Born with retractable chromacy. And a diamond was less malleable than the adaptive and assimilating character traits she blessed herself with. From recollection of past mistakes, both personal and intrapersonal, she designed herself to be a value more than birthstone. She had a husband who’s voice could turn violence into lullabies. And he made coffee every morning with the sugar from her pores. He would sit on furniture as if it was his own craft, and spread the smoke from his cigarettes as if the smoke was pure wisdom. A testimony to the pretentious beneath, he would tell her he loved her. Too soon, a glamouring heart is like a boat running on velocity, as she realized why she started to not lock the house doors. She sat in monochrome, while her husband usurped a bountiful bouquet of jovial sentiment. And with envy, she announced her departure from the chains from her home, and briefly told her husband where she was going. “Where the red lights take me, and the driver pleases, I will be found in curiosity, but also with content.” She walked out the door after grabbing a coat that covertly hid the chip off her shoulder. At miles away from a home beloved, she marked her words and found herself outside a companion’s home who was graciously hosting a party. Inside the party was black and white and pearls and fur. She almost looked a superimpose of who she could be when showing up to formal events. But with delight, she fit in. Her reputation was nounced, and no noxon could taint her name. Yet inside, she looked for a remedial purpose, as she jostled men in suits and women with boa scarfs. It all felt too stimulating, to be around materialism while she felt undeserving. A bartender was welcoming as she made her way to the countertop in front of a display of expensive liquor. “Surprise me,” she said to the bartender. He immediately came to his decision of what he thought she needed. “I swore I could’ve been better.” she whined to the bartender who had no interest in what she was saying. “Should I be avoiding these last tears? Should I be writing down letters and let go of restrictive fears? I have no ropes when I walk the edge, but what is to forget when you have nothing left?” He handed her the meticulous drink, and tended to the next guest. She felt ignored, but in ways that comforted her. “Should I abandon this ship?” she mumbled to herself. “A ship cannot be abandoned if there are no waters to invade.” She looked up from her drink and to her side; she was greeted by a wistful young looking woman who looked as if she didn’t belong to the scene. Her gown was white and sheer, almost similar to the personality of the protagonist herself. She had a blonde that decayed into a golden brown, and eyes that looked european. “With a ship, there’s no signals to direct your instincts. Only open waters and volition,” she finished. “Who are you?” the protagonist said. “The ship,” she replied. She took the hand of the protagonist and brought her to the stairs. “Every step is a sign, and every sign will bring back reality.” First step, there was remedy. Third step, there was hope. The last step, there was color. She looked from above the stairs and saw red gowns and golden chandeliers. A tear was shed, in memoriam of dissociation and misidentity. The beautiful girl guided the broken heart to a bedroom and closed the door. A piano was heard being played downstairs. The girl in her white gown slowly took it off, and revealed a body that killed words before they could be said. The protagonist started to touch her breasts and both women’s hearts started to become lucid. They fell on the bed and made the walls cry with their beauty entangled. In a disintegration, looping as colors became lucidious, only bringing a rush to parts untethered. The girl in white was ambiguous but learning. She worked the protagonist like a study, and became degreeable. And then the protagonist started to see a white never seen before. A white purer than sugar, but harsher than salt. She was voracious for permanent entanglement. And when she climaxed unexpectedly, the girl in white fell to the side, as the colors became less stimulating. “What’s your name?” The protagonist asked. She looked to her side and saw the familiar husband she now felt for again. “The ship,” he replied.


Small Acts The milkman always leaves the bottles right in front of the door, right where Esther could trip over them, so I make it my job every delivery day to move them to the side of the step. I leave the house at six every Monday morning so that I can do this, sliding the basket carefully to the side so that the bottles don't clink together. Today I notice that the hanging basket above the door looks a bit dry. I'll come back later and sort that out. One thing less for Philip to do.            It's a warm summer morning, already light, but the