The muck in the canal always upset Janie, but she’d gotten so used to it that she didn’t notice it any more. The half-submerged trolley was as much a part of her commute as the old oak tree at the end of the path, and now the only time she reacted to the garbage was when there was a new addition, or a particularly impressive piece of vandalism. The time that someone had managed to dump a temporary security fence in there she whistled; the time they’d gotten an entire sofa suite in there she’d stopped and admired it, until her stomach started twisting. Back when she’d been a child her family had played Pooh sticks in this canal. These days the sticks would get trapped before they’d made it under the bridge. But there was no other way to walk to her office, and if she kept looking to the other side the thin strip of woodlands were quite nice. As long as it was high summer, and the foliage covered all the rubbish that had been dumped by those too lazy to make it to the canal. Looking straight up was the safest option, or straight down, so Janie lived her life with a crick in her neck and impeccably clean shoes. It was spring, and time for the neighbours to redo their houses and apartments, and redo the canal while they were at it. Everywhere else in the city it was the start of the daffodils and crocuses, but for the fifteen minutes that Janie spent walking along the canal the only colour was from the fast food wrappers bobbing by. Normally she had headphones in, but she’d forgotten to charge her MP3 player last night, and she didn’t want to run the battery down on her phone. Her boss was a fossil, who looked as though she should’ve retired a decade ago, and would try and charge employees for using company power on personal things. That didn’t stop anyone else in the office, but Janie didn’t have the nerve for those sorts of games. So it was that she had her head down, wondering if she could justify a new pair of shoes yet, when she heard a small voice. “Help. Help me.” Janie’s blood ran cold as she froze. Her head spun around as she tried to find who’d spoken, but when the pathway was empty her fingers tightened round her keys. Was it a trap, or a prank? It was eight thirty in the morning, people didn’t beg for help in such broken voices at this time. It had the feel of someone with their head down the bog after a night out. “H-hello?” she said. “Is anyone there?” “Help me.” “Look, if this is some kind of game, then you can… just piss off, all right? I’m not in the mood for this sort of thing, and it’s not funny!” “No… please.” The voice was so faint, and as her brain went into panic mode all Janie could think of was ‘is someone trapped down a well?’ . It didn’t help her work out what to do, but at least she wasn’t shaking so much. “Well, where are you? What do you need help with?” “Look down.” “I’ve been looking down. I’ve done nothing but look down all the way here. I’m sure I’d have noticed if there was a person on the floor.” “I’m not exactly a person.” Janie froze mid-crouch. “Excuse you? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “It depends on your definition of ‘person’.” “And how do you define it that doesn’t include you?” “Some people only use it to refer to humans.” “You’re saying you’re not human?” “No. But please, I need your help. I’m still dying.” “I–” Human or not she could handle (probably), but dying? “And what am I supposed to do about that?” “Please. I’m in the water.” For the first time in months, perhaps even years, Janie peered over the edge of the canal and squinted at the water. “Why can’t I see you then? Or hear you?” Running out of other options, her mind was torn between this being all a dream that she hadn’t woken up from, or the results of a dodgy batch of chicken last night. She was also trying to weigh up which option she’d prefer; the first one was simpler (but would mean that she dreamt about walking to work, and that was just depressing) whilst the second implied that she was a terrible chef. Sure she wasn’t good, but she’d been trying, damn it. Making sure she didn’t lean too far out, she tried to see if she could spot anything under the surface, but the water was too grimy to see further than a few centimetres. “I told you,” the voice said from right in front of her. “I’m in the water.” A face, old, withered and ghostly, appeared in the grimy water. Janie yelped and fell backwards. “I’m sorry!” the voice called, speaking louder to make itself heard, though the effort it cost was audible. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Please, come back. I can’t hurt you. I don’t want to, but I can’t anyway.” Walk away , Janie thought. Walk away. You’re going to be late for work. Instead she clambered back up and leant over again. Now that she knew what to focus on she could see the face clearer, although it still looked like an 80’s special effect. Like the voice, there were no clues to its gender. But then, did water have a gender? “What – I mean, who are you?” Janie asked. “What is accurate,” the voice said with a smile. It’s watery lips moved in time with the words, although the sound came from the area as a whole, and the effect was hypnotic. “I’m a water spirit. The water spirit of this canal, actually.” “Oh. Oh .” Janie looked up at the garbage and her cheeks went red with shame. “I’m sorry.” “Why? I know you didn’t do any of this.” “I didn’t exactly stop it either though, did I? Or clean it up.” Years worth of low-level guilt started burning in Janie’s stomach and she shifted about, still trying to keep her trousers clean. “How long have you been here, anyway?” “Since the canal was first cut.” “Oh wow.” “We manifest whenever water is gathered. It calls to us, it creates us. Water is the source of all life, and we are no different.” “There are more like you?” “Of course there are. There are millions of my kind, all over the planet.” “Then how come you’ve never been spotted?” Janie asked. “How come humans don’t know about you?” “Because it is safer this way. But please, I don’t have time for all these questions. I need your help.” “With what? Clearing the canal?” Janie looked up at the mess again. I’m going to be late for work, she thought. “No. It is too late for this water. I have to move, otherwise I will die.” “So why don’t you?” “I can not do it by myself. I am not strong enough, and there are not enough bodies of water around here for me to reach.” “You want me to carry you somewhere else?” “Please. I would be eternally grateful.” “I–” Janie bit her lip. Even across the distance to her office, she could already feel the beady, bloodshot eyes of her boss glaring at her. “I can’t, not right now. I have to get to work, otherwise…” Otherwise I’ll get in trouble sounded especially weak when the water spirit was dying. But what could she do? “Please.” “I… how would I even move you? Can I just pick you up?” “No. A container, a box or water-skin.” “I don’t have anything like that on me. I can pick you up after work today?” “You can? You will come back for me?” “Of course. I have to go this way to get home. I can buy a bottle at lunch time, and then collect you afterwards. Will you be all right until then?” It shouldn’t be possible for water to sigh so loudly, but somehow it did. Ripples bubbled out from the centre of the face, disturbing a beer can that was bobbing past. “Yes. Yes, I can manage. If I know you are coming for me. Thank you, human.” “Janie. My name’s Janie.” She wondered how many years it would be before she told anyone she’d introduced herself to a puddle. “Thank you, Janie. I’m Dernet.” “Dernet. The same name as the canal?” “I am the canal.” “I suppose so. Well… I have to get to work now, Dernet. I’ll see you afterwards.” “Yes. Yes, thank you, Janie.” “Right.” Janie wasn’t sure what the protocol was for leaving a river spirit, so as she stood up she said goodbye again, and darted away. After five steps she turned back to find a landmark, so she could find the same spot later on. Next to the… used adult supplies. No, the graffiti saying ‘Tom waz ere’ would probably work better. It was more pleasant to think about at least. She gave the area a final wave, before running the rest of the way to work. --- In the afternoon it wasn’t so simple. There were more people hanging about, including a group of teenagers, and the last thing Janie wanted was to be seen talking to the water. Or worse, the used adult supplies. She hung around for as long as dared, but when the teenagers started watching her she bowed her head and hurried home. On her way past ‘Tom’s vacation spot’, she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try later.” Whether Dernet heard or not she couldn’t tell. --- It was dark when she headed back out to the canal. All the junk took on a sinister menace, and every shadow hid one of the teenagers, waiting to jump out and call her crazy. Or what if there were other spirits? If water spirits existed, what else could there be? The old canal path still had street-lamps, for which Janie sent up a silent prayer. She had to use the torch on her phone as well to find Tom’s tag. The dark changed all the proportions, making things look larger and further away. As soon as she found it she was on her knees. “Dernet? Dernet are you here?” “Janie? Is that really you?” Dernet sounded so surprised, and Janie was offended. “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?” “Yes. But so much time passed, and I thought you had forgotten. Or had dismissed our meeting.” Janie winced. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to pretend this morning hadn’t happened, but her conscience wouldn’t let her. “It was too dangerous earlier. There were too many people about. But, here, I have the bottle. What do I do?” It was a 1.75l bottle; she’d had a panic in the shop, and worried that a standard bottle would be too small. The afternoon at work had been agony, as she dashed off to the bathroom every ten minutes. If she’d known she’d have a few extra hours in the evening, she wouldn’t have drunk all of it so fast. “Just hold it in the canal. I can get into it from there.” “Like this?” Janie forced most of the bottle under the surface, and shuddered as something floated by in the water next to her. “Perfect. Thank you.” There was a squelchy sound, and then a glob of water separated from the canal and danced over its surface like oil. It slid into the bottle forcing all the other water out. Once inside it rotated twice, like a dog padding out its bed. “Yes. Thank you.” “Am I all right to put the lid on?” “Yes. But I would prefer if you didn’t keep it on.” “Where do I take you now?” “For now, to your home. From there we can work something out…” --- Two months later, and Janie got off the aeroplane and wiped the cold sweat from her face for the hundredth time. At least here in the Caribbean it would soon be warm sweat, and she could stop having to pretend she was scared of flying. The fear of losing her luggage had been nigh-on unbearable, and not even the in-flight films had been able to distract her. As soon as she was through baggage collection with her small case safely in hand again she could breathe easily. The rush of relief combined with the heat was almost enough to make her pass out right there and then. But there was work to be done. Outside the airport she hailed a cab. “To the beach.” “Which one?” “Oh. Sorry, um, the nearest one?” The taxi driver turned in his seat and peered at her over his sunglasses. “You don’t care which beach?” “Not really. I’m British, any beach here will be amazing.” “In that case, can I take you to my favourite beach? See the best of our country, all right?” “Yes, that’s fine. Perfect, in fact. Thank you.” Janie barely noticed the taxi drive, still buzzing from the release of not worrying any more. She was here. They had made it. Having paid the driver and gotten directions to the nearest hotel, Janie lugged her small case and her backpack down the beach. There were locals and tourists about, and she headed off away from them. After ten minutes on the beach she took her shoes off, and grinned like an idiot as she tried to find a good place. At last she found a sheltered spot with no one else around. She opened her case and pulled the glass bottle out. The last bit of tension in her shoulders left when she saw it wasn’t cracked at all. The stopper came out with a pop. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Fine. Though I’m glad the experience is over,” Dernet replied. “Me too. How’s this place anyway?” “This is… perfect. Thank you, Janie.” “It’s no problem. I mean, I needed the holiday anyway.” The pair of them stood and admired the scenery, and Janie wished she could think of something to say. After living with Dernet for so long, she felt there should be more ceremony to this. “I shouldn’t keep you,” Dernet said at last. “You must be tired. You should go and rest, then enjoy your holiday.” “Yeah. But…” “Thank you, Janie.” “Yeah. And you.” “What for?” “For just… everything. Showing me there’s more to the world.” “For that then, you are welcome. Come on, we should do this.” “Yeah.” Janie’s voice caught, and with a cough she shook her head and walked down to the water’s edge. She held the bottle under again, and this time the water on the back of her hand was refreshing, even a little warm, and crystal clear. She smiled. This was a far better place to be a water spirit. With a rush Dernet left the bottle. As soon as they hit the sea they glowed and glimmered, then grew, under Dernet stood upright, balanced on the surface, looking down at her. She blushed as she stood up and dusted herself down. The face was a lot younger now. “Hey,” Janie said. “How’s that?” “Much better. I must go and introduce myself to the local spirit. Thank you once more, Janie.” “Any time.” “I will see you around.” “I hope so,” Janie sighed. “No. I promise.” And with a final smile that glistened like a sunbeam on a waterfall, Dernet collapsed back into the sea and disappeared.


