Armand Melton and Molly Bush work as servers at an Applebee's restaurant in Orlando, Florida. It's Saturday night/Sunday morning, and they've just finished a long shift. When Molly accidentally spills cleaner into the outlet where Armand is charging his phone. "Hey, watch it; I just got that phone," Armand says as he rushes over to check it. When he touches the phone, he receives an electric jolt and collapses to the ground. "Damn dude, are you all right?" Molly inquires as she hurries over. Armand awakens, winces, and brushes it off. "Can you hear what I'm saying?" "Are you all right?" Molly asks again, this time attempting to slap Armand across the face. "Yeah, I'm good, get off of me," Armand says as he stands up. Armand looks around, perplexed, and takes off his apron, tossing it onto the bar. "What in the world is this? Is this Earth?" Armand asks. "Oh my God, I turned you into a dementia patient," Molly says, concerned. "Are you sure you're all right; my cousin's a paramedic; should I call him?" "I'm fine, you idiot," Armand says, "but I can't believe they finally caught us." "What do you mean when you say "they" and "caught us"?" Molly asks. "Suflandafgh12#$%, do you remember anything about how we got here?" Armand asks. "First of all, I have no idea how you made those sounds with your mouth, second, we definitely came here together in your Toyota Avalon," Molly says. "You don't remember anything; we are galaxy famous jewel thieves, this is a prison, called Earth," Armand says. "I hear you, man," Molly replies, "for what we make at Applebee's, we might as well be making license plates." "You don't understand; when you go to Earth prison, they erase your memory and put your consciousness in this ungainly meat body," Armand explains. "You know I've been working out. Is it my fault that my left leg is longer than my right, making my body awkward?" Molly says. "It's all coming back to me now; on our last heist, you were supposed to meet me on the moon Leibnitz within the Alpha Centauri star system, but you got arrested for horn doodling," Armand recalls. "Horn doodling? Why don't you have a seat? I might call my cousin after all," Molly says as she tries to lead Armand into a booth. Armand knocks her hands away, closes his eyes, and vanishes. Molly takes a step back in awe. "Wait a minute, what the hell just happened?" Molly asks as Armand reappears behind her. "We're jewel thief aliens who happened to be locked up in a prison called Earth," Armand says. "Okay, I'm not high enough for this right now," Molly admits, "but I'm kind of believing you." "We've been imprisoned for 29 years, but that's all about to change; we're busting out," Armand says. "My next shift is on Wednesday," Molly says, "so I'm available for whatever you want to do." "Let's get out of here; we have planning to do," Armand says as he heads towards the door. "You're right; Janice can finish this up," Molly says as she walks out the door with Armand. "If you only knew; Janice is a serial killer from the Mira Star System, and I wouldn't mess with her," Armand says. They both enter Armand's studio apartment, and he instantly logs into his computer. He opens the SpaceX website and navigates to the Dragon Space Capsule. "That'll get us out of here!" Armand says. "So, we're just going to take the next flight out of here?" "Can I have an aisle seat?" Molly asks "No, we're going to steal the whole damn ship," Armand says. "All right, as long as you teach me all that invisible stuff," Molly says, "let's do it." "The next launch is Monday; the Backside Bandits are back again!" Armand says. "That was our name?" Molly asks. "I know, I hear it," Armand acknowledges. Armand and Molly take the Toyota Avalon and drive to Cape Canaveral on Monday morning. "Here's the plan," Armand says, "I'm going to make ourselves invisible, and we're going to slip into the cargo hold where they keep the food for the International Space Station." "Doesn't everything that goes into space get weighed?" Molly asks. "We'll throw out our estimated weight in food and hide in the compartment. When we get into orbit, we'll jump out of the compartment and hijack the capsule," Armand says. "With what?" Molly asks. "I'm experienced with Canopus ninjutsu; I'll be able to disable the pilots in seconds," Armand says. "All right, then what? Won't that ship only take us so far?" Molly asks. "I've got a getaway ship on the dark side of the Moon; we'll take that piece of trash Dragon Capsule there, and then it's off to finish the big score we never finished 29 years ago," Armand says. "And we're going to be back by Wednesday so I can go to my shift at Applebee's. I can't afford to lose that job," Molly asks as Armand sighs. "I know a black market scientist on a planet in the Beta Canis Majoris system; they'll transform you back into Suflandafgh12#$%," Armand says. When they arrive at Cape Canaveral, Armand makes Molly and him invisible, and they sneak inside the warehouse where the Dragon Capsule is kept. Armand begins to throw out food at random when Molly stops him. "Come on, man, don't throw out the desserts, throw out that meatloaf, it's disgusting. It's going to be a long flight; I'm going to need to eat something," Molly says. Once the weight is correct, they enter the compartment and wait for the Dragon Capsule to board and launch. "Good morning, America. SpaceX will launch the Dragon Capsule to the International Space Station today. There, they'll collect a month's worth of trash and return Lieutenant Warner to Earth, who has spent a whole year in space away from his family and loved ones. This is definitely a historic event," says the television announcer. "Three, two, one, liftoff of the Dragon Capsule to the International Space Station." Due to the G pressures, Molly and Armand push aggressively against the back of the compartment when the capsule is launched. "This ship needs new shocks; every turn in this thing makes you feel it," Armand says. The Dragon Capsule enters orbit and begins its route to the International Space Station. Armand and Molly exit the compartment, knock out the ship's pilots and seize control of the capsule. Lieutenant Warner and an astronaut peer through a window on the space station at the coming Dragon Capsule. "Lieutenant Warner, I'm sure you're overjoyed to be returning home," the astronaut says. "It's been a hard year; I miss my wife and children." Lieutenant Warner states, "I dedicated a year of my life to science; now it's time to devote the rest of my life to them." The Dragon capsule is getting closer. "There it is, your taxi home," the astronaut says, smiling at Lieutenant Warner. The Dragon Capsule then makes a left turn and heads out into space. "Where is it going?" the astronaut asks as Lieutenant Warner widens his eyes. "Oh my God, I'm never getting off this pneumatic tube! Forget you guys; I'm going to jump for it," Lieutenant Warner declares as he heads for the airlock chamber before being tackled and restrained. Lieutenant Warner grasps at the window as the Dragon capsule continues to move away from the space station, on its journey to the Moon. Two NASA scientists are seated in front of a simulation. Armand and Molly are fast asleep, drooling on themselves, wires and other monitoring devices attached to them. "You owe me $20; I told you they had a way out," one of the scientists says as the other pulls a $20 bill from his wallet. "What are the chances? At least we now know they had a concealed spaceship on the dark side of the Moon," the second scientist replies. "What do you want to do with these two idiots?" The scientist asks. "Put them in solitary, fire them from Applebee's, and give them jobs at Arby's," the other scientist advises. "That'll teach him not to hide spaceships on the Moon.


The air inside the bunker is stale and dry. I sit back against the wall and slowly sip my water, yearning to feel the warm breeze of summer blow through my hair, or the warmth of the sun on my skin. Instead, I shiver in my frosty bunker, huddled under my thermal blanket. The makeshift calendar across from me glows in the faint candlelight and I sit down my canteen, gripping the chalk in my stiff fingers. What I wouldn’t give for a space heater right about now. I won’t say I haven’t been lucky, because I have. I have a bunker filled with survival supplies, a built in fireplace, years worth of MRE’s, as unappetizing as they are, and a whole childhood of survival training under my belt. When my father was discharged from the military and came back a disgraced and changed man, the townspeople mocked him behind his back, and pitied my mother and I. After all, who wouldn’t pity the ten year old girl of a crazed man who screamed about secret experiments the government was conducting, who drove hundreds of miles, dragging me and my mother along, to break into a government funded testing facility. Hell, even I started to mock him, leaving home at the ripe age of eighteen to go to college back east, and wouldn’t have ever come back, if it wasn’t for my fathers dying wish. His nurse called me seven months ago, telling me my father begged for me everyday to come home, to see him one last time. I came home, expecting his usual spiel, but this time he was calm, collected. He told me it was coming, that he could smell it in the air, feel it in his bones. What ‘it’ was, he never said. He just gave me a key, and explicit instructions to follow when it happened. He gripped my hand tightly in his and told me he was sorry, he didn’t say what for, and I didn’t ask. I think we both secretly knew, but our hearts wouldn’t let us speak about it. The next morning, I got the call. My father passed in his sleep, and I was needed to come claim the body and his personal affects. The days following feel like one big blur, until the morning I woke up to the bone rattling rumble of the ground beneath his house. It shook everything around me, and I stumbled through the house, my heart near to bursting from my chest, when I hear the screams. I watch with wide eyes as the ground tears open and these, things, these creatures crawl out, some flapping their leathery wings and taking flight, clutching people in their claws and soaring away, blood and limbs scattered around me. I remember feeling the crinkle of paper in my pocket, my father’s instructions, still wadded up from where I stuck them the night before, after once again reading them until my eyes hurt. I briefly remember grabbing my car keys, and running to my car. When I close my eyes, I can still see them, the creatures, as they filled the streets. Their bodies were twisted, taut, and lean, as if they’d been starved. Their skin was as brown as the ground that they crawled from, skin with jagged edges and sunken chests. Their teeth glinted in the sunlight, sharp and curved, almost as if they were designed to tear through human flesh and bone. A sound I’ve never heard before, a strangled shriek, a sound so sharp, and yet...sad. I remember feeling as if I could almost hear a cry of agony being ripped from their mouths, as they ate the people around them. Their legs were jutted at the knees, as if they were walking on their kneecaps instead of leg bones. Leathery wings sprouted from their skeletal backs and I don’t think I’ll ever get the sound of their fluttering skin out of my mind. I think what I remember most vividly is their faces, terrifying disfigured faces, thin and horrific, with red beady eyes, that seemed to see right into my very soul, their expressions still holding a faint trace of something, something almost human....


