stood shivering while both men inspected him, though it was clear the boy could not see or hear them. “I think he could be a very sympathetic creature,” Hans said, nodding in approval. Jack bent down and looked into the boy’s eyes. “There’s some foolishness in there too. And see how he tied those leather thongs?” Jack pointed, “Those knots will be hard to undo. We can make something out of that, can’t we?” “Yes, yes, if you like. Now, where should we put him?” “You know I’m partial to the wilderness; somewhere we can really get this kid alone and find out what he is made of before we do him in.” “But wouldn’t it be that much more compelling if he felt alone even though he was surrounded by a city full of people?” “Another compromise then,” Jack sighed, “How about we put him in a country village?” Hans nodded in agreement and a village sprung up around the boy. The path became a cobbled street lined by thatched roofs piled with thick snow. Long jagged icicles hung in front of warm glowing windows and wind gusted down the alleyways. The boy shrugged the coat up around his face to protect it from the stinging flakes. “Now we are getting somewhere,” Jack said, rubbing his hands together. *** The boy was a new-comer in the village, just as he had been a new-comer in the last village and in the village before that. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things and not in the significances. The villages were only places for taking what food he could find and what shelter he was allowed before being run off. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head—

*** “No, no, no,” Hans said as the boy skulked up to a shop window and peered in with pilfering intent, “a boy this unpleasant will deserve anything we do to him. No one will care. We need more sympathy.” Jack grunted and motioned that Hans should go to work. *** No one had spared anything for the boy to eat the whole day, nor had any one given him even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, he crept along; poor little child, he looked the picture of misery. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, he sank down and huddled himself together. He was so cold, he thought for a moment about returning to his father’s house so many villages back. At least there the walls had blocked the wind. But no, even the winter's blast was better than the beatings. *** Jack rolled his eyes and trudged over to the corner where the boy sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. “I’m all for a little foolishness, but sitting here like this is just pathetic. What are we supposed to do with him now? Might as well just let his fairy godmother show up and carry him away.” Hans cleared his throat, “I think we should see what happens if we let him try and warm himself. There’s a bundle of matches in his pocket.” “Alright, but I’m not going to make it easy.” “Of course not.” Hans agreed. *** The boy knew he wouldn’t last long sitting down, not in cold like this. The old tramp a few towns back had told him that so long as he walked four miles an hour, his blood would pump, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now he felt it ebbing away and sinking down into the recesses of his body. His nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood— *** “Eh hem,” Hans cleared his throat, “I think we already understand he is cold.” “But we’ve got to make it clear just how cold. I haven’t even got to how many degrees of frost it is yet.” “We ought to get to the fire. The striking of matches has a nice sensory impact that I think will help our story here. Everyone enjoys imagining the satisfying ‘ schlick ’ of the dragging match head and the mesmerizing life-like quality of a dancing little flame, don’t you think?” “Ok. Have at it if you think you can do it better. But don’t make it easy. None of these ‘one-match-feels-like-a-whole-pot-bellied-stove’ gimmicks.” ***

He pulled his bare hands from the sleeves of his coat— *** “I thought we agreed he would have sensible winter gear.” “Well, he has his shoes doesn’t he? He lost his mittens when being chased by—” “Alright, alright, just get to the fire.” *** His little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! Perhaps a burning match might be some good, if he could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm his fingers. He drew one out--scratch!--how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, and he held it to the little stack of twigs he made—” *** “Pfffffft.” “Excuse me?” “A little stack of twigs? I thought we were going to make this difficult, and here you go just throwing in an easy stack of twigs. How did he get the twigs? How did he grab them with freezing hands? How did he prepare the bed for his fire in the snow? If this kid is gonna die, we’ve got to make a good strong case for it.”

“Well, how is he going to die?” “I think it should have something to do with the way he tied his foot gear. It will show his death was his own fault you know? Like, if he had done it the way the old tramp had told him, then he would have been alright.” Hans cleared his throat, “That’s interesting I suppose.” “You suppose?” “It's just that I don’t think his death should be his fault. It should be tragic, but also peaceful and a little bit magical.” “No, absolutely not. I draw the line there. We can’t be having magic in a story about someone dying from hypothermia, and it especially can’t be the magic’s fault he died. If anything (and that would be a big if) the only thing resembling magic would be his dog somehow figuring out how to get the fire going.” “There is no dog in this story.” “There isn’t? Shoot. We have to start all over.” Hans cleared his throat. “Very well. But if we do, can we try it with a little girl instead?” “Fine. But she’ll have to have mittens and boots and a dog that is actually smarter than her.” “You know, I don’t have a problem with talking animals at all.” “Knock it off. You don’t have to talk to be smart. Instinct. That's real intelligence.” The two ghostly men argued as they continued down the path. Around them the village began to disappear. In a dematerializing corner where two houses met, the outline of a little boy with frozen fingers slowly faded—first his heavy coat, then his ragged boots, then his brown curly hair—till there was nothing left but snow as white as empty paper.