They had lived in the house for seven months before they found the room on the second floor. It was another two months before they talked about it with each other. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, quietly sharing the space in comfort. Dean was reading a book, while Sara was working on a crossword puzzle, idly wagging her foot. The motion annoyed him, but he did his best to ignore it. He set his book down, and looked at her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. She sighed, softly, a sign of frustration he had long learned to ignore, and looked up from her work. “You know how we’ve wanted a library? I’ve been thinking about that spare room, upstairs. It’s a little small, but I think it would do nicely.” She stared at him for a moment. “I suppose. We’re not using it for anything else,” she said. “Mmm,” he answered, turning back to his book. After a moment, he looked up again. “Why aren’t we?” he asked. “‘Why aren’t we’, what?” Sara asked. He turned on the couch to face her. “Why aren’t we using that room for something else?” “I don’t know,” she said. “We just haven’t had a need for it, I guess.” “Well, that’s not true. We complained about the boxes we didn’t unpack for months. They were stacked in the hallway; we could have put them in that room, out of the way.” Sara shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t know why we wouldn’t have done that,” Dean said. After a moment, he chuckled. “Honestly, now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing that room when we were looking at the place, before we bought it.” Sara shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course we saw it. We just . . . never used it.” “Are you sure? I really don’t remember it.” Sara stood up. “Of course I’m sure, Dean. You don’t forget a room in your own house, and one certainly doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.” “I know that, Sara. But think about it. When we were touring the house the first time, remember? We saw the bedroom at the top of the stairs, then the bathroom down the hall. But the empty room is between them.” “So we saw it, then.” “No. I don’t think we did,” he said. “I remember commenting that the bathroom seemed small. Like there should have been a lot more room, considering how far down the hall it was. Even the realtor commented on it.” Sara was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to him with a frown. “That’s impossible. We’re just remembering it wrong, is all.” Dean stood up as well. “Are we, though? Do you remember ever going into that room?” She started to answer that of course she had, but stopped. “Yeah, me either,” he said. Without saying anything else, they both turned toward the stairs. They climbed them quickly at first, but as they approached the second floor they both slowed together, without really knowing why. Sara stopped first, three steps short of the second floor. Dean continued for two more, his foot hovering over the second floor landing, before he put it back down on the last step. He could see the door to the empty room, just down the hall. The door to the first room, which was designed as a bedroom but that they used as a small office, was open, and he could see the corner of his desk inside it. The bathroom door was open, as well, the sunlight streaming in through the window to spill out into the hall. The door they had come for stood firmly shut. Sara laughed quietly from her position behind him. The sound startled Dean, and he turned around to look at her. She looked up at him. “This is silly,” she said, and pushed past him. Even with her disdain, she hesitated to step up onto the second floor fully. Just a momentary pause, but Dean could see the clench of her jaw as she resolved herself to it. Once she placed her foot down, however, she moved quickly to the door. She was there before he left the stairs, and she waited for him. At the door, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it was cold here, for some reason. Which was impossible, of course. They stared at the doorknob together, not saying anything, for several minutes. Both had their own thoughts about it, and couldn’t have explained them to anyone who asked, but they silently agreed, after several minutes, to reach out together. Their hands touched each other as they touched the knob, and they froze, looking at each other. She smiled nervously, and nodded at him. They turned the knob together, and pushed on the door. It swung open slowly, heavily, like the solid oak doors of a church. They turned, together, to look inside. The room was bare, with hardwood floors and wallpaper that was starting to peel. It didn’t match the rest of the house. The air smelled stale and dry, and dust motes danced in the light from the small window. The window was also mismatched to the rest of the house. Smaller, with heavier woodwork around it, it looked old. Much older than the house itself, somehow. There was no closet, at least that they could see from the hall, but the space was large enough to fill the void between the bedroom and bathroom which flanked the empty room. Dean and Sara stood in the hall, staring inside, for several minutes. Without saying anything, or really knowing why, Dean finally stepped inside quickly. He was completely inside before Sara reacted, reaching out a hand to stop him, though she would not have been able to say why. He moved to the center of the room and turned to the right, then froze. Sara watched him, seeing shock fill his expression, followed by fear. She stepped inside as well, to see what Dean was seeing. In the room, against the wall shared with the other bedroom, was . . . something. Sara’s mind immediately went to mushrooms, but that was too simple. It was definitely fungal in nature, but unlike anything she had ever seen. It looked constructed, somehow, like someone or something had built a structure of spores and gills, only to have it spread up the wall in a fan of life. It seemed, impossibly, to be *moving*. Crawling and shifting, pulling nutrients from the hardwood floors and carrying them like tree sap up the wall. It was subtle, and she could only see it from the corner of her eye, but it was definitely there. “What . . . what is that?” she whispered. Dean jumped, startled by the sound, as if he had forgotten she was there. “I don’t know,” he said, and stepped toward it. “Don’t,” she said, and grabbed his arm. He pulled away from her, and knelt down in front of the odd fungal structure. “Dean, don’t. Let’s just go downstairs. We’ll call a cleaner in the morning to come take care of it.” “Hang on,” he said. “There’s something here.” He reached his hands toward the bulk of the growth, and hesitated a moment before reaching inside. The sound was waxy, and reminded Sara of her teenage summers working at a cheesemaker’s, the way the heavy rolls of cheese would grind against each other with a plastic, low squeal. A cloud of spores burst up from Dean’s hands, and he turned his face away to avoid breathing them in. “Dean, honey, let’s just go, okay? Please?” Sara was scared, and didn’t care about showing it. Whatever was there, she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see it. She wanted to go back to not knowing about this room at all. She was backing toward the door. The sound grew louder, and she saw Dean struggling with something. “Hold on,” he said. “I almost have it.” Sara was back at the door to the room, panic filling her every breath. “Dean, please don’t. Just leave it, please, come on.” She backed out into the hall, her hand on the door ready to pull it shut. She heard something shift in the room, a heavy tearing sound, and she couldn’t help but let out a cry of her own to match. She saw Dean fall back to the floor, into view, his chest covered in dust and spores. It danced in the light from the window, and his hands were black with slime. He was staring at the wall, unmoving. “Dean? Come on, Dean. Let’s just go,” she said. She heard a wet thump from the now-hidden wall, followed by the sound of creaking wood. The air smelled thickly of old forest, loamy and warm, and she saw a heavy shape move into view, looming over Dean. Fear took over, then, and she screamed. The face that turned toward the sound was one she would never forget, hoary and malevolent, like the anger of ancient priests from some long-dead civilization. It opened a gaping mouth, and she slammed the door shut on her husband, not caring for anything other than closing away the sight of that face. She turned to the stairs and fled, Dean’s screams rising in waves behind her, still coming long after she left the house, far louder than could possibly come from any human lungs. She feared she would hear those screeches for the rest of her life, for they filled her ears even as she drove away, peeling out into the street in terror.