An elderly woman woke one night to hear sounds of laughter coming from outside her bedroom. She couldn’t remember inviting anyone, so she quickly got out of bed and made her way down the stairs to see what the commotion was. The joyful chatter began to grow louder as she made her way towards the light at the end of the dark hallway. It lead into the living room, where no less than 10 people could be found with small paper plates of food and red solo cups filled to the brim with various beverages. Christmas music was playing softly in the background of all the chaotic murmuring, and presents were neatly placed around the tree. Oddly enough, she couldn’t remember it being Christmas. She could hear her husband calling her name from the other side of the room signaling for her to come over. As she made her way across the room, she saw people she hadn’t seen in years and some in decades. She saw Ruth, her best friend from college, her siblings, her parents, and even her in-laws. She was shocked to see their faces, but they seemed quite uninterested. They waved of course, but they didn’t get up from their seats to greet her. They acted as if it was only yesterday when they had last encountered one another. When she got to her husband, he expressed how glad he was to see her awake. “You’ve been unwell for far too long now,” he said to her with a smile. She felt a bit sick earlier in the evening, so she went to lay down to sleep away the pain. She probably would have stayed asleep if her husband wasn’t throwing a party without her consent. Nevertheless, she was grateful to have a husband who loved her and people she could provide with hospitality and a good time. After a short conversation, she told her husband her intentions to catch up with Ruth. While walking over to her old friend, a dreary gray picture of a couple walking through the rain caught her eye. She thought her husband threw out the picture years ago after countless arguments over its affects on the room’s ambiance. It left her infuriated to know he kept it after all these years. She knew, however, that the only reason he put it back up was to please his mother and father who gave the painting to them their first Christmas as a married couple. His mother said that it represented a sturdy relationship even through times of struggle. She wasn’t going to confront her husband at that moment to avoid unnecessary conflict, but the issue would be brought to his attention eventually. The woman sat down on the couch next to Ruth and began to speak about how long it had been since they last saw one another. Ruth wasn’t as engaged as the woman would’ve hoped for. She remained preoccupied with other people and seemed to be ignoring the woman at times. Though she enjoyed every second of the conversation, she couldn’t help but ponder over the possibility that she may have done something wrong all those years ago, but that was simply speculation. She wouldn’t let one interaction ruin the evening after all. The talk was cut short by her sister’s voice announcing that it was time to open presents. Gifts were passed out one by one as family members tore through the wrappings to find toys, appliances, and small trinkets. When it was the woman’s turn to open a gift from her parents, she placed it on her lap and ripped the wrap to shreds. She opened the box, and inside was a blanket with the words “Home is where the heart is” in an elaborate cursive font. The woman was perplexed. “Mom,” she said, “you got this for me 30 years ago to celebrate our first Christmas in this house.” Her mother looked confused as well and responded, “This is your first Christmas in this house.” The woman took a closer look at her mother’s face and realized that there were significantly less wrinkles than the last time she saw her. It suddenly occurred to the woman that her 91st birthday was approaching and her mother would have to be well into her 110’s. She made her way over to the recliner where her mother sat and held her arm out. “Hold my hand. Please.” Her mom, who looked slightly younger than her daughter, reached her arm out to hold the woman’s hand, but her hand fell through her daughter’s. A tear fell down the woman’s cheek as she watched both her mom and dad fade from existence. She reached her hand out once more to place it on her mother in-law’s shoulder only to watch her hand fall straight through once more. She saw as the image of her in-laws began to fade along with her brother, sister, and Ruth. The only one that remained was her husband. She stared at the drab painting across from where she sat and said “That picture is still ugly, but maybe your mom is right about what it represents. We made it all the way despite everything we’ve been through.” The woman got up from where she sat, and she made her way over to her husband who was significantly younger than she was. Knowing what would happen, she hugged him one last time. For a moment, she could feel his spirit surround her, and he said to her, “It’s time for you to come home.” Her arms collapsed in, and she said, “I love you.” He vanished just like the rest of them, and in that moment, she fell to the floor and wept. While staring teary eyed into the picture of the couple standing carelessly in the rain, she began to grow quite fond of it. She saw her and her husband in it standing together through the storms of life—never to be separated. She got up from the floor and turned out the lights of her living room. One last time, she made her way down the hallway. She climbed the stairs to her room, opened the door, and found a body lying in her bed. The monitor indicating the person’s vital signs displayed only a horizontal line. The woman made her way across the cold floor to the lifeless body and kissed it on the forehead. She knew that home was where the heart was, and her heart no longer resided in that wrinkled body. The pearl inside the casing was gone, and it was time for the woman to come home. She placed her hand on the person’s chest, and it fell through as she expected it to. The only difference is that the body in front of her remained, but as she looked down at her own hands, they began to dematerialize. Soon, her entire body began to fade. She said to the person in front of her, “Thank you,” and she vanished. Some might say she is everywhere. She lives on as a thought in the minds of hundreds she touched. Some might say she’s in heaven. Some might say she is nowhere to be found, but wherever she finds herself, she is home.


Scully blew out the last somber notes to a nostaljazz love song. Nostaljazz was the music of the day, a mixture of somber yet upbeat music that reminisced about the days long past, when the world was whole. Scully was good at performing it too, but he wasn’t sure how he did it. He had no lips, no lungs. All he was, was bone. Bone and green ligature. The audience applauded Scully and his bandmates, though most of the cheering was aimed at their singer Sophia. She was the “Skin” in Skin & Bones, their band. She was a beautiful young woman, with red hair, and a red dress. Their drummer, as well as their everything else, was a boxy robot named Ampersand, he played everything except the saxophone. Scully was their sax player. The applause died down, and Sophia took a bow before handing the spotlight to Scully with a dramatic wave of her hands. “Thank you everyone! The world ended, but we’re still here, and will be every night after sunset! Thank you!” No one bat an eye at Scully, the skeleton in a three piece suit. He was a common sight around these parts. Which was a welcome reprieve from the usual frightened screaming he received in other places. Sophia, as always, was the first to leave the stage. She sashayed down the two steps off the stage, ignoring her admirers on her way upstairs to their apartment. Scully and Ampersand made for the bar to hang around, and maybe join in on a game of nuclear poker if any tables got going. “Not a fan of people, your singer,” said Buddy. Buddy was the owner of the bar, and its sole bartender. He was a mean looking S.O.B with a friendly demeanor. Scully liked him. “Some people prefer their own company,” said Scully. In response Ampersand let out a melancholy whirring, and sunk his head. “The robot seems to think different,” said Buddy. “Discretion Amp,” said Scully, shaking his head at the robot. Turning back to buddy he said, “She’s… not comfortable around men,” the words came out like they were walking on a tightrope, and buddy got the message. “Oh,” said Buddy, who flushed just a bit. “Yeah, ‘oh’,” said Scully. “Well, she seems fine around you and the robot.” “We’re hardly men though, are we Buddy?” “You’re dickless Skully, but you’re still a man. The robot identifies as one, far as I can tell.” Ampersand made his arms out like broad shoulders and “puffed” out his chest in agreement. “Hmm,” mumbled Scully, “What’s your point?” "My point is there’s two men she feels safe with, and that goes double for you. I have a way of reading folks, clocking them. She likes you, Skully.” “Hmm,” he mumbled again. Buddy let the subject drop, feeling as if maybe he’d pried too much to begin with, but Scully let the thought bounce around in his head. A game of nuclear poker later, and he’d decided to take a different kind of bet. He got up from the card table and went upstairs to the band’s apartment, leaving Ampersand, who was on a hot streak, behind. When he opened the door he found Sophia, still in her red dress, sitting on a leather chaise lounge, staring longingly at the full moon outside. “Hey,” said Scully. “Hey,” said Sophia, her wistful gaze turning to him. “Whadja up to?” “Reminiscing about the past.” “Nostaljazz” She nodded. Little diamonds formed around her eyes, and dropped down her red cheeks. This was only the second time he’d seen her cry. The first was in the alley where they met, when the walking skeleton had scared off some bad men. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was before?” Scully took a seat on the matching ottoman near the chaise. He wasn’t sure they were talking about the state of the world just then. “It’ll never be as it was, but it’ll heal,” he said, willing his skull and empty sockets to appear consolatory. More diamonds. Scully had always been moved by Sophia’s singing. It was powerful. Now he understood exactly why. Nostaljazz was about looking back, wondering if it would ever be the same, just as she wondered about herself. “You really think so?” “I know so.” He wanted nothing more than to hold her in that moment, to tell her it was going to be okay. He didn’t though. If Buddy was wrong about how she felt, it could mean the death of their friendship. Worst possible outcome, she would never feel safe around him either. Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone. He got up, and made for the door. “Come down with me and Amp sometime, Sophia,” he said looking back. “Scully.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yeah?” he asked, not looking back. “Stay,” she said, then added, “please.” “Sure.” He went to sit back down on the ottoman, but she motioned him to sit beside her on the chaise. She wrapped an arm around his, and laid her head on his boney shoulder. She was warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be intimate in any way. Sometime before, he thought, when he had muscles, and hair, when he had something to offer someone besides cold dry bones. “It‘s not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stay.” “Hmm.” “You almost left me back then too.” “You were frightened of me as much as the bastards that ran off.” “Maybe I was, at first.” She squeezed the long bone of his arm. “But I felt safer with you around. I didn’t know who you were, but you came running when you heard a screaming woman in a dangerous part of town.” “I did what anyone would do.” “No, not anyone would. Not alone, not like that.” He didn’t know what to say. He had just gone into that alley, not knowing what was happening. He just knew someone needed help, and he was close enough to answer the call. She tugged on his chin, and looked deep into his eyes. He didn’t move, he didn’t dare dream. Didn’t dare to presume. Anything else now would be taking advantage of a woman in distress., but Sophia didn’t slow. She kept staring longingly into his eyes. *Don’t* he thought, but she closed her eyes, and puckered her lips. Something told him it wasn’t right, that she was too good for him, that she was too vulnerable, but he didn’t move to stop her. Her lips had just grazed his boney grin when the door burst open, and Sophia jumped her head back in surprise, but still held onto his arm. It was Ampersand. He rolled into their apartment playing a brassy drumroll with a victory trumpet on his speakers. He had cleaned out the other people at the table and was carrying two bags full of lady luck gifted money. He waved the bags in the air, ecstatic, when he noticed the other two sharing the chaise lounge. Scully wasn’t sure if he'd seen the kiss, but Ampersand was frozen still while staring at them. Sophia was the first to break the ice. “Nice haul, Amp,” she said. Ampersand nodded his head, and made a happy whirring noise. The robot looked quizzically at the bags of money then. “He doesn’t know what to spend it on,” said Scully with a chuckle. “I could go for a drink,” said Sophia. “Feel like buying me a drink Amp?” The robot nodded enthusiastically and strolled back down the stairs. “You’re really coming down?” asked Scully. “Why not,” she said, smiling at him. The trio took spots back at the bar. Sophia was the only one of them that could actually drink, but Buddy joined them and drank along with her. She never let go of Scully’s arm.