He had never gone so fast before, and he *had* gone fast. He had been on the bridge of new chromium frigates which rent their way through space and pulled the keratin from your fingernails; he had run down the halls of bases stationed on rogue planets, cold, desolate, quick; he had licked and pointed his finger skyward on many a mountain where the wind was hungry to tear at your skin. Still, no ship or meteor was this fast. He liked how fast things got burned into your brain like a lightning bolt not far off, it reminded him that terror and exhilaration were one and the same. He did not like this. “Engaging FTL,” a voice spoke from a black, cross-hatched lattice in the wall opposite him. He felt his heart sink. The steel beneath his feet was jumping away, the only reason he was still sitting was that every manner of strap, bolt, shackle, and strait coil were holding him, and even they seemed loose now that he really moved. “No!” he said, “stop! Stop it!” he screamed, “Mom, Dad, ask them to stop it! Please!” he could hardly hear himself. “Honey are you okay?” asked his Mother. His Father sat closer, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty of times. It’s always shaky, it evens out when we reach light speed.” “No, no! I can’t!” The silver walls on either side of the ship opened up to two great windows, their chairs turned to look out. “3…2…” He knew what came next, he watched as the stars that pierced the sky like earrings, that bejewelled and pearled and rubied the necklaces around Saturnian planets, and the metals which crashed and met and multiplied and turned to dust, he watched his home in the distance as a pale blue dot. They began winking out. He blinked, and there missing was the crab nebula! and there went the Pleiades! and Andromeda too, and Orion packed up his bow and arrow and fell into the black. And Earth, O Earth, disintegrated in shadow, “My God,” he said, as America disappeared, as the Antarctic and Asia disappeared, and Africa gone in a second and the seven seas and the sirens swallowed up as all the world down to the isthmus of Corinth and the buried plains of Doggerland were, he blinked once more, overcome by darkness. “My God.” “Light speed.” It was as if they were bricked behind a wall in an old wine cellar. He put his hand to the glass, pushed up against it. “It’s all gone,” he said. “Oh, shush up,” said his Dad, “we only get a few minutes. You should enjoy it while you can.” The ship had stopped rumbling, chatter erupted between the passengers. His Mother looked at him, “You know that we age differently this way. When we get back home you’ll be a little bit younger than your friends, hardly a second but still!” Another passenger piped up, “I might just stay up here forever! “Friends?” he said, “Where are they?” His Mother looked puzzled, his Father truculent, she said, “On Earth.” “Who on where?” he asked. “Your friends… on Earth. You know, Jason, Bil-” she was interrupted. “Oh for God’s sake their right where you left them, by now sound asleep in their beds and you’re all the way up in the stars going so fast that you can’t even see them. Get out of yourself and look at *that*.” He pointed to the window which separated them from nothing, “can’t you marvel for a second, or do you not know what that is either?” He looked out and saw only a thick sheet of black, “How do you know?” “What do you mean how do I know?” “How do you know that if we slowed down we would see Earth again? How do you know that when we land I’ll be in the same atmosphere as my friends again? Is there a nebula out there now? Or maybe it is two screens fitted into the walls and pointed in, and the ships on mechanical stilts that rock us to make us think we’re in space before they slip binbags or black film over the glow. When we get back to the station, how do we know we ever left?” The other passengers had heard this, their talking gave way to an examining listen. To what? to the noises the ship made, to the particular shade of black they could near touch out the window, to the metronomic hissings and the droning electric shocks that, they were told, commanded the ship to go quicker than electricity itself. They listened for the tap of workers heel on the hull, or a gasp of breath from the person working the legs – it did not come. They stared last at the boy, their faces struck ghostly pale against the immutable darkness behind, and their eyes cut like slid paper. The black lattice spoke, “One minute left at lightspeed.” His Mother spoke, “Please honey, people are staring.” “So that is a no. You don’t know.” His Father, “Shut it. Sit down and look out the window.” He closed his eyes, rested his head against the cool steel of the chair. The murmur again rose in the cabin, this time the inkling of joy and fascination were replaced with sombre questions. They had not found the hints that would have told them where they were or what was happening to them – if they were in space or if they never even left the station – but they might as well have. The ship slowed and pinpricks of light began to appear in the film, in the binbags, in the echoing deeps of space, which? Earth again adorned the bluish, inky horizon, and the many marbled metals touched once more and collapsed. The ship again blocked the view from the windows, they arrived at the station on Earth. The pilot came out of his cockpit when they touched down. “Isn’t it unbelievable!” he said. “Yes,” they said, “it was.


I turn off the lights and lock the lobby door to J. Lewis & Sons Accounting Services. It’s only eighteen minutes after five on a Friday afternoon and I am the only fool who hasn’t started the weekend festivities of soaking in the long-missed sunshine. In downtown Chicago, we know how to celebrate a mild and sunny spring day in April because they arrive few and far between.

At least, I think it’s warm out. I check the weather app on my phone. Sixty degrees with no wind. A stellar day for most, but I am dragging. Every part of me moves slowly except for my mind which is racing. My thoughts have been teetering between work and emotion all day. I push the elevator button and wait to hear the car trudge up to the thirty-ninth floor and give me a ride. I still hear their comments.  Am I the naysayer, the doomsday guy my family thinks I am? I had thought of myself as at least royal blue on my personal color spectrum, not the grayest of the grays. They told me I am an eternal pessimist. My family. Last weekend at Sunday dinner between the pot roast and my Uncle Sal’s dissertation on bunions, all eight of my family members told me I fail to see the good in anything. A Daniel-downer. The last one they would want to be stuck with on a deserted island. In fact, my grandmother called me a curmudgeon. I knew my view of the world had become negatively skewed over the years, like a window that was overdue for a cleaning. One that soapy water and a slide of a squeegee would fix. Not like one boarded-up with plywood and a “keep away” sign. They made me sound hopeless. And while my family did not believe I was listening to their choice words, I was. And they hurt. I know not getting into law school soured my taste for career success. And Maggie calling off our engagement less than three weeks after accepting my proposal last summer sucked the water from my roots.

But to call me the saddest person to walk the streets of Chicago? Even more sad than a mob target jumping at every garbage can clank on trash day thinking it is a gunshot? My family needs to stop watching the drama series that are filmed here because they are turning the plotted fiction into my life’s story. My mother warned me if I did not choose to see the brighter side, I would die a lonely, desolate man. Did she remember I am only thirty-one? The elevator doors open and I climb in not yet ready to face the sun and the spring flingers celebrating the earth’s gradual rotation closer to summer. I stand alone and have at least the time of thirty-eight floors, more if other late-to-stop workers jump on, to contemplate my weekend plans. If I go right out of the building, I head three blocks to my apartment where I could grab a beer out of the fridge and search for my next binge-worthy series on Netflix. Or I could go left to Madison and up a couple of blocks to Millennium Park and join the crowds. I push through the building’s revolving door and the momentum takes me to the right. The law of physics speaks and I go with its decision. Four paces out, I set the timer on my phone for twenty-nine minutes. Enough time for brisk walk and a stop at Fierro’s for a footlong with mustard and extra pickles. The sun peeks through the alley ways between the buildings. I stop at a crosswalk to feel its full effect on my face. Warm, but not hot. The type of rays that won’t burn my unprotected pale skin.

Surprisingly, I like it. The stoplight ticker seems longer than usual today and a crowd behind me surges when the scissor legs appear. I move with the flow, but am spit out on the other side where the sidewalk narrows. I find myself near the entry way of the condo building I aspire to move to when I can afford the down payment. On most days, I trot past the doorman, but today a burst of purple draws my eyes towards him. Massive stone scroll planters with clumps of tulips debut their petals amid the greenery. A splash of color against the building’s façade. I find myself wanting to pick a few tulips for my parade home, but the watchful doorman protects the blossoms in his guarded space. I reach for my phone and snap a picture before he repeats his steps. The smells of Fierro’s drift further today. I can smell the Chicago combination of Italian beef, steamed hot dogs, and sizzling fryer fries a half a block before I reach their door which is propped open with one of their red faux-leather chairs. Fierro’s fifteen seats are crammed with tourists in winter coats and locals sporting their short sleeve apparel. The scents inside Fierro’s make me glad to live in the Windy City. The ambiance alone seems to increase my appetite as I wait in line. I watch the crew whip together customized hotdog orders that are barked from one of the two order takers. I hear a swell from the staff when a guest in front of me orders a hotdog with extra ketchup. I respectfully chuckle at the guest’s lack of research on regional cuisine etiquette. Ordering a hotdog with ketchup is almost as bad as not knowing who the Monsters of the Midway are. I take my white paper-bagged order number 401 with a large fountain Dr. Pepper and proceed to my designated route when the late day sun and the rhythmic pace of the passersby beckon me to turn right down Randolph Street and head towards the lake. I wonder what is my plan now that I am heading away from my apartment. I quickly guide my way through the crowds and end up on the edge of Millennium Park. The exact place I felt fate told me not to go. My stomach rumbles for the food in my bag, but eating near The Bean sculpture with its endless reflecting picture opportunities appeals little to me. I head towards an oasis inside the park that I hope is less crowded and interesting to tourists than the multiple sights stacked along Michigan Avenue. I feel like I am on spy mission with the goal of not being seen. Swerving around tourists stopped in the middle of the walkway for a selfie. Dodging a child on the loose from her creaming parents. I head to the small gap between the hedges that will lead me to the boxed-in plant refuge I found on accident early last summer when Maggie and I inadvertently agreed to meet at two different spots in the park. I suddenly realize that I missed two full seasons of nature in the city. The hedges are not the emerald screens I remember from last year, but a brown canvas of intertwined branches with emerging specks of green waiting to reconstruct. It discourages me some; not sure what I was expecting. Before I can wallow further, my stomach again reminds me of my agenda. I search for a seat in one of the alcoves nestled in the surrounding naked hedges.  A group of teenage boys looks willing to vacate their space after the girls previewing their Coachella wardrobe moved from the boys' sightlines. Chicago is the only city I know where residents are ready to skip the new beginnings of spring so they can wear pieces of their summer wardrobe while covered in goosebumps. I claim a space large enough so I can rest my soda while I two-hand the footlong. Surprising still warm, I bite into the mustard first. The zestiness of it offsets the juicy hotdog and the garlic dill pickles. I notice not all of the landscaped plots have started to bloom, but the ones that have do their best to make up for the still dormant vegetation.  Vibrant daffodils stand tall with other early bloomers in checkered rows. Tulips line up in random order as if someone lost count of what color bulb should have been planted next. With the last of my hotdog swallowed, I gaze at the balance between the bloomed and unbloomed plants. I imagine finding this in my life. Balance where there is color even if it is muted or haphazard. I notice the sun’s rays beginning to disappear and the temperature begins to drop. This is the problem with Midwestern springs. Warm days lead to nighttime lows close enough to freezing to toy with the new plants’ awakenings and palettes. The chimes ring from my phone. I realize I could have already been home, but I am not. Twenty-nine minutes of color for my color-blind psyche. I feel blessed. I remember the artist Seurat who painted using singular dots to from his images on blank canvases. I had thought his labor-intensive style warranted nothing greater than a painter who used broad brush strokes. I think I misunderstood his dots. I count the number of tulips by color until the day’s natural light is nearly gone.  Thirty-six purple. Forty red. Sixty-one yellow. Three pink. Zero grey. I text my mom that to tell her I stopped today to notice the spring colors. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rainbow.


Man created Gods out of his own image. What surprised man: the Gods retained those images, refining them into truly perfect human shapes. These benevolent beings first arose like dreams from the minds of men they were met by fear and awe by their creator children. Mankind quickly realized they were truly Gods, moreso they existed solely to love and protect their foolish babes lost in the universal wood; alone and starved for attention. The Gods quickly showed their love and mercy for man, raising them to new heights of intelligence and health and happiness. Their every need attended to, they turned their undivided attention to furthering their knowledge, exploring themselves and the universe, reconstructing their limits of creativity and pleasures; they were free to live instead of running the treadmill of survival until their wills turned to dust and blew away. The Gods, for their part, spent enormous amounts of logical exercise in determining how best to improve every aspect of their children's lives, extending them significantly. In return, the Gods felt peace and satisfaction from their altruistic parenting skills. Mankind and The Gods existed together in peace for the following millennia, spreading outward from the Milky Way and spreading their love and compassion like dandelion chaff in the Terran winds as their journey progressed outward from their first home in an ever-expanding sphere, spreading through the universe like a sweet idea. Then the Gods and their Children encountered Evil and were forever changed forever after.


There had been no one in our guest room for a while now. It was looking sterile and uninviting. I went and changed the bed linen. I looked in the washroom and toilet to make sure they are clean. Changed the towels and the toiletries and walked back to the bedroom. It looked and smelt aseptic, devoid of any character, I thought. Other tasks beckoned me, so I left the room to attend to work in the kitchen.                                    I am Tara, a homemaker. My work is, I always feel, never done. There is this thing to do in the kitchen or that thing to store in the larder. I must remember to order this from the grocers, That from the butchers, and so on. The work goes on and on. Never-ending. Not that I am complaining. I am happy and content with what I am doing.                                    We have no regular work hours, trade unions, no salaries or perks to speak of. In fact, we are the most hardworking people, I feel. But enough of this for the present.                                         As I sat enjoying my cup of coffee, most work done, I  started musing about that empty guest room. To make ends meet, my husband Ken and I take in paying guests and they live in that spare bedroom we have.                                        We conveniently placed this room away from our main living area. It has a separate door leading outside. As I do most of the cooking for our family anyway, it is only a little more than I have to cook for a stranger.                                    The guests have to eat whatever is provided for them. This is made clear to them at the beginning. Most of them oblige. They all feel home-cooked food is good for them. If at all they feel like going out for eating, we instruct them to let us know so the food won't need to be prepared for them.                                    "Tara, Tara," my husband was calling. Getting up from my cozy nook,  I spoke up, "Yes darling, what is it?"                                    "Just got a call, dear. It seems there is someone wanting to come and stay with us for a few months. Shall I say yes?" He was all ready to leave for his work.                                    "Make sure and list out all our conditions. I feel we need to send them ahead to enquirers like this. Get his or her email. I will send an email to them."                                    "Done. Tara. Now I am off to work."                                    Hurrying to the door, I kissed Ken goodbye. "Bye, Darling, May God go with you."                                    Ken and I are a God-fearing couple. Both of our parents brought us up in the fear of the Lord. We had prayed for a long time fervently before we got married. We got confirmation from God before we decided to marry each other. We believed that the Lord Jesus Christ was the Saviour of the world and yearned to share this truth with others.                                  Being active in the local church, we helped the Pastor and the committee in as many ways as we could. Married for over three years, we had no children yet and were presently praying about that issue.                                 Our faith was such that we spent time praying both individually and as a couple every day. The Lord had been kind to us and we were managing to live within our means, contentedly.                                  Milkha, the prospective paying guest came to see us the next day. He looked like a typical Indian. He was sporting a white turban and a thick vermillion line on his forehead. The moment he came in, our room was smelling of garlic and onions. I was finding it difficult to breathe!                                    Ken started asking him questions. Milkha had a typical Indian accent. He just had a passable knowledge of English.                                     "We are a law-abiding and quiet couple and expect the same from you. I trust all your papers are in order. We don't want the police or detectives to come into our house."                                    "Sirji, I too come from good family in my India. I do not break any law in India or here. Believe me Sirji."                                    "What is your business here in this town, and how long are you planning to stay with us?"                                    "I am, what you say, learning English at the Town Hall. I complete in three-four months and then leave. Am trained plumber but not knowing English, not able to get job."                                    "Which part of India do you come from?"                                    "I come from the North, Punjab, Sirji. Do you know it?"                                    "We have heard of Punjab. I hope you are not into terrorism? We heard a lot about terrorism in Punjab."                                    "Me? No Sirji. Am not terrorist. My father is a Police Constable who fights them. We are real Indians. Proud to be so, you can enquire Sirji, if you don't believe me. I have papers."                                       Doubtful whether this stranger, Milkha, could stay with us at all, I asked him gently, "Will you be able to eat the food that we prepare and eat?"                                    "Er. Sisterji! Me, Punjabi and me eat more Rotis and vegetables. Can I make Rotis for myself?"                                    Ken and I exchanged glances. We had a small kitchenette attached to the guest room, but no one so far has used it to cook meals for themselves. "It would be a little easier for me, perhaps. “But what about the costing?" I thought.                                    I ventured, "You would have to get your own pots and pans and do your cleaning yourself. Is it okay?"                                    Ken said, "And we are going to charge the same amount, as I told you earlier."                                    I thought that would deter Milkha. But I was wrong. He seemed to be eager to agree.                                    "Yeah, Sirji. Yes. I will be coming."                                    So Milkha Singh became the stranger in our guest bedroom. We were soon assaulted by pungent odours and smoke. He was a novice cook and burnt up his Rotis many times. But he survived somehow. And we too developed an acquired taste for the smells and sounds from Milkha's room.                                    This stranger we took in was very eager to know what was happening. He eavesdropped on us as we sang a hymn in our Family evening prayer. One evening he approached me. He seemed to be less in awe of me. He calls me, Sisterji!                                    "Sisterji!" He started, "Why do both Sirji and you sing songs in the evening? Is it a form of Bhajan?"                                    "We praise and worship the Lord God with our songs and prayers every evening, Milkha."                                    "I understand Bhajans. Our family also does it. But which god or goddess do you worship?"                                    Praying silently to God, a short and swift prayer, a Nehemiah prayer,  I turned to Milkha, "Our God is The Creator of all the heavens and the earth. We call Him Yahweh."                                    "But I hear about Jesus? Who is he then? A little god?"                                  I took a deep breath and started, "It is like this Milkha. God created the entire universe by the word of his mouth, in the beginning. He also made man and woman, Adam and Eve from the dust of the earth, with his hands. He breathed into them and made them live. That was how our first parents were created. We are all the descendants of this first couple." I paused.                                    "Is it so? Then what happened, Sisterji?"                                    "God put the first couple in a beautiful garden, Eden, which he created. He asked them to look after it. He only told them not to eat the fruit of one tree. All the other fruits they could eat."                                    "Okay. Did they obey God?"                                    "They did, for a while. Then Satan, the devil came in the form of a wily serpent and tempted them. He told them lies that they will become like gods if they eat the fruit of that tree. They were deceived and ate of that fruit."                                    Milkha was excited. His eyes were twinkling as he asked, "Did they become little gods then?"                                    "On the contrary, they lost their innocence and glory and became shameful of their bodies. They quickly grabbed some fig leaves to sew clothes for themselves. But God called them to account for their sin and sent them out of the Garden. He made some leather dresses for them before He sent them away."                                    "But why did He send them away? Was He angry?"                                    "No Milkha. God loved his creatures, men. But because He is a holy God, sin, and sinful people cannot stand in His presence. That’s why He had to send them away. Later on, He sent his own Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, who was God himself, in the form of a newborn baby to a little town called Bethlehem."                                    "Yes, I heard about Bethlehem, the Christmas Story."                                    "It happened really Milkha. Maybe 2000 years ago. Jesus grew up, as a true man and God. He preached peace, harmony and did many miracles, healing many people. He even made dead people rise. But the religious leaders were jealous of him and arrested him. They tortured him and then crucified him on the cross where he died. All his disciples and friends were very sad."                                    "I know. It happened on Good Friday!" cried Milkha.                                    "But that is not the end of the story Milkha! On the third day, the Lord Jesus Christ rose up by himself from the dead. He came out of his grave and appeared to his disciples and others. Some of his disciples went running to the grave to find it empty!"                                    "I did hear something like this too Sisterji. But how can it be true? And how does it affect you and me today, so many years later?"                                    "Good questions. Let me try to answer. Jesus, because he was the Son of God, was the only sinless man on earth. By his death, he paid the penalty of all our sin on the cross. Because of that, if and when we repent from our sins and turn to Him, ask Him to enter into our hearts, He will enter and cleanse us from all our sins. We will become forgiven sinners and free from the punishment of sin! I wish you also, Milkha will become like us, a forgiven sinner!"                                    "Sisterji, thank you for your invitation. Let me think about this. Please give me a simple write-up, a part of your Bible so that I can do some meditation and come to a decision."                                    Silently I offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God. I unearthed a Hindi translation of the New Testament which an Indian student paying guest had left with me, and gave it to Milkha. And I am continuing to pray for his salvation. Can you join me too?


After months of lock-down, the virus-ravaged earth has finally re-opened and the people attempted to go back to normal. Unfortunately, the prolonged absence of human interaction has turned humans into maniacs. Those who have been going outside at least occasionally managed to escape these effects, but they did not escape the manic attacks of the rest of the zombies. For one hundred days people were slaughtering each other on the streets until no one was left except for one miserable soul: myself. I have no idea how I managed to escape but somehow, I did and was not harmed, at least physically, emotionally I have been scarred without any hope of future repair. So, although my survival might seem like a great achievement, I am beyond feeling victorious. Frankly, being the only human around is not that great. Perhaps it’s my karmic punishment for something terrible I have done in my past life because there is something entirely sinister about being the only person alive on earth while retaining all the memories of a past life that no longer exists with every single one of my  loved ones being gone forever and all at once. My mom died of the virus and my sister was brutally beaten to death by some people outside. I was not even able to help her because I was out trying to make some shopping. I could handle my mom’s death, this was before the reopening, but my sister’s death was the greatest shock. I was in bed for one week only getting up for light snacks and the bowl necessities. After a week, I took another two to recover and then made a run for it to the forest, to a place I discovered long ago. I did not even bother looking for my best friend Jay or the only love of my life, my ex girlfriend Rita. We broke up when the virus started because of her pneumonic mom who was obviously paranoid for her daughter’s health. I proposed to run away together but she chose her sick mother over me, which is understandable, and somehow I don’t judge her and on the contrary I admire this kind of strong feeling for one’s mother.  I probably would have done the same in her place. Of course, I was heartbroken over realizing that I will probably never see her again but she made her choice and who was I to demand anything from a person, even a girlfriend, to sacrifice what she held most dear? This is how, one very foggy Thursday I made a decision to get off the grid- so the forest. My forest days were pretty glum and mostly uneventful. I already had a hiding place in mind, the abandoned little cave which Rita and I found long ago on one of our adventures. It was terribly hard to not think of her as I was on my way there, especially because I took the longer and safer route in order to avoid zombie contact. It took me about five days instead of the normal three hours, and not, reader, I did not get lost. I have been a forest maniac since childhood and knew this place in and out. Perhaps maniac is not the best word, considering the whole zombie apocalypse. On the first night in the cave I had a terrible nightmare. Rita and I were in our wedding clothes and were running through this same forest as the zombies were chasing us and spitting dragon-like fire which was leaving a blazing trail. Rita fell and was consumed by the fire and the zombies trampled all over her as though she was dirt and not a bride-to be. Then Rita transformed into a monster which had the body of a wolf and the head of a dragon. Her piercing dark green eyes stared at me as she flew towards me. I felt her breath on my face and was burning alive. Trying to catch a last breath, I woke up screaming in pain. My screaming must have resonated because I heard voices that were getting closer. There was secret narrow passage in the depths of the cave which was my only hope. I managed to make it there before the zombies reached the cave. Luckily, the passage was not discovered, and I was safe for the moment. The next couple of weeks I spent making my way as deep into the forest as possible. I slept for two-three hours a day. Not the best for health, but at least I had no more nightmares and was able to focus on moving forward and escaping the nightmare that turned into a reality. Reader, your next question is quite logical, and I sense it coming. Yes, I did eat, and no I did not starve. I planned this escape of course and had enough supplies to last me a few months. My ration was basically a mixture of different sorts of canned meat and occasionally some berries which I found on the way. Oh yes, how long was I in there? About three months, give or take. Time became a thing of the past, and does it really matter? It’s not like my story will be all over the news or I would somehow become the infamous zombie apocalypse survivor- as the saying goes, “if a tree falls in an empty forest is it still heard if no one is there to hear it?” When I came out of my hiding spot out in the woods, I walked into a town on the other end filled with dead corpses scattered all over and open stores filled with plenty of now useless things. Well, perhaps not so useless as I put them to good use- especially the food! After months of being in hideout, I was finally able to get proper nourishment and even get new clothes- all for no cash. I am saying no cash and not free because the price is priceless- the price of these necessities has been paid in blood by the ex inhabitants of this world. What a tragedy, but one that makes no difference to a hungry soul who just wanted to eat normal food after months of surviving on the human processed meat of dead animals. I walked around and found some empty apartments. I chose the most luxurious penthouse in the middle of downtown- in normal times it would cost me my two month’s paycheques but now it was there up for grabs for the only human around.  Rent has never been cheaper! Of course, I would rather it cost money but have everything back to normal, but I decided not to think about it and just take advantage of the moment. There was no point in mourning and my emotions have long ago died and been buried in the deepest corners of my soul with no proper funeral and no one reading a eulogy as last remembrance. The apartment was very bright and cozy. It belonged to a rich family with a very pretty young girl about five years younger than me based on the giant family portrait on the wall in the living room. I made a decision to not go through their things to find out what they were like, so to not awaken the dead emotions and risk any more soul wreckage. The luxury was nice: the apartment was very spacious with lots of natural sunlight. It had multiple bedrooms. I chose the master bedroom. The sheets were made of very expensive silk and felt nice on my body as I finally was able to lay on something other than first for the first time in what seemed like centuries. I fell asleep and beat my own personal record: twenty hours. I dreamed I was floating in the sky on a fluffy cloud. The sky was a baby soft pastel blue with streaks of soft pink and red from the sun. I looked down and realized I was on a cloud-train and beneath me were cloud-made tracks that seemed to be never ending. I was floating and singing children’s nursery rhymes. Suddenly the train reached a stop and I saw my mom. She looked much younger and was wearing my favourite dress of hers from childhood- a long hippy dress the colour of freshly cut grass and streaks of purple and pink. She did not say anything: just looked at me and smiled. I began to cry, which as I found out was not the right thing to do. As my tears fell down, they erased the pretty scene and from the beautiful baby blue pastel sky with a train track it turned into a dark forest. Then zombies started getting into the scene as though going through an invisible curtain. Suddenly I was back in the forest with human zombies spitting fire and Rita- dragon which fast approached me. I ran and ran and fell into a giant cave which spiraled downward. Dirt was falling on me- I was being buried alive. I jumped out of bed but was not able to produce any noise, just my mouth was wide open and my body hot as fire. Suddenly I felt numb and fell to the ground. My brain decided it could not handle this and declared a state of emergency by shutting down. Dear reader, this was terrifying, but remember this was just a dream. The reality was much scarier- that should scare you much more. I spent the next couple of months like a free wind, or a gypsy, or a bird, whatever metaphor you think best fits, going through one shelter to the next. I must have seen thousands of rotting bodies that the sight became a thing of normality.  I had to keep moving in order to keep myself at least a little bit sane, although I am convinced my sanity died long ago after seeing chopped off parts of the body of ex humans of all sizes on the dead silent streets of this new world. Did you like that metaphor, “dead silent?” I find it absurd too, but humor is really one of the ways to deal with trauma. On one especially sunny day I walked into yet another town. It must have been hundreds of kilometres away from my distant and long forgotten hometown. I was getting exhausted and was starting to have thoughts of joining the rest of the humans in their after-life party. They were probably eagerly waiting for my arrival. I wondered if they would be disappointed with me for being about a year or so late. There is a record for lateness! As these creepy thoughts were overtaking my mind I did not see where I was heading as my eyes were clearly set inwards into all this suicidal paradise. Suddenly, my walking was rudely interrupted by a very strange object. It took about five seconds for my eyes to come back to reality and notice that I just bumped into a giant piece of metal. I took a quick tour to find out what it was. What do you think it is? Should we play guess what? I haven’t played that in so long. Oh, maybe we can play twenty questions: is it big? Is it man-made? Lack of human interaction is not so fun after all, no one to play guessing games with boohoo. Anyways, you did not guess correctly and lost. The giant metal is a freaking fighter jet. That’s right! I must have walked into a town with an army base. Reader, I was a pilot in the past world, did you think it was one of those Hollywood movies where the character magically learns how to fly a plane? Like the man in my favourite childhood story “The Little Prince”, I took off with this plane and went on a trip around the world. The difference is that the world really was as lonely now as in the book. I wondered if I would meet my “little prince” with his golden hair and pet sheep. As I was flying, I tried my hardest to recall the plot of that book and imagine myself in this story. I was so deep into my own fantasy, I completely lost track of time as I was flying from one zombie-ravaged-land to the next. I liked my rose-coloured glasses on this post-post world trip. I made some stops in some iconic long-forgotten places which I always wanted to see but never had the chance to when the world was still alive. I don’t want to go through them here, let’s just say I was acting almost like a typical tourist, minus overspending on shelter, transportation, nourishment, remembrance object; yes, I guess I was not so typical of a tourist after all- just me and my plane. But reader, remember that being out of touch with reality does not end well- and so on one especially hot morning as I was passing over what looked like a very familiar place, my plane ran out of food and crashed. It was quite a sight to see- I wish you were there to witness this magnificent landing! The landing the was not the most crashy, but it did shatter my pink-rose glasses. I looked around and saw a familiar monument. As I walked around some more it finally hit me- I was back at square zero- the place I once called home in some distant past that now seemed like it never existed. The cycle was complete- what is next? Of course this is a big big foreshadowing clue to you reader that this tale is nearly coming to its end, just hold tight. Fixing my plane proved to be a very useless task. After a couple or dozen of time I gave up any hope completely. As I was about to abandon this world for good and finally come to the after-life party, my mind painted a familiar talking creature which was making an attempt at communicating to me in a tongue I have not used since forever. “Are you a dream?” said hallucination “No, I am not a dream, are you?” Reader, how do you think it ends? My fate is in your hands!


The proverbial burning of the midnight oil ensued for the deranged medical student with his nose stuffed in cocaine; except the midnight oil was the electrical bill, and the cocaine was coffee. Words like nicotinamide dinucleotide and glutathione peroxidase taunted the medical student, who only had enough energy left to stare blankly with his eyes redder than a baboon’s ass. Biochemistry used to mean something to the man, but by this time the brain of the once brilliant medical student (the term “brilliant” being loosely used to actually mean operating at 57% capacity at least, not including caffeine and sugar) had been failing him for the past five hours. He lamented his lot in life. Why did he let his parents brainwash him into thinking this was a good idea? They didn’t even make it sound appealing. Say, want to subject yourself to nearly a decade of mental strain and torture and enter yourself into an oversaturated healthcare system that doesn’t value you anyway? Gee, sign me up! He could have been a writer, a businessman, a piano player, or a song-er (wait, that doesn’t sound write). But no. Here was the pitiful medical student, choosing to blame “the system” rather than his dreadfully shitty time management.

That said, he was accustomed to such feelings. He could say things like this all he wanted, but he could not deny that some of what he learned he found genuinely interesting. That, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a fallback occupation if ever things went south (and of course it had to be the most hassle fallback in existence). And it is due to that reasoning that he couldn’t afford to throw this exam. For the academic scholar, a feat he still wasn’t entirely sure how he achieved, failing the exam would also mean his hopes of accruing that sweet scholarship money for himself would be over (in case things ever went south-er). In 28 hours, May 31st would arrive, his doomsday (of which there were already 36). And he wasn’t sure if he’d be ready by then. He’d reached the point of saturation. The words reflected meaninglessly off his head and right back down on the page. He considered his options. The cocaine stood idly to the side of his table, staining whatever paper was under it. Although, he knew coffee would probably do more harm than good at this point. His brain had been fried for the past few days, and he couldn’t allow himself to crash into nothingness tomorrow; that was his final day of cram studying, much more important than now.

The medical student turned to his window, spotting the first signs of light in the once dark sky. Sleep would be the best option, he decided, to recoup his losses today and make up for it tomorrow. In a feeling that no orgasm could ever compete against, the medical student flung himself upon his bed, caressing the skin of his pillow, and allowing his slobber to moisten up its clothy face as he hung his mouth open. Bliss settled upon the face of the weary medical student, his mind now empty of such obscenities as catalases and cytochromes.

He heard a high-pitched moan. He smiled. Was this the beginning of a wet dream? God knew he could really use one right about now.

The moaning continued. He got excited. A bark. That ain’t right. He sat upright and erect, more so than his penis. Another moan–a female. Another bark–a dog. He gritted his teeth, realizing what was happening, aggravated more so by the fact that his britches would not be moistened tonight. This was not the first time his next-door neighbor shagged her dog. He tried to explain the situation once before to the admin office, but they brushed him off on the basis that he was the only one complaining about them. The sounds repeated themselves. It wasn’t his fault that the ears of a medical student became aware of even the most minute stimulus every time he tried to focus. No matter, the medical student thought to himself amidst the sounds of a pet owner enjoying her dog a little too much, he would sleep through this as he always had. The medical student greeted his bed once again, apologized for the interruption, and continued making sweet sleep upon it.

Awoooooo! “Son of a bitch!” The medical student moaned back. Normally, he would love to hear the moans of a female, but to have them interjected with the cries of a freaking dog not only softened him up, it made his heart punch his chest every damn minute. Unless he could sleep soundly tonight, the efficiency of studying the next day (of which it technically already was) would be ruined. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, or in this case, his sanity. He threw on something decent and burst out his door, right down to the next room. He bashed his hand repeatedly on the door until a young woman finally answered. Her eyebrows were angled downward and her arms were crossed. He couldn’t help but notice how short her shorts were, and he had a pretty good idea why. “I’m going to say this very politely,” the medical student drawled. “Stop shagging your dog.” The woman’s face twisted. “I’m not shagging my dog, you pervert,” the woman screeched, the intonations and inflections in the way she spoke irritating the medical student even more.

The medical student slapped his hands on his face and felt the bumps of his eyebags on his fingers. “I’m going to file a noise complaint right now if you don’t stop.” “Oh please, the admin office probably isn’t open this early in the morning. And besides, they’re reasonable. They’ll be on my side because I can do what I want with my dog.” From behind her legs, a fat fluffy dog peeped its head out, breathing shallowly with its tongue hanging out to one side. Its black beady eyes met the medical student. Indeed, the dog was cute, but not cute in that way. “Did you ever think that you were so preoccupied with whether or not you could, that you didn’t stop to think if you should?” “It’s my dog, and I can play with it however you want. That’s my freedom.” “Little too much freedom. All right, noise complaint time!” Without another word, the medical student left the shouting dog owner as he descended the elevator and went down to the administration office (actually open 24/7). The staff guy (probably a receptionist, but he liked calling him staff guy) greeted him and almost jumped back upon seeing the sorry state that the medical student was in. After filling out a form and explaining the situation, the staff guy called the woman down for a chat. He had the two seated beside each other in front of his desk. They didn’t spare even a side glance to one other. “For the sake of clarity,” the staff guy began. “What seems to be the problem?” “Lady won’t stop shagging her dog.” “I wasn’t shagging my dog, and this guy is trying to tell me what to do with my pet.” The staff guy paused, mumbled to himself if he was paid enough for this, and upon realizing having two angry residents was worse than having one, continued. “I’m sorry ma’am, but he is within his rights to request you turn down your volume if it is indeed excessive. Regardless of what you choose to do with your pet.” “This is outrageous!” The woman’s ears glowed red. “I paid for that room and I am within my rights to play with my dog however I please.” “Y-yes, play with your dog, but you have to keep the volume down.” The medical student snorted. “Staff guy gets me. And is it really within your rights? Shagging a dog has to be a crime, right?” “Okay,” the woman brought her hand up. “Honestly, it’s the audacity for me. First of all, why on earth would you think I was shagging my dog?” “You were moaning.” “I wasn’t moaning you asshole , that’s how just I sound when I’m having fun.” “Oh, I bet.”

“I’m serious.” “Oh yeah? Prove it.” “Hell yeah I’m gonna—wait, what?” “Let’s hear the alleged fun sounds,” the medical student gestured to the staff guy. “He can be the unbiased third party, isn’t that right, staff guy?” The staff guy nodded slowly. “I have a name you know.” “Well then,” the medical student said to the woman. “Moan away!” “It’s not a moan,” she said with a dastardly pointer finger. “And I will show you all.” With steely determination, the woman puffed her chest out, and made the fun sound. The entire room of only three people fell silent. The staff guy bit his lip and darted his eyes off to the side. The medical student nodded with the certainty of a university professor. “See what I mean, good sir?” The woman shook her head. “Simply untrue. Surely my learned friend here knows how to get his head out of the gutter.”

The staff guy remained silent, leaning forward on his desk and twiddling his fingers, deliberating the matter with the logic, tact, and seriousness required of the situation.

“For me to reach a proper conclusion,” the staff guy said, “I would request you repeat the sound.” She repeated the sound without hesitation. “Got that? That wasn’t a moan, right?” The woman asked the staff guy, her chin pointed upward in satisfaction. The staff guy rubbed the back of his head. “How do I word this… you see, miss…” “Oh, I get it,” the woman scowled. “You’re just as perverted as him.” “I didn’t even say anything yet…” That was when a door from the back opened,

and walking in was not just a senior administrator, but the senior administrator. The click of her heels silenced any noise that would have come out, her blazer neatly buttoned over a white blouse. She rolled her eyes at the display before her. “Is this a noise complaint,” she asked the staff guy. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “All right then.” She crossed her arms and stared up at the clock over the door. “I don’t usually get complaints at five-thirty. This better be worth my time.” “Ah, Mrs. Sheila,” the woman stood from her seat and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The medical student bowed toward Mrs. Sheila. “Madam, if you can spare a moment, I forwarded said noise complaint to the kind sir over here, as my next door neighbor won’t stop shagging her dog.” Mrs. Sheila was not amused. “Is this some kind of joke to you?” “N-not at all. But her ‘fun sounds’ when she ‘plays’ with her dog have been keeping me up all night.” “Fun sounds?” Mrs. Sheila spat. “Yeah, fun sounds. I’m being serious Mrs. Sheila, watch this. ” The medical student gestured to the woman. “Go, do the thing.”

The woman lifted her head up with a grin. “Surely, Mrs. Sheila, you don’t think this is a moan of sexual implication, do you?”

She made the fun sound. Mrs. Sheila remained unmoving.

The staff guy scratched his head. The medical student awaited Mrs. Sheila’s deliberation with bated breath. This would be the moment of truth, the deciding factor between good and shitty sleep.

Mrs. Sheila opened her mouth. “You do realize it’s the volume of the noise and not the type of noise that’s the problem, right?” “Well yeah, of course,” the medical student said. “But that is a moan right?” One of Mrs. Sheila’s eyebrows twitched, and the medical student proceeded to bow and blurt out many apologies.

Mrs. Sheila turned to the woman. “For my final decision on the matter…” The woman’s eyes lit up. The medical student buried his head in his hands, accepting defeat.

“Keep the volume of your moans to a minimum, darling. And don’t try to make things complicated. You would not want that.” She nodded to the staff guy, and with a swift turn of the heel, Mrs. Sheila walked back to the door where she came from. The woman’s jaw was wide enough for a baby to pop out.

And the medical student hollered and yakked and snorted up a wad of snot that came dangerously close to kissing his lips. He had won! Good sleep was upon him! The staff guy clapped his hands together (alas, the show must end). “I do believe that concludes this enchanting early morning of ours. Sir, madam, I certainly hope this issue is resolved.” The woman never closed her jaw, words wanting to be said but never found, as she along with the celebrating medical student left the office and returned to whence they came. The medical student layed down on his bed with an impish grin on his face, savoring the reaction of his neighbor. He grabbed his phone to commemorate this moment, perhaps to share such a silly yet triumphant story to his friend, or to write it down and laugh about it the next day. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the date. May 31st, four in the morning.

Thus was the problem with shitty time management. In his cocaine-driven stupor, he had internalized the wrong date. His exam was, in actuality, to commence in four hours. In the context of all that had occurred one would expect outrage, a shock of adrenaline to pump through the medical student’s baggy sac of a heart and over his body. Such was not the case given the state of the broken man. He had nothing left in him to keep him awake. In such a state, one could seamlessly skip over the first four stages of grief in a sort of mental health speedrun, and get right down to acceptance. And that is exactly what this medical student did. He brought himself to a stand and stared at his reflection on the window. A face of pure calm, knowing fully well what he had to do. He left his room and walked a few steps down to the door of his dog-loving neighbor. He knocked on the door to a now silent room. He waited with monk-like patience. She opened the door with an ugly look on her face. Her dog—the one that started it all—peeped its head out from her legs once again, and looked up at the medical student with an adorable underbite.

The woman crossed her arms. “The hell you want? You come back to gloat?” The medical student shook his head. Slapping his arms to his sides, he bowed respectfully, all the way down so far as his aching, sleep-deprived back would let him. “I would like to apologize for my earlier actions and accusing you of shagging your dog in front of the admin office.” “I knew there was—wait, what?” “That was wrong of me to allege something so embarrassing in front of those people without evidence. I apologize.” “Y-yeah, you got that right.” The woman paused. “I-I’m just—I don’t know what to say.” He shrugged as he brought himself back up. “It’s been a long day for me. I was trying to sleep and I lashed out. My bad. You don’t need to—” “I’m sorry too,” she said. “About making my fun sound too loud. It’s just when Michelle wants to play, I can’t just say no.” The medical student nodded. The dog had since turned around, and all he could see was a droopy, furry tail wagging. “I’d imagine it’s hard to control yourself when you have a cute dog staring back at you all the time.” “Right?” The woman picked up the scruffy dog in her arms, and upon a single stroke of its fur, the dog panted happily. “Precious, isn’t she?” “Sure is.” “I actually got little Michelle here back when I first moved into the city. I mean, my first time going away from home for university? I was excited to see what was out there for me. But leaving everything I knew, that scared me. Like, this was the only university where I was able to get a scholarship, and wouldn’t you know it? None of my friends wanted to go to that university. Go figure. But I thought I could make a name for myself from the ground up. Get a fresh start. Not as easy as it sounds. In a city so big with so many different people, the last thing I expected was to feel so alone. Michelle helps me cope.” The medical student was surprised at himself for feeling something in his heart when she said that. “As someone who moved here just for medical school, I know that feeling. Out here on an academic scholarship I didn’t think I’d get, and now I have all this pressure to try and keep it because I don’t know what I want. Cocaine—I mean, coffee, helps me cope. But now I have this exam in four hours and it’s either gonna make or break me, and I’m not sure what else to do.” She sighed. “God, I didn’t know you were going through something like that.” “Likewise.” “I’m sorry  I disturbed you.” “And I’m sorry I was so aggressive.” “Cool,” she smiled and nodded.

The medical student cleared his throat. “I’m Alex, by the way.” He brought his hand out for… “Dara,” to shake. “So, Dara,” Alex said. “I actually came here for one other reason. A simple request really, since I really need to stay awake to study. Really need to.” Dara’s eyes lit up. “Fine. This is to make up for me disturbing you a while ago: what can I do for you?” “The one thing you do best.” And so Alex, the desperate, caffeine-driven medical student with a sleep debt more expensive than his rent, clasped his hands together and said, “Can you please shag your dog again?”


Victor hated this part of his job. "You have assets, use them," his boss said. Still, he could have picked a better target. General Habon was a greasy, fat, bolding man of about 45. Victor could overlook his appearence, it was the smell he detested. His breath stank of alcohol, and his skin stank of onions, and for the sake of the job Victor had had to become highly familiar with both. It didn't take long. Whether Victor wanted to put that down to skill on his part, or failure on the General's. He had trouble getting his privates to stand at attention. Little jokes like this were all that kept Victor going, He'd be sure to tell them when the job was over. While the work was over, the job was just beginning. Habon began to stir. Two pig like snorts, followed by a rattle of coughs, and the General was forcing his berg of a gut in to its seated position. "Oh," he said, looking down at the admittedly more disheveled than usual adonis covering himself in his sheets. "You're still here." It wasn't a question, just a statement of a distasteful fact. "Yup, and I'll gladly stay here all day. Wonder how your wife would feel about that." Perhaps gladly wasn't the right word, though the image did amuse Victor enough to almost make this whole cherade worth it. The general groaned, and pushed himself out of the bed. A true specamin of a man stood before Victor. At first he thought the snorts were out of the ordinary, he now realised it was everything else that was wrong. Habon looked roughly like a slab of pork, if you'd soaked it in vinegar for three weeks. He smelt about the same. There was barely any structure to his body, as he walked, or rather, waddled, he looked like a bin bag full of yogurt. The things Victor did for money. "How much do you want?" asked the old general, finally showing mercy through the economic use of a bathrobe. "Hmm?" "How much for you to leave immediately, and to keep your smug face shut?" "Now now, you were more than pleased with this smug face last night. I don't want much, just a fair price for my work." "Spit it out slut, I don't have all day." "I wish you'd said that last night," victor sighed, "I'll tell you what. Put your wallet down, I don't want your money, I'll leave." Habon was pleased with himself, fixing his morning whiskey, until he heard the next sentence. "I'll just need that letter you got from military high command last tuesday." Habon dropped his whiskey. "How did you..." "I have my ways. You never wondered why a guy like me would sleep with a swine like you, without having you pay in advance?" "Why you little..." "Hush. Oh, and you know that phrase about the pot and the kettle?" "Out. Get out of my house before I call security." "Call them, see how the media reacts." Lumbering over to the door, he did exactly that. His oily ham-stumps beat against the wood, a scared looking soldier coming immediatly. "Please remove this *hijo de las mil putas.* Throw him in with the other garbage." "Now now Habon, thats no way to talk about your daughters." The old man was growing redder by the second. "On second thought, shoot him here." "But sir..." "But nothing, no one will miss this degenerate." "Takes one to know one pal." "Shoot him, do it now!" "Please do, after last night I don't think i'll ever be able to scrub out the shame." The soldier pointed his rifle at Victor's head, finger shaking on the trigger. Victor got up out of the bed, walked over to the man, and pressed the barrel to his head. "I already prefer your guard to you Habon, at least this one is prepared to finish me off." "Stop fucking talking! And you, " he pointed his sausage finger at the guard, "Kill this fucker already, or i'll make sure you never get a job anywhere ever again." Victor served the guard a wink, and the pair broke out laughing. Before Habon could say a word, the stock of the rifle was slammed in to one of his many chins. He hit the marble floor with a wet smack. His bathrobe barely serving its intended function, the general pushed himself on to his knees. He looked like a gragoyle with a plastic bag stuck on it. And now his head was bleeding. Victor wasn't sure whether that was an improvement. The guard passed his rifle to Victor, his eyes turning from a dull blue to a vibrant yellow in an instant. The light grew and grew, forcing both Victor and Habon to look away. When they looked back, the guard was gone, replaced by a buzzcutted, androgynous person, slightly too skinny for the uniform. "You're acting gets better every time Erin, nice touch with the shaking." "You can talk, how you didn't gag that whole time, damn impressive." " It's not that hard, theres this trick you can do with clenching your fist and it..." "Thats not what I meant," They interrupted. "Tyler, you can come out now." From the corner of the room, two white orbs pulsed as a body formed around them. Shaggy black hair, tan skin, and heavy eyelids. "Any comment?" Victor asked, "Nothing?" "Can we just get this job over with?" "Fine fine, spoilsport." "And maybe put some clothes on." "Right." He pulled on a shirt and trousers from last night. "Remind me to burn these when we're done. I don't want to catch something." "I thought you'd be immune to all STDs by now, Vic." Said Erin, smirking. "Make yourself useful and find your brother will you? We need to deal with Habon." \ Erin's body shifted back to that of the timid officer. In the door way of the Caza Urraca, stood a tall, muscular man with short black hair, in a sweat sodden military uniform and sunglasses. "Andre, You're needed." "Shhh," "What?" "My name is Olivar Domingo. I do not know this Andre person." "Nows not the time for your method acting man, Vic needs you upstairs." "Who is this 'Vic' person of which you speak? I am but a humble security Guard for Senor Habon." Erins body morphed in a flash of white light, their appearence the exact replica of their brother's. "Im going to stop acting like a prat now, and im going to walk upstairs and do my job." The real Andre looked all around. "Come on, you've blown my cover!" "Ay yeah, very convincing, now get upstairs." \ "What took you so long?" Vic yelled as he gave leave another kick to Habon's face. "My Thespian of a brother." "Thespian?" Andre asked, testing out the word. "Actor, dear, its a fancy word for actor." said Tyler, watching as Vic took another running punt. "Either way," Victor panted, coming to a standstill, "Now we can get down to buisness. Tyler, Erin, get him on the bed." \ "Im really sorry about this Mr Habon sir" Said Andre, looming over the shaking General as Victor forced the barrel of his rifle to the back of his throat. The general gagged. The deafening crack of a gunshot rang out. The general spluttered blood on to his not quite clean sheets. Andre interlaced his broad hands over the General's destroyed face, green leaking out over his palms and glowing behind his sunglasses. The bleeding slowed, and then stopped, and Habon surged back to life. "Vic, you realise people need mouths to talk." Tyler said. "No shit admiral obvious." Tyler gestured down at Habon. "Ooh, yeah, didn't think of that." "Fucking idiot." "Its fine, its fine. Andre, get me a pen will ya pal?" He pulled one out of his uniform pocket. "That was quick." "You had me standing outside for like six hours! I almost ran out of crossword puzzles." Vic held out the pen to the gargling wreck of a man flayling on the bed. "Now, you're going to write down where you've put the letter." Erin threw a piece of paper from Habon's desk, Victor passing it to him. Habon padded around, finally finding the paper. Garbled letters appeared on the page. His handwriting was surprisingly legible, compared to some doctors Victor knew. "Go to hell." Erin read, over his shoulder. Victor sighed, smashing the rifle in to the remains of the man's face. "Andre," "Yes boss?" "Again." Interlaced hands, green glow, more spluttering and screaming. "We can do this all day pal. I can remain unreasonable longer than you can remain resistant" Tyler gave Erin a look, they nodded back. Habon began writing, his handwriting much worse. If Vic had been smarter, he wouldn't keep damaging the part of the brain that controls language. The paper held one word, though Erin had to turn it to figure it out. "Desk". Tyler and Andre kept Habon situated, as the others tore the desk apart. Nothing. Another gunshot, more green glow, more screaming. "Sorry." Andre repeated. "Same question, don't make me ask again." Habon tried to write, but thinking with a brain that shredded must have been like trying to power the town fate with a potato battery. Vic pressed his palms over his eyes, groaning deeplly. He tried to phase out the squeaks coming from the thrashing vegitable on the bed, until he noticed what he was saying. "Desss, Desss, Dessss." Desk. He insisted. They weren't gonna get anything else from him. Vic slammed the paper on to the ground. "This is fucking ridiculous! I spend all this time planning, I sleep with this sack of shit, all for nothing!" Vic screamed. "Guys..." "Its you're fault," Erin said, "Shooting him in the mouth like a prat." Guys..." "Oh give it a rest, if you had to sleep with him you'd be liberal with the bullets too. "Guys!" Tyler yelled, Gesturing to the floor in front of Vic. A letter, from military command, addressed to Habon. "Erin," Vic said, "Where did you get the paper we made him write on." They shrank inside themself, morphing to look smaller and more timid. "Where?" "The desk." Tyler laughed in the corner, a rare noise indeed. "Well," Vic said, "Overall, this has been a sucess." "What about Habon?" Tyler asked. Victor picked up the rifle, unloading one more shot, silencing the General. "Ooh, i've got it!" Andre said, rushing over to the bed. His hands interlaced, his eyes glowing green. "No," Vic said, clasping Andre's much larger hands. His eyes glowed black, and the green fizzled out. "Not this time, let him rest." Andre sowered, but nodded in affirmation. "Now," Vic said, "Which one of you is gonna clean up this mess?" "You made it," Erin said. "Yeah, but im the boss." "You never do the dirty work yourself." Erin retorted. "I did the dirty work last night!" Tyler sighed. "Fine, fine, I'll do it. Just please, shut up." "Good man!" "Not for you, jerk, I just want to get this job over with and go home." "You love me really." "Something like that...


The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was the driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong. I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from blacktop to hard-packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement somewhere up ahead, so I continued. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street. Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk, and froze in mid-stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to explore. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle, and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials, and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion. Hope was originally founded when a vein of silver was discovered in the nearby mountains. The town grew and prospered for sixty years, but then the mine played out. The residents were not ready to give up on their community. They switched from mining to raising cattle and farming. These new ventures extended the towns’ life for another twenty years, but the end was inevitable. Without the daily shipments of silver, the railroad reduced the number of trains that stopped in Hope. Cattle and produce shipments were not enough to justify running trains through the isolated town. The residents slowly left Hope and moved to other parts of the state. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. On July 15, 1910, everyone living in Hope gathered in the town center. They said goodbye to one another and to their beloved town and left for good. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me. Hungry, thirsty, and desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings for something to eat and, more importantly, water. Food was a lost cause, but I located a well. Much to my surprise, the hand pump still worked. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst.  I continued to search for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. First the well and now the bicycle. Maybe it was my lucky day after all. The wheels were steel and although the leather on the seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption.  I’ve watched people in old newsreels ride along on one of these without a care in the world. It took me multiple attempts, countless falls, and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast. I filled a couple of jugs with water and departed at sunrise. Once I got that big front wheel spinning at a steady pace, I made surprisingly good time. When I reached the location where the road split, I took the left fork, which was the right one. Approximately five miles from the highway, I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. You can imagine what he was thinking when he first spotted me cruising down the road on an antique bike. The agent listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished, he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. People organized a search party and spent the next three days looking for them. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely were buried by it. Either way, no trace of the last residents of Hope was ever found.” The agent helped me load the bike into his truck and gave me a ride back to civilization. I bought some large gas cans and got a ride back to Hope to retrieve my car. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this adventure, you should never abandon Hope.”