Five stones stood beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals floated on the wind.  In our valley beneath the sun, where the wind whispered and birdsong coloured the air, the ground was ever fruitful. Flowers bloomed in the spring, and scented the breeze with sweet jasmine. Uncle Benkei worked in the field as we played amongst the grass, and our infancy was filled with love. Our mother and father were taken by a sickness when I was too young to know them, so uncle Benkei brought me and my sister Sakura into his home and raised us as his own. For five years uncle Benkei taught us how to work the land, tending rice fields once nurtured by our grandfather, and his grandfather before him.  On the eve of my seventh birthday, once the sun began to set behind the western ridge, and the fireflies spoke softly in the failing light, uncle Benkei upheld his promise to me, and began instructing me in the ways of combat. Although I was not as naturally gifted with a sword as others my age had been, he sensed the hunger in me. 'Be a rock.' he would say. 'No matter the wind. No matter the rain. No matter the opponent. A rock is unyielding.' I longed more than anything to make him proud. He was tough, uncompromising, and formidable. But he was all that I had, and I loved him dearly.  For uncountable nights, we trained beneath the watchful stars of the moonlit sky. My fingers would bleed, and my feet would slip in the mud. But uncle Benkei never gave up on me. When at last I became seventeen, he bestowed upon me that which was always meant to be mine. The sword of my father. 'If you accept this blade, you make a promise.' he said. 'With it you will protect your family, your home, and your honour. Appear strong when you are weak. Appear weak when you are strong. Be kind to those who need it. Be merciful to the defeated. Choose wisdom over anger.' I made my promise. I was ready.  Two winters passed, and as the trees began to wake, uncle Benkei fell gravely ill. The sickness that once stole my parents had returned to the valley. It was unmerciful, and many perished by its hand. Sakura cared for uncle as I worked the rice field. He was ever a rock as he had been in battle, and clung to life when all others around him succumbed. Though he eventually recovered, he was never again able to stand. That summer, they came.  Beyond the mountains to the north, from the region of waring clans, death marched relentlessly towards us. Oda Nobunaga - a cruel daimyo who sought to unite the country under a fist of blood - sensed an opportunity with our grief stricken valley, and set upon us in the night with cruel intentions. Legions of soldiers, lead by Oda on a campaign of death, slaughtered dozens of innocents as they tended to their sick and dying. Against Oda's minions of cruelty the villagers never stood a chance. Without strength to move, uncle Benkei was unable to fight, and he was forced to take shelter with Sakura behind our house. I stood affirmed and ready, awaiting my destiny in the jasmine field.  From the darkness of the trees, two shadows took form. Swords were drawn. I became a rock. We danced together among a flurry of slashes, and our blades sang in the moonlight. Uncle Benkei danced through me, and my opponents found rest among the jasmine.  The valley was laid waste. Our farms were destroyed. There was no life for us here anymore. I returned to the house to search for Sakura and uncle Benkei.  I found them.  I surrendered my fathers sword to the flames. I had broken my promise.  Seven stones stand beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals float on the wind.


 We are somewhere behind them, our vantage point two hundred meters above and to their right. We are hiding within a small grove of fir trees with tired branches all droopy with their burdens of snow. The Instructor has his back to a sheer cliff face and is quietly talking to about five others, his arms gesturing this way and that, with around a thousand metres of bounce and screaming plummet below them. We had come up the mountain to check out reports of strange activity by a group of extreme sports enthusiasts and hadn’t expected to hit the jackpot such as we had.

  The Instructor was elusive and notorious and cloaked in an alluring mysticism. He was classically handsome, tall with dark hair and the kind of charisma which history has proven can either work miracles or create a shit-storm of imbalance and suffering. He had recently come back from India and Tibet where he had studied with several renowned masters for a decade or more. There was mention of wild, esoteric practices which culminated at death in ‘Rainbow Bodies’-a rare feat attesting to the practitioner's high, enlightened state. Second to this, but still indicative of a an advanced Yogi, was when the corpse shrunk to the size of a small child, or even to the extent only hair and teeth remained to testify to a once corporeal existence. Some sources invoked Milarepa, saying the instructor had been invited into the elite ranks of his current lineage.

  Milarepa was a tenth century Tibetan Mystic who, after renouncing a life as a Black Magician, achieved such a level of otherworldly enlightenment he was commonly seen by villagers flying around the snow capped mountains, sometimes in tandem with his beautiful and equally adept consort, ‘The Sky Dancer.’ When the instructor returned he opened a meditation centre and imparted a teaching he called ‘Falling Upwards.’

  The gist of it from what I can tell, is that the only thing which stops us from ‘flying’ metaphorically and, in the advanced stages literally, is our erroneous beliefs regarding the nature of our ‘True Being.’ Who we really are-Eternal, Weightless, Omniscient Spirit-both composes the substance of matter whilst remaining ever free and independent from it. Falling upwards is the recognition of this and, according to The Instructor, a process of Deep Surrender which blesses every moment with Presence and a Yielding, Openness of Heart.

  I am a simple, easy going cop and one blessed with a beautiful wife and two great kids. I am old school which means I can eat five donuts at a time and drink you under the table and take orders without questions and, yeah, I’d willingly take a bullet for my chief, or any one of my brothers or sisters on the force.

  I know...a bit cliche'd, right? But true enough, anyway. I guess what I am saying is this guy impressed me.   In almost twenty years as a cop I have seen more death and destruction than I care to remember; gruesome accidents and domestic shootings and stabbings and terrible fires and the like and most of it gets pushed deep down and covered over by regular card nights spent tipping the whisky…and to be honest I don’t need that excuse anymore and for sometime I am carrying a flask of vodka and lime juice around to keep things nice and jolly with the odd nip or two.

  So when this guy came along I took an interest-watching him on community t.v. speaking to halls packed with wide-eyed people and he lit me up with his words and the calm and gentle way about him. If that’s all he ever did and he hadn’t ventured into all this ‘falling upwards’ stuff with the weird spheres, I wouldn’t have been placed in this situation knowing I might have to arrest the guy-with due force if it came to that. And something inside me felt sick and repulsed by the idea.

  Like, who wants to shoot Jesus?

  But I am a career cop, first and foremost and The Instructor was breaking any number of health and safety regulations as he enticed his followers into these fleshy bubble contraptions and rolled them off steep inclines and precipices. He had attracted some attention from the law-including the F.B.I-but to date he remained free as a bird with no conclusive evidence to convict him of any serious crimes.   At first it was novel and the only notoriety he received was from appearances on the local news slotted in after the weather and near the end where the cute animal stories usually appeared. Then, during its trial days, the sphere’s were intriguing and were filmed rolling gently down grassy slopes as well as the odd, beginners ski range.

  In the talks I heard him give he never mentioned the 'Falloons' or ‘Light Spheres’ as he called them. At first he only spoke about Love and Peace and the usual stuff these guys roll out as they herd up a congregation of suckers and poor, suffering fools. Later he spoke about the human nervous system and how to release traumatic contractions in the muscles and body in general. When a steady inward focus lit up areas of dark tension within the mind and body, energies trapped for eons came home into the light and were freed leaving a more refined physical and auric body. It was an alchemic process, he said, where presence contacts the dross of matter, transmuting it back into the pure, golden light of consciousness.

  There was always something enigmatic about The Instructor and rumours abounded of him disappearing from view and suddenly reappearing again within locked rooms; or levitating with a softly lit hum within full view of a room full of people. Although he was said to have an inner circle of elite students, he went to pains to instruct whoever felt drawn to him and was hiring increasingly larger halls to accomodate this need. He was gentle, peaceful, charming and yet so powerful if you looked too long into his eyes you felt like a big semi was rumbling towards you on a tight, dark road with the big, bright lights and waves of earth shaking energy.

Or so I've been told!   These were the things which, as we were about to run out into the open and possibly shoot the guy, crossed my mind in slow, frowning disapproval. I look across at my chief, his face a mask of relaxed concentration, deep in the zone like an athlete awaiting the gun’s sharp report.   ‘Chief’ I whisper, ‘let’s go!’   ‘Wait’, murmurs the chief, wait…’   I look for that little tell the chief has when he is about to order us into action; the faintest trace of a smile comes across his face and his eyes flip up and out like a horse whipped into a lurching stride. He was older than me, in his late forties, and given to outbreaks of tubbiness. He hated this sort of field work and as I regarded him I couldn’t help smiling with a great, brotherly affection.   ‘Goooo!!’ he yells and the two of us begin to run in cartoon slowness towards the instructor and his group; despite wearing snowshoes our feet and ankles disappear into the soft, heavy powder. We'd talked about this and the chief said if he or others got into a Falloon we were to shoot, but only at the instructor and wide to his right so as to avoid hitting him or those clumped to his left. The chief hoped this would spook them long enough so we could stumble forward and get to them in time.

  ‘Stop’ I yelled, ‘police.’   The instructor looked up at us and said something to the group. It came out later he said casually, ‘okay, there are four Falloons and six of us. One is mine and so may I suggest…’ at this point we could see him pointing at the group, ‘Brad, Linda and Kim perhaps?’   What we saw was, with one hundred metres to go, Brad, Linda and Kim getting into their Falloons as the remaining two ran away to the left where the mountain sloped gently down to a thicket of pine trees. The instructor, poised to enter the unusual craft, calmly watched us approaching like we were part of a children’s game of hide and seek or tag the rabbit.

  ‘Stop Police’, yelled the chief, ‘or we will fire!’   Three more laborious steps and the chief let a whizzing bullet go just to the left of The Instructor.   ‘To the right, chief’ I yelled, ‘remember?’   ‘Shit’ muttered the chief as he puffed and heaved his way forward. We were now only fifty metres away from the instructor and his Falloon. The others were within theirs and adhered to their seats presumably awaiting The Instructor to do the same. The Instructor leant against his Falloon and casually gazed up with a beaming smile towards the blue sky as if in appreciative measure of its endless possibilities.

  We were close now and I could see the spheres in some detail; they throbbed and sweated and glowed in the sun like living things; they seemed to breath and tremble slightly with a hard to describe vibrancy. The crafts-if you could call them that-were designed to withstand the extreme violence of very high drops and descents. They literally bounced down mountains, ping-ponging off huge rock walls and cliff faces and flying high through the air as they bounced and rebounded this way and that. I have seen footage of The Instructor ride one down a steep, dry river bed from about fifteen hundred metres up. He was laughing and slapping his thigh like he were riding a huge bull in a rodeo. I watched amazed as the central 'cockpit' sphere remained suspended in a motionless freeze while the two outer balls rolled in a smooth ballet of synchronic, alternating rotations. We discovered later during an autopsy of a Falloon, that they were made of hi-tech, state of the art material which The Instructor designed and produced with the help of two of his friends-one a scientist specialising in nano-technology, and the other a famous engineer. The material was soft, skin like and yet virtually puncture proof when inflated. The Instructor outsourced the construction of the Falloons via tech savvy geniuses he found on the web. The Falloons were based on the concept of ‘Chinese dolls’ and consisted of three balls of descending size with the smallest in the centre housing a clear, see through chair which held the occupant firmly to it with three interlocking straps of the same material. The seat was seamlessly joined to the floor of the inner bubble which was designed to remain still while the outer two moved in opposite directions as the force of impact was absorbed and nullified. The sphere’s entrance was sealed from the inside by the press of the second remote button-imagine if a flap of translucent skin could be welded shut-but silently and minus all the heat and sparks, that’s what it looks like. The outer ball then lifted to its optimal expansion and gave a small, quivering jolt when the process was completed.   We were close now-around thirty metres or so-when the instructor gave a small gesture of his hand and the three Falloons began to roll slowly forward towards the precipice. A wind had picked up and snow dust swirled around the spheres as, one by one, they sort of floated like hovercrafts buoyed by light towards the mountains edge.

  ‘Stop’ we yelled together, ‘or we WILL SHOOT!’   As the three spheres rolled casually down towards the plunging drop, I got a good look at the occupants and they were grinning like they were at the inching, clattering beginnings of a wild roller coaster ride. Then, as the spheres disappeared quietly over the edge, The Instructor gave his Falloon a slight nudge with the back of his heal, sending it into a slow, powdery spin in the same, terminal direction. He then performed a slick, backwards moon-dance before saluting, about facing and running towards the vast horizon of cold, blue sky into which he joyfully soared before dissapearing down, down into the stark abyss of emptiness and bright, snow reflected light.

  As he began to run the chief raised his gun but I put my hand across his arm and lowered it towards the ground. The chief gave me a look but I placed my hand on the middle of his back and just shook my head, my eyes damp with exertion and emotion. The strange thought occurred to me that all these guys were doing was just having a little fun.   When He reappeared seconds later, hovering in full lotus and gifting us with a look of such Unconditional Love…the chief, never a man given to piety, collapsed to his knees in the wet snow and prayed like falling upwards was the most holy and blessed thing one could ever aspire to do.


Well, that was dramatic. Perhaps I should take you back to the buildup of the current situation. Precisely one hundred and twenty minutes ago when Tristan and Adley Griffin had their most contentious fight after being married only seventeen hours. You see… it all started on Wednesday afternoon, yes, these two married on a Tuesday but that is not the point. Tristan wanted to surprise Adley with some news, news that he was very excited about and thought she would be too but alas, she was not. Tristan walked in the door, holding a medium-sized cardboard box with Christmas wrapping paper… in June. Now, I’m not one to judge but I could see as soon as Adley approached the threshold from the kitchen she did not seem impressed. Tristan looked happy to see his very new wife, he kissed her cheek and handed her the box to which she started impassively. It was as if Adley was waiting on some kind of explanation, the suspense was killing me waiting to find out what the problem was. “Open it,” Tristan said eagerly. She let out a sigh, not the good kind though as she peeled off the very terrible wrapping. Inside was no better, nor was Adley’s face as she pulled out Christmas themed socks with her face all over them. Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bright red socks against Adley’s glorious blonde hair was not the gift she hoped from her husband. “Isn’t it cool?” He asked. No, Tristan, it was not cool. “You bought socks with my face on them?” Adley asked. “No, I brought the business that makes them!” He said. Oh boy. “I hope you’re kidding.” “No babe, this is legit. It’s a real business.” “Tristan goddam Griffin, you made me get married at Kentucky Fried Chicken for christ sake and yet you brought a business? You couldn’t even afford the potato and gravy! Who doesn’t have potato and gravy with their chicken?” “It’s four dollars a tub babe, stop being selfish.” At this point, I could literally see steam coming off of Adley. “We couldn’t afford a real wedding, but you can afford a business?” “No, well yes, but that isn’t the only reason we got married at KFC. I love chicken, and it was their cheap Tuesday how could I say no to that?” “We have eaten there every Tuesday for five years, we could have missed one week!” “No!” Tristan gasped. I think Adley had crossed some invisible line made of processed chicken. “I have had KFC, every single Tuesday since I could chew food. You know how important that is to me.” “If it’s so important to you then maybe you should have married the bloody chicken!” “Maybe I should have.” “I’m leaving!” Adley yelled. “Good!” As I was saying, things got a little… heated… and I’m not just talking about the chicken. Adley stormed off to the bedroom which was approximately eight long steps from the kitchen and began packing a bag while Tristan sat at the dining table staring at the socks with what appeared to be sadness. I personally had no idea what made Tristan so inclined to buy a business that plastered Adley’s face on socks but here the newlywed couple were exasperated, vexed and I was sure another hundred other synonyms could have been used but there weren’t enough hours in a year. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, they did indeed. Adley walked out with the bag I mentioned that she was packing, still storming through their home. She stood at the door, staring at Tristan with a look that could kill if they could kill. Tristan stood up and tried to reciprocate her glare but all he could manage was to look like an adorable puppy. “I’m going to stay at Bertha’s house,” Adley said. It seemed Tristan was a gasper since he let out yet another gasp but this time it was with horror rather than offence. “You’re choosing a Bertha over me? She’s a fucking vegan.” He said absolutely mortified “She wouldn’t have chosen chicken over me.” “She hugs trees, Adley! Like literally hugs them and thanks them for their service.” Okay, this is getting more bizarre by the second. “So?” “I’m losing my mind here babe. Bertha is weird and you’re mad over socks.” “I’m actually mad about the potato and gravy. Goodbye.” And so Adley got into her tiny little car and drove to Bertha’s house and for approximately fourteen minutes she stayed there. She drank her tea a little too quickly, staring at her phone, completely ignoring poor Bertha who was talking incessantly about trees. Perhaps Tristan wasn’t wrong about Bertha, but let’s not lose focus. After burning her mouth with the tea, two bathroom breaks and one hundred and eleven phone checks later—just kidding, she never put it down. Adley got back into her car and drove home to the man she loved. When Adley walked through the door, she found Tristan sitting at the table where she left him. Staring at his phone the way she was, he was even drinking tea just as she was. The romance of it all had her heart throbbing, she stared at this handsome man whom she married only yesterday and decided their marriage wasn’t worth ending over potato and gravy. “Tristan,” she whispered. He looked up and saw the love of his - odd - life standing there so beautifully and walked over to her. They didn’t speak, for a long moment, they just gazed into each other’s eyes and lusted for one another. Eventually, Tristan found the words he wanted to say. “Do you accept my socks?” “Yes, I accept your socks. I’m sorry, baby.” “I’m sorry too.” “You are the sexiest, wildest most incredible woman I have ever met Adley. I love you.” “And you, baby, are a spunk, a hunk the love in my junk.” “You’re so sexy when you rhyme.” And that my friends, is an apology… that I never wish to receive. Adley and Tristan then locked themselves in each other’s arms and ate, I mean kissed, each other. Deeply, passionately and a little scary if I am being honest. They - literally - ran the full eight steps which equated to three runs to the bedroom and had even weirder sex than I thought possible. Their passionate three-minute love-making session had come to an exhaustive end as the happy couple laid with a lot of sweat on their bodies for a hundred and twenty-second sex session. “That was… amazing, Tristan,” Adley said. Really? Because I feel like there is room for improvement. “You were an animal baby,” he said with a wink. Well, he was not wrong, she was very animal-like. I believe at around forty seconds in, she made the noise an elephant does. “I think that was your longest time yet. God, I’m so hungry after that workout.” Oh come on guys, you’re doing my job for me here. Really? This is terrible. “Want to get KFC? I’ll even get you your potato and gravy.” “Really? But it’s not Tuesday.” “You’re worth the extra six bucks, baby.” “How did I ever get so lucky? I love you so much, babe.” I wasn’t sure if luck had anything to do with it or if these two were born on a whole other planet far, far away from earth. They drove together to KFC and sure enough, Adley got her potato and gravy. I watched, holding back vomit as they licked the chicken grease off of each other’s fingers instead of using the wet wipes provided. According to their Tuesday history over the last five years, they made out in the parking lot before going home as they had every other time. They made love again too, I think Adley even invented a new animal noise somewhere in there too. Anyway, like I said… that, was dramatic. The End…


No matter how hard he tries, Madoc still couldn't manage to fit in with the Goya family. Despite his relationship with Wesley being in a good place, he hasn't managed to reach the same level of eccentricity it takes to fit into his family. They were loud, out-spoken, brazen, and weird. Every reason was part of why he loved them all so much. From an outside perspective, the Goya family was a regular Addams family, but to him, they were the family he always wished he had growing up. So when the biggest family event arrives, Madoc knows the best way to prove that he truly belongs in the family is to win the trophy. This was an annual tradition that dates back years, and no one in the family can agree on just who started it.

"What has you in such a thoughtful mood?" Wesley asks. He had returned from his snack run to find Madoc gazing at the lawn musingly, which in certain places would make sense, but Wesley had specifically chosen a boring patch of grass to picnic on. "Just trying to figure out how I'm supposed to know which ball is mine." Searching for a croquet ball wasn't what he thought his boyfriend meant when he said they had to find their weapon of choice.

"It's a bit like adopting a pet," Wesley explains, setting a little wicker basket down in front of Madoc before plopping down next to him. "Oh, they aren't sentient," he hurries to explain. Madoc's look of panic recedes to one Wesley interprets as interest. "They're animated and all, but they don't have feelings." "You hit animated objects around a field..." He barely makes it out of the way of an oncoming blur that whirls past him. "What was that?!" Madoc looks up to see a croquet ball lodged in a tree. "Please tell me that one isn't mine..."

"Aw, you got chosen first!" Wesley plucks the croquet ball from the tree and wrestles it into the crook of his arm. "A competitive one, too!" "That one's really mine..?" He stares at the ball. The last thing he wanted was crazed sports equipment trying to behead him. He carefully takes it from Wesley. "This feels more like it will kill me..." The croquet ball goes still the moment it's in Madoc's hands.

"See?" Wesley says. "It's yours!" "Yay..." Madoc stares at it. And just like that, he thought this would be the weirdest moment of his day. He was wrong. The field was a simple assortment of grass, grass, and more grass. The occasional tree would provide an obstacle for the croquet balls to shoot through - or into if they were like Madoc's ball. He watches as the ball once again looped around a tree before finally going through the appropriate wickets. To add to his frustration, he had to listen to Wesley's Uncle Wilder bragging about how it was his wife Trio that came up with the game, to begin with.

"Uncle Wilder is a liar," Wesley's sister Meadow says mildly. "Everyone but him accepts that Aunt Trio is terrible at all things sports," Wesley agrees. "Though I don't really have a leg to stand on," he sighs, watching as his croquet ball ambles through the tall reedy grass on a mission only it knows. Madoc yelps when his croquet ball leaps back around and nearly beheads him … again. "I don't see why that one has to be mine..." He sighs. "Then who did make up the came?"

"I'm telling you," Wilder interjects, walking up with a croquet mallet over his shoulder. "Trio was the one that made it up. She was seventeen and - honey, tell them the story," he encourages, nudging his wife. "I was seventeen," Trio says grandly, her croquet bat nestled in her arms like an awkward baby. "It was summertime, and all my peers were bored..." Wesley shoots Madoc a pained look. "I was something of a leader then," Trio says, her tone confiding. "So, of course, it was only natural that I took charge. 'Family,' I said, 'it is a beautiful day, why don't we go out and explore the grounds?'" "And explore they did," Wilder said proudly, taking her hand and kissing it.

"We were at this very spot when I suggested we come up with our very own game," Trio continues, beaming at her husband. "I insisted we use croquet balls, and here we are!" Madoc found the easiest way to deal with the Goya family was to agree with all of them. So he did. And then, when they finally go to the end of the field and finally got to let the evil little croquet ball go, he found that the next stage in the game was to swim across the lake. The lake that the family's pet alligator tended to lurk. An idea that didn't fill him with much confidence. But it was either continue with the game or listen to Clo talk about how she was the one who came up with the game. Not her sister Trio.

"Swim away," Violet, Clo's youngest daughter, advises. "Mom won't shut up for at least an hour." He should have taken her advice. Clo's next comment was about how she made up the game after getting into a race with Strawberry - the family's pet alligator. "So you see, I took off swimming as fast as I could because I was still unsure about the relationship between us and was fairly sure that he was going to eat me." She laughs, a cross between a cackle and a snort. "And then I made it to the other side, found a croquet ball, and then that's when I thought, 'hey, this should be a game.' So you see how it was me."

"How dare you!" Trio cries. "Strawberry would never chase anyone, and even if he did, you wouldn't have been able to outswim him!" By the time that argument ended, and the sisters were yelling at each other, Madoc decided it was a better idea to jump into the lake. By the time he made it to the other side without drowning - though a slight incident halfway through nearly gave Wesley a heart attack, and now Madoc has proof that his boyfriend will come to save him - he felt like a monster that came out of a swamp. "Whoever came up with this part should pay," Wesley says darkly, shaking himself off like a dog. Muck goes flying but not enough to make much difference. "Well, if they ever decide who actually did it..." Madoc grumbles. He was starting to think impressing Wesley's family was a dead end. "I honestly doubt it was anyone still alive," Wesley says, coming over to swipe at Madoc's clothes. "Most of our inventors don't live long." "Then why does everything think they made it up?" His question receives an answer from Wesley's great aunt Euphemia.

"Because they all want credit for my idea," she insists. "I remember it from decades ago. We were playing this with our parents, and well, we didn't have a gator then, but our cousin would chase after us with a stick, so that was pretty close."

"Now that I believe," Wesley says. "Too much sense," Meadow says, giving her great aunt a skeptical look. "How did you come up with the idea?" "Easy, we were whacking balls - tennis, I believe it was at the time - and then we started to race. Had a wild hair and took a leap into the lake." Euphemia was proud of her answer, so Madoc wanted to believe her.

"I really want to believe you, great aunt Euphemia, but..." Violet glances at Wesley for help. "But it just seems so unlike you to be wild like that," Wesley says quickly. Thankfully they didn't get to hear the end as the bell rang for them to race through the obstacle course. In hindsight, Madoc should have predicted that it would be a series of strange and unusual activities. He also should have predicted that he was dead last when Ferry - Wesley's grandmother and matriarch of the family - started walking with him. But her encouragement was infectious.

"What a fun game!" Ferry enthuses. "Thank you so much for running with me, dear." "Thanks... Though I lost..." And made a fool of himself in front of the entire family. "There will always be winners and losers," Ferry says. "What's important is, did you enjoy yourself?" "... Sure." Madoc rubs his arms. He felt like he was a walking swamp and felt humiliated, but he didn't see the point in telling her the whole ordeal. "Though I can't find Wesley." "Oh, didn't you hear? Wesley fell in a hole!" Ferry shakes her head. "These kids and their pitfalls." "What?" Madoc practically shouts. "What hole?!" "You know," Ferry says, gesturing over her shoulder. "One of those." Madoc groans. What was with the holes? "I don't understand how anyone could have thought up this game." "Oh, you can thank my dad's dad's dad for this," Ferry says helpfully. "My grandpa always used to say his grandpa was a prankster and a half!" "And so he made up this whole game?" Madoc asks, gesturing around him.

"Believe it or not, this is simple compared to what he and his brothers did. A single game took three days to play!" Madoc didn't even want to think about three days of this. "Thanks for toning it down..." "You're welcome!" Ferry grins. "Now, maybe you should go find your man?"


Richard had ignored the signs. His had been a demise that crept upon him slowly, his self-worth stolen in the lonely work hours, validation kept from him at home. If it wasn’t the expectations of his career peeling back the last of his resolve, it was his high-strung wife with her exhaustive demands. She taxed him to the brink of collapse. His three children had pushed him to the edges of bankruptcy with their private schools, designer clothes, and rehab stints. He loved them, but they had drifted from his reach, caught in the rip current of daily activities. His life had faltered, picked up momentum, and now lay in utter ruins as he rifled through the paperwork the nurse handed him. “It will be okay, Mr. Darden,” she lingered with eye contact, forcing a faint smile. “I know. It has to be,” he muttered unintelligibly, “there must be a way to right things.” When he stepped outside, the sun’s glare, which normally accosted his sensibilities, held him in its warmth. The hospital grounds were steeped in green hues, awakening his senses, the air rife with smells, fragrant and sweet. For the first time in many days, no months, he felt a connection to the ordered flow of nature, on the cusp of an infinite understanding. Then he glanced downward, the paperwork stark in its finality. He bit his lip, tasting the metallic bitterness, the one tangible sign that he was still alive. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said the words aloud, as if putting them to sound might help make sense of it. The discouragement and despair funneled into a sudden anger. He grasped for a way back to that time before his death sentence. It had to be a misunderstanding; they confused the lab results with someone else. He was in his prime, a recent promotion to Director-level, the possibility of realigning his finances, and now it was being stripped from him, not slowly, but in a quick rage. His diagnosis was unfathomable. It wasn’t a solid wall he was pinned against. The denial was amorphous, wrapping its arms around him from all angles. “How could I have only two to three weeks left?” The question went unanswered. He knew he was asking a ghost. Richard teetered, his balance being swept up in the movement of passer-byers, the chirpings of the mockingbirds. He sat with a spinning heaviness on the vacant bench, feeling his inner reserves collapsing, surveying his options in his mind’s eye. It was too much to sustain, and he cradled his forehead in the palms of his tired hands. He could feel a tear, one at first, followed by many rolling down the inside of his cheek, skirting his nose and the corners of his lips. They raced a hurried path to the edges of his chin where he watched the saline drops fall into the Bermuda grass below. His body rocked to the rhythm of the release, a cathartic movement. In his concentrated focus, Richard hadn’t felt the presence of his bench companion, and he was jarred back into the present by her question, a soft utterance, “You’re trying to find the perfect thing to bargain, aren’t you?” He slipped his palms over his eyes, wiping away the errant tears. He was afraid to meet her gaze. “I am willing to trade anything, at this point,” he said, slowly turning to face this stranger with the gentleness in her voice. She stared straight ahead, her hand reaching to tame the hem of her white dress as it fluttered with the insolent breeze. She sighed, not from exasperation, but an empathetic exhale. “It’s natural to think you can buy your way out of this fix. There are all those sayings you grow up with like ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Or ‘never give up.’ ‘Perseverance pays off.’ I can go on and on,” her thoughts trailed into the silence. She tucked the dress under her knee, reigning in the difficulties, yanking away the flirtation of the breeze. Richard averted the truth, “I mean, you know it can happen. You hear about friends of friends who get cancer or MS or have that unexpected heart attack, but you never think it will be you. It can’t be me. I haven’t even started living yet,” he raised his eyebrows with the ponderance, “Meg and I were supposed to take all these grand trips once the kids were through college. I’ve been mired in work for decades with the thought that there would be a payoff in retirement, and maybe even an early one of that.” He sat up straight, a conviction flowing through him, “I will do anything, anything to change it. I’ll go to church. I’ll volunteer. I’ll make amends with my kids,” pausing he continued, “And Meg. I’ll make her happy. I’ll adopt a dog, or a child, yes, a child. I’ll take in a homeless person. I’ll do whatever it takes.” His steadfastness warped into a frantic anguish, his voice tilting into desperation, “I’ll admit to all my sins, the ones known and unknown. I’ll change. I’ll be a better person…I’ll never take anything or anyone for granted again. I won’t. I promise.” His voice receded into the blank nothingness; his pleas fading alongside his vision of himself. She let her hand rest on his knee. Her tone, caring and pure, she urged, “Live fully with no regrets. Enjoy the way ice cream tastes and how sweet the melody is in your favorite song. Laugh at the simple observations your kids make, and revel in the kindnesses that abound. Don’t waste any more time. There is no space for grieving yourself.” Richard shook his head with acknowledgment and closed his eyes, allowing the tenderness of her advice and touch to wash over him. For a moment, he felt whole. Once steadied in his thoughts, he said, “I needed someone to show me another way to accept my failings. I needed someone to listen.” Glancing to his right, the bench was empty, as if she had never been there. Richard swiveled to see behind him, raising to a half stand, his bent leg resting on the bench. He looked back and forth quickly and turned around, surmising he would see her disappearing in the distance, but she was gone. “Where did she go?” he whispered, struck by the seeming elusiveness. He could still smell the scent of her perfume. Lowering himself back on the bench, Richard reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat, and pulled out the scratch-off lottery ticket that he had purchased at the gas station on his morning drive. He half-chuckled at himself, toying with the possibility that lightning could strike twice in a single day. With a penny that felt gritty in between his fingers, he carefully rubbed away the grey coating. The small flecks stuck to the card and his hand, as he shook it away. For the second time in a span of hours, he sat motionless, shaking the card and looking at it again, bringing it close to his field of vision. “You unlucky bastard! There is no way!” he laughed a hearty laugh, scanning the grounds with the hope of seeing his disappearing friend. His focus fell on the cherry willow, weighted in white blossoms. It labored in the gust of wind, its wispy branches shifting then returning to their natural bent. He wished he could share his newfound windfall, but only misery loves company, and she was long departed. Instead, his gaze alighted on a young female, holding her newborn, as she was being pushed to a waiting vehicle. They looked serene in their passage to the life that awaited. Richard instinctively jumped up and ran toward them, his bargaining complete. “Please take this and do something good, something beautiful, something you’ll be proud of,” he implored. She struggled to understand the exchange and the ticket he had handed her. She clutched her infant closely to her chest and eyed the gift. Sprinting away, Richard turned back and playfully yelled, “Remember this moment, remember me!” His legs carried him across the open lawn toward the parking lot, chasing a realization, a shred of happiness still within grasp. He tore into his dark blue Lexus, and sped toward the main thoroughfare, intent to get home to share his profound news. His family mattered; they were the only thing that mattered. Weaving in and out of traffic, delicate maneuvers to spare time, he dialed the office. “Yes, Charlie’s line please,” he stammered to the annoying receptionist, the one who always clicked her teeth and twirled the ends of her hair. “Charlie! Hey – it’s me Rich. This request, well it’s not really a request, I won’t, well you see, I’m taking the next two weeks off from work. I know, I know, it’s last minute, but it’s got to be done, and you’ll understand. It will all make sense soon. No, it can’t wait. You’ll see – trust me. You’ve been great, swell, I’m not sure of the right word, but thank you,” and he let the call disconnect. The commute afforded him twenty minutes to mull over his approach, torn between telling them the truth about his illness, or offering them a two-week vacation to San Francisco. He had always wanted to visit northern California, to feel the chilled air walking along the pier, exploring the myriad neighborhoods on their slanted streets, the smells of sea and city-life combined. Would it be fair to keep his secret? They could persist in the experience of something new, together and without the confines of his prognosis. Pulling into the driveway, he shut off the engine, looking up at the façade of his Colonial-style house. His heart tugged at the innumerable times he failed to notice the enormity of what he had, and the larger scope of what he had to lose. A light in the upstairs bedroom was extinguished. The quiet of the evening beckoned, a solitude in knowing the inevitable loomed. Once inside, Richard shouted, “I'm home!” The gathered silence broke into distant murmurings and grumbles. “Hey, everyone come down here. It’s important. We need to talk as a family,” he let the words tumble out with a forced positivity, a weakening bravado. He sat down at the kitchen bar uncertain how he would tell them, if he could tell them, flipping the message in his mind, wondering how they would react to his mortality. Maura, his youngest and sole daughter, would be depleted yet resilient. She was daddy’s girl, the one he could count on in the worst of situations. Drake would be despondent, but it would blend with his normal angst. Dylan was the wild card, the eldest son who was dutiful in his support. Meg would be a quiet disaster, and he realized how much he loved her. “What’s up, Dad?” Maura bounced into the room with her resilience. Meg came from the laundry room with a folded basket of clothes, as Drake leaned in the entryway of the kitchen. “Dylan!” bellowed Richard. “Coming, Dad,” he shouted back, simultaneously appearing next to Drake. “This better be good,” said Meg, tiring of holding the basket. Richard took a deep breath and relaxed into a smile, a sad optimism in the words that followed, “I have something to tell you.”


I have Bipolar 1. There, I said it. It’s not something I usually talk about very much. I’m private about it because it’s something I really struggle with, and sometimes, I’m even embarrassed about it. Especially the times that I’m manic. But I’m not always manic- in fact, Bipolar has many different faces. For those of you who don’t know, there are three basic states you can be in when you have Bipolar 1: depressed, stable, or manic. Technically you can be hypomanic, too, which is a state of near-mania that is usually characterized by Bipolar 2, but the condition wears the same face as mania. Two of the states- mania and depression- are bad for different reasons. With mania comes irresponsible, life-changing decisions and high impulsivity. Mania is toxic to the brain and can cause someone to ruin their own life, but while you’re manic, you feel like you’re on top of the world. Depression brings with it suicidal ideations, feelings of hopelessness, and a deep despair that eats into the soul. It was the end of April. I had had a rough go of it recently due to my manic episode in September and my subsequent depression in the following months. I had been absolutely crippled by this depression largely because of my mania. I had done so many things I was ashamed of, made so many decisions I regretted, but at the time I had been so happy and carefree. The months after that were spent picking up the pieces of the destruction I had left in my wake. Now, though, it was almost summer. My summer classes would begin soon and I had work at the funeral home to keep me busy. I had more structure in my life, and things finally started to feel…better. I had recently moved, partly to get away from the ruin I’d left behind, partly for mortuary school. But mostly to get away. I was in a new place, on my own (except for my faithful pug), with a new career path and no friends or family in the area. I felt conflicted because part of me was lonely and nervous- this was the most “adult” I’d ever had to be- but the rest of me was so excited to begin a new life. This, coupled with a new therapist who finally got me on the right medication, helped me level out. I was actually able to experience joy again, this time without being destructive. I could finally put on my Stable Face. I probably should have mentioned this, but when I said that Bipolar has many faces, I meant that literally. At least, in my case. I have three faces I can wear, but they will only look natural if my mood matches the face. For example, if I’m depressed and I try to wear my Stable Face, the flesh will be askew and the skin won’t line up like an ordinary human face. Think of the cockroach alien flesh suit from ‘Men in Black.’ Yeah, not so pretty. But you know what? Bipolar isn’t pretty either. When I’m not using them, I keep my faces in a jar by the door. The little window lets in the perfect amount of sunlight for my faces to get their proper amount of vitamin D without having to actually set them outside. I’m sure the neighbors wouldn’t be pleased about that anyway. My Depressive and Manic Faces floated flaccidly in a mixture of formaldehyde and other preservatives that I managed to sneak home from work. Every year, I would change out the mixture and clean the jar. Tongs in hand, I dangled my Stable Face over the kitchen sink and began to rinse off the chemicals. I made sure to scrub inside and out, especially around the holes for my eyes and inside the nose, because formaldehyde always makes my eyes and nostrils burn. Then, I gently patted it dry with a clean towel and ran my fingers across the loose skin. The brow was not furrowed like the Depressive Face I’d been wearing for so long, and the eye holes weren’t wide and wild like my Manic Face. No, this face was relaxed and at peace. It also wore the slightest hint of a smile, its lips turned up at the edges. I brushed my hair back up into a bun and began to apply my Stable Face. For the first time in forever, it fit perfectly. I gently pasted down the edges to cover the exposed flesh and muscle tissue beneath the skin, then I looked in the mirror and flashed myself a smile. It actually looked genuine, and I could practically feel the endorphins rushing through my body. I added a little makeup, and voila! The perfect face. I looked at my reflection and felt confident and beautiful. I was still admiring myself when I heard a noise. I was in the bathroom, so I didn’t hear the initial click of the jimmied lock, but I did hear the slight creak of the un-oiled hinge on my front door. My ears pricked up, and I heard my pug begin to growl from the entryway. Suddenly, she yelped and bolted into the bathroom with me. I scooped her up and closed the bathroom door with my back against it, heart beginning to race. Someone was in my apartment. I held my breath and tried to keep my dog as quiet as possible. The intruder was rifling through my things, looking for valuables. I cursed myself as I remembered that I’d left my purse right out in the open. After a few minutes passed that seemed more like hours, I finally heard the door shut. I expelled my breath in a heaving sigh and placed my dog back on the ground. She had stopped whining, so that probably meant she couldn’t smell the intruder in the apartment anymore. I peeked around the edge of the bathroom door and into the front room. There was no one. I relaxed a little, stepping out of the bathroom and into the front room to check my purse. Oddly enough, nothing had been stolen out of my wallet. The whole purse was untouched. I furrowed my brow and then had to reposition my forehead to undo it. I went to the front door and, sure enough, the lock had been picked. Shaking my head, I looked down at the small table to my right. On top of it sat my bowl of keys, and on the shelf beneath sat my jar of faces. I mean…face. There was only one. Panicking, I picked up the glass jar and examined it from all sides. Still, there remained only one. My Depressive Face. Someone-the intruder- had stolen my Manic Face, the most dangerous of all my faces. With that face, some serious, serious damage can be done. Now, I’d never had anyone steal my faces before, so I wasn’t sure how this would all play out. Would my face fit on someone else? What would happen if they weren’t manic? How the hell was I going to get it back? I thought hard about who could have possibly wanted to do this to me? The only people in the world that knew about my faces were me and my parents. I racked my brain for any enemies I might have made recently, thinking that maybe someone had come for revenge and instead found something so bizarre they had to take it. But they didn’t take both- just the one. Why? And how did they find out? I was on the verge of frustrated tears. I’d had no visitors for weeks, maybe even months because of the depression I had just gotten out of. And I worried that with the extra fear I was now carrying I might need to slip my Depressive Face back on. I went to the mirror and adjusted my skin. It looked okay. Not perfect, but good enough to pass as a normal woman. I thought about calling the police about the break-in, but what would I tell them about what the intruder stole? I imagined a cop showing up at my house, leaning back with his hands in his pockets and examining my door. “Yup, that lock’s been picked alright. Ain’t much we can do about it since they didn’t steal anything, just get your locks changed,” said the imaginary policeman. I huffed and called a locksmith, then I took my pug and left the apartment to go to the park. I just needed to get out of there for a bit, every second I was in there I felt like I was being watched. I made sure I hid my extra face. Once we were at the park, I read and my dog played, and for a moment, everything was forgotten. That changed when I got back home. It was late in the evening by that time, and I was exhausted from the sun exposure and emotional trauma of the day. I’d just bid the locksmith goodbye as he finished up. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I ordered a pie from Papa’s Pizza for takeout rather than delivery. I’d gotten delivery from there the whole time I was depressed, and I was ready to get off my ass and out of the house, even if I wasn’t fully up to cooking my own food yet. What better way to relax than eating comfort food? I kissed my dog on her forehead the way I always do before I leave the house, even if it’s just for a short while. I triple-checked that the new lock was secured before leaving to pick up my food. Then, I hopped in my car and put on some Zeppelin. I lost myself in the music and drove to the restaurant under a cloudy, darkening sky. When I arrived, I sat in the parking lot so that the song I was listening to could finish, then I got out and slammed the door behind me. My feet crunched on the gravel as I swung open the glass door and entered the establishment. I strolled up to the bored-looking middle-aged man at the register and gave him my name. He looked up at me. “So you’re the special customer Katy was talking about. She loved your tips, man. Shame she was fired,” he said, and reached around to grab my pizza. Gears turned in my head. “Fifteen, even.” Katy. Katy…that was the name that always popped up on my delivery app. She was the girl who had been consistently delivering me pizzas for months now- the only person that could have peeked inside my apartment and seen my faces. It had to be her. “Wait, why was she fired?” I asked slowly, reaching into my purse to fish for my wallet. He shrugged. “Started acting fuckin’ crazy. Kept saying her face was falling off, or something.” I bit my lip and nodded, trying to keep a straight face, no pun intended. I handed him the cash. “Right, right. Did she say where she was going, by any chance?” He shrugged again. “Just home, I guess. Said she didn’t need a job anymore anyway because she just became a millionaire.” I sighed. Classic mania. It all hit too close to home. “Alright,” I said as he gave me change for the twenty, “Where is ‘home,’ then?” The man snorted. “How should I know? I don’t look at employee records.” “Well, could you show them to me?” He rolled his eyes. “Ma’am…” he started. “I’m gonna stop you right there. First of all, I am way too young to be a ‘ma’am.’ Second, you’re gonna show me that record,” I said, acting more confident than I actually felt. This time, he actually laughed. It was more like a hee-haw. “Or what?” I hesitated for a second, then I had an idea. Tearing at the delicate glue that I’d used to paste my face to my head, I ripped off my Stable Face and showed him the raw, pulsating, muscular, exposed, gruesome tissues beneath. Immediately, a wet spot started to form in his jeans. “Rah!” I screamed at him, lunging forward menacingly. Then, he passed out. I admit I had to stifle a giggle as I rearranged my face to the best of my ability. I’d never shown that to anyone except my parents. Focus, I told myself. I walked behind the counter and wandered into the back of the store. The office was the first door on my right down the hallway that led from the kitchen. I approached the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. ‘Financial Statements,’ it read. I closed it. In the second drawer, I found what I was looking for. ‘Employee Records.’ I found Katy’s resume in the ‘Shred’ folder. Her address was listed right at the top. Perfect, now I knew where I needed to go. I left the pizza parlor after repositioning the unconscious man so that he wouldn’t wake up with a kink in his neck. Then, I took my pizza and headed straight to Katy’s, eating in the car along the way. When I got there, there was only one car in the driveway. I hoped she lived alone. I knocked on the door, softly at first, but then louder after there was no answer to the first knock. A light flicked on in the doorway and I heard footsteps approach. Slowly, the door opened, but only just a crack. “What is it? What do you want?” said a gruff female voice. “Katy? It’s me, Isabelle, your best customer. I think you have something of mine?” I heard her gasp on the other side of the door. She paused to consider her next move, then sighed and opened the door fully. It was me. I mean, she was me. It was like looking in a mirror, except the body was different. She had my face, and it was a face I was oh, so familiar with. Wild-eyed and not quite lucid, but damn, it fit her perfectly. “You can come in. Sit over there on that old couch, I’m tossing it tomorrow and buying all new furniture for this place.” I didn’t sit. “Katy, I know you must have a lot going on, but I need my face back,” I said patiently. “Well yeah, this is the busiest I’ve ever been in my life, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not like I wanted to steal your face. I actually never even noticed the jar on your shelf until my own face started to peel off one day. And then I robbed you, and everything changed! Oh, my life is just perfect now! I’m gonna sell the house and buy a big van, you know? Like, the old-fashioned Volkswagen buses? And I’m gonna travel across the country and live off of the land. I’ll be blogging and taking photos the whole time if you want to follow my adventures- after all, it will be your face that makes me famous. Tell you what, we can even split the profits!” She spoke with such genuine zeal and excitement, I couldn’t bear to be the one to tell her that she was just delusional, that it didn’t make sense to buy new furniture for a house she that was planning to sell, that her life didn’t change at all- she did. And now she was about to destroy herself without help. “Katy, listen to me,” I said, formulating a plan in my mind, “I’m gonna make you a promise, okay? If you give me back my face, your life is going to get so much better. And I can take you to a place full of people who will recognize all of your faces, and just how beautiful each of them are. But they have to be your own.” She blinked at me, skeptical. I continued. “Look, bring me your face, the one that fell off.” She shrugged and went to fetch it. When she brought it out and I looked at it, I felt a pang of sympathy. She was so beautiful, yet she couldn’t accept herself. Her flesh had rejected itself. I gently took the face in my hands. It had only been a day, so the fact that she hadn’t preserved it in formaldehyde wasn’t that big of a deal. I would have to tell her about that trick, though. “Now, can you do something for me? It’s not going to be easy, but I need you to trust me, because I’ve stood in your shoes before. I need you to give me back my face, and then you need to face yourself. We’re going to patch you up as best as we can, and then we’re going to go on the most important adventure of your life.” Katy nodded and bit her- my- lip. We went into the bathroom together and I helped her by getting my long fingernails under the edge of the skin to peel off the rest of the face. Once it was off, I sighed with relief, then I folded it up and slipped it into my purse. “Okay. This isn’t going to be perfect, but we’re gonna do our best,” I said. After a half hour of glue and two hours of makeup, she looked reasonable enough to pass as a slightly-deformed woman. By the time I got her to the hospital, I knew that she would be in capable hands and that her face would readjust alongside with her medications over time. The medical staff would probably be baffled. I think she realized what was happening on the car ride over, but she didn’t try to fight me. Deep down, she knew that something was wrong and that she needed all the help she could get. I let her eat the rest of my cold pizza. Once they were ready to take her back, we exchanged a hug and waved goodbye. I slipped her a small piece of paper with my phone number on it. “Sometimes it gets lonely in there, so… Just call anytime.” She smiled genuinely at me as a tear rolled down her own cheek. “Thanks, Isabelle. Things are going to change again, aren’t they?” Her voice cracked. “Yeah, they’re gonna change. But remember when I said that this is the most important adventure of your life. It might be grueling, and sometimes you might even hate it. But it’s a path you’ve gotta take.” Katy nodded. “The most important adventure of my life,” she echoed thoughtfully. I gave her hand one last squeeze before they took her away. I knew we would keep in touch. It’s been a year since Katy stole my face, but in that time, she’s managed to build faces of her own, and I’m proud to say that she’s been wearing her Stable Face consistently for 9 months now. I’ve still got mine on, too. We’ve still got a long way to go, but now, we get to be our best selves, and we’re doing it together. I can’t wait to see what face she’ll be wearing when I pull out the engagement ring tonight.


I slid my clothes off and cranked the shower knob, holding an orange in my palm, toes and fingertips heating up red. Brushing dirtspace from my wet knees. Crouching in the clatter, sinking my chin lower into my chest. Silverfish climb the curtains up to the cracked ceiling. Citrus smell joins the hot steam between careful bites, and I watch little hairs suck down the drain in a dark whirlpool. Glowing red capsules churn inside me. Ten, maybe twelve. Swallowing them pill-like makes me less nauseous than the syrupy version, but sometimes that’s all the store has. Tonight is a mix of both (and the fruit hides the taste of glue). Cut the water shivering. I lay out my towel and just sit until dry. Seeing double now, two towels. I put on loose boxers and a long shirt. Limbs lag through the holes at ten frames per second. Opening the bathroom door now. A dim night light blinks in the hallway, plugged low by The Old Woman. She’s in Hawaii this week (and I must remember to pay her when she gets back). There’s two doors in my room, but it’s really true, I’m not just seeing it that way. One to the hallway and one to the backyard. I squint at the clock by my bed and think. Lover Boy should be here soon. I hear taps at the backyard door. It’s the cat. She slinks between my legs and camps in the cubby of my nightstand (only it’s not a nightstand, it’s an apple crate turned upright to look like a nightstand). I look outside for a sign of Lover Boy. I see grapefruit trees, plastic flamingos and tarped furniture. A wheelbarrow, too. No Lover Boy. The dark sky is bright, shaded misty gray by the distant stadium lights. I hear the hush of leaves and skin. It’s him. He emerges from the gap in the fence like I told him to because The Old Woman has a camera at the front door. He calls me beautiful. He asks if my name is really Mango. Of course it is. Lover Boy jumps up onto my bed. I try to do the same but I can’t feel my legs, and I fall. You’re bleeding, he says. I tell my tongue to say something but no words come out. My head wobbles down, connected to my neck like a Slinky. He’s right. A red drop made it to the surface. I wipe the blood with my thumb and lick it clean, smiling at Lover Boy. Lover Boy studies the way my boxerfabric clings to my crotch. A coin flip for him, one outcome luckier than the other, wondering if I’m more boy or girl. His hand glides under my waistband. My eyes would be shut but I notice a dead bee caught in his hair. Lover Boy seems happy. I can’t feel what he’s doing, the red slush of cough medicine in my stomach turning me ghost. He’s like a mime then. The cat watched from the floor and I wished she would leave but then she jumped on Lover Boy’s head and ate the dead bee. I tried to laugh, paralyzed below Lover Boy and the cat. The noise part of the laugh came a few seconds late, brain and body lagging still. Don’t go, Lover Boy.


# The Snails Are on the Move Harry noticed them immediately. Groups of snails clustered in three or four moving across the slick, freshly rained-out pavement. Steam rose in twisting tendrils off the warm pavement, obscuring their paths in a fine mist. Harry weaved through the snails like a slalom course, trying not to step on any. *This can’t be normal, can it?* Every four to five feet in front of him, a new cluster of snails made their way through the world at a decidedly languid pace. CRUNCH. Harry looked down, already feeling guilt and shame. Lifting his boot, he saw the shattered shell and gooey carcass of not one, not two, but three snails. “Ooh, I’m so sorry.” Genuine anguish filled his words. “Why do you have to cluster together like that?” It wasn’t the snails’ fault but asking helped. Harry made his way toward the grassy surface of the neighborhood park, hoping that the snails would stick to the concrete. His mistake was immediately apparent when he took his first step into the dewy grass. SQUISH. CRUNCH. He let out a gasp of horror and jumped back. CRUNCH. “Why?!” The unforgiving gray sky, barely holding back a torrent of rain, didn’t answer. Harry carefully moved away from the site of the kill, finding an unoccupied piece of pavement and staring out at the park. He was in the process of plotting a snail-free route home, when he saw the tree. The neighborhood park didn’t have many of them. There were rows of low shrubs next to the sidewalk, and a few saplings that would one day shade the paths, but an old oak dominated the landscape. Its branches were gnarled and crooked, standing out against the elements with suicidal determination. The tree looked sick. There were green leaves as one would expect at the end of spring, but something about the bark felt wrong. Bulbous knots dotted the thick trunk-like sores waiting to burst. The tree groaned, giving the impression that it might collapse under its own weight at any minute. Harold approached it out of a sense of need more than want. A slick, clammy chill fell over him as he stared at the bark. Growing dread mounted in his chest with every step he took. CRUNCH. Somehow, he found himself able to ignore the sound and the implication. He was transfixed by the bark of the tree. It looked as though it had blown a thousand tiny bubbles, and they shifted ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Only, the wind was calm. There was no breeze. CRUNCH. Harold didn’t look underfoot. Yes, the bark was moving. As he approached, he saw them. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Snails coated every inch of the tree, writhing their way toward the upper branches. The soft, squishing sound of their movement was like a whisper in silence. Dread, confusing and all-encompassing, filled him at that moment. Despite the growing sense that something was very wrong, Harry couldn’t look away. For an hour, or at least it seemed like an hour, Harry stared at the moving bark of the tree. Watching the snails make a seemingly endless march toward the sky. He didn’t feel the weight on his boots, or the slick sensation on his pant legs. Time passed at blinding speed and was at the same time placid. By the time the cold, creeping sensation had risen to his chest, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He couldn’t say why, but he knew the outcome was inevitable. His eyes darted down, just for a moment. Snails. Snails, covering his body from chest to foot. They were heavy, giving his clothes a sodden, soggy feeling. A numbing, slimy sensation ran up his neck. *The snails are on the move.* They were covering him, climbing, just like the tree. The inevitability of it was both comfort and dread. His lips parted, maybe on the verge of forming a scream, but no sound came out. A snail, surprisingly heavy, slithered between them. Its bubbly shell filled his mouth. *Why is this happening?* Harry tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Soft, mucous underbellies covered his nostrils. He tried to move, wondering if there was a way out of this. Back to the path, back the few blocks to home. Movement was impossible. His feet were fixed to the ground, weighed down by an endless wave of snails, measured and steady in their march. His lungs started to burn. A dark cloud came over the bottom corner of his left eye. He tried to blink, but couldn’t tell if his eyelid had moved. The world descended into darkness. *The snails are on the move.* He knew that much was true. It would be impossible not to feel their movement. Wherever they were going, they were determined. The burning in Harry’s chest changed to shooting pain and he knew he would need to breathe soon. Against his better judgment, he inhaled, the sensation thick and wrong. His throat bulged and yet his mouth filled again with more slick bodies waiting to take the first one’s place. *The snails are on the move.* \ Note from the author: Yeah, I'm not sure if this is anything, but for some reason I had to write it. I saw a bunch of snails on my walk yesterday and this is what came of it. I hope it was enjoyable or at least well-written nonsense.


It was a rainy, cold Friday. I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, not my usual attire but it was laundry day. I had walked the four blocks from my apartment to the old wash-o-matic laundromat, just like I did every few weeks. It had been longer than usual this time, so I had everything except for what I was wearing in the laundry bag thrown over my shoulder. By the time I arrived, I was sopping wet, and leaving a trail of drips behind me in the slightly too warm, loud room. The rain must have been keeping people at home, because I was the only one there. I had used the last of my quarters to tip the pizza delivery driver the night before, so I walked over to the change machine and inserted a handful of ones I had found in various places around my apartment. On the last dollar bill, the machine froze up and refused to drop the quarters with the usual clank into the metal tray. I hit the side of it with the palm of my hand, and three quarters fell out. I cursed at the machine, knowing that meant 5 minutes less of drying time. But what did it really matter… dry or not, by the time I brought everything home it would be wet again. Still mad, I walked over to the nearest washing machine and loaded my clothes. I inserted most of my quarters, leaving me with only the shorted change from my last dollar. After adding detergent, I pressed the start button and sat back to wait. The Wash-O-Matic’s washers look like they are older than me, and apparently at the time the washers were built, people were not in a hurry. I settled in, ready to wait for the forever cycle of the wash. Little did I know, it was exactly that. After nearly 45 minutes, I watched the clothes spin faster and faster through the glass window on the front. I sat up in my seat, knowing from experience that this was the final stage in the cycle, when it tries it's hardest to get as much water out of the clothes as possible. It usually did a very poor job. As I waited for the sad buzz that signified the end of the wash, the clothes continued to gain speed. Finally, I thought, maybe it will actually work for once. But the drum continued faster and faster, now producing a whirring sound, like a plane getting ready to take off. As the speed increased, the lights began to flicker and spark. When the turbine sound reached a roar, the lights popped, one by one across the entire room. But the machine kept gaining speed, any shakes that had started at lower speeds stabilizing to a barely detectable vibration. I ran out of the building with my hands over my ears, crouching as I tried to avoid the shattering glass above me. I stood outside in the rain, looking in on the row of machines through the large glass window. Maybe there was a power surge, I thought. But the speed of the drum had not slowed down. It was running at a stable speed, so fast the inside was a flickering blur of color from my clothes. I waited outside, not knowing what to do. That's when the vans showed up. Black vans with blacked out windows, carrying heavily armed men in black uniforms. They swarmed out of the van, and circled the building. Before I knew it, I was on the ground and in handcuffs. I guess I didn't look like much of a threat in my soggy sweats and hoodie, because they walked me away from the building and sat me down in the grass and left. I sat there handcuffed in the rain for almost an hour. While I sat there, helicopters started circling around, and men in hazmat suits started towards the building carrying boxes of expensive looking equipment. Finally, a man in a suit came and got me. He brought me into a hastily erected white tent, and questioned me for a while. I told him what had happened, and that all my clothes were stuck in there. After a quick laugh at me, he dismissed me out of the tent and back onto the street. He said I had just solved the world's greatest problem. My only reply to him was “but my clothes…” With another chuckle, he walked away behind the line of armed men. And that was the day the world changed in a pretty big way. That old machine with all of my clothes had somehow created an infinite supply of energy. That one rickety, aging washer with a load of old gym socks and tattered t-shirts had somehow transformed itself into an endless generator of power. That building became the power source for the entire world eventually, with lines running under seas and into other continents. Power plants were obsolete. Power was free for the whole world. A lot of things changed after that. For me though, the only real change was a lack of clothing, and three leftover quarters in my pocket. Not having to pay a power bill any more is nice, but really, I just want my clothes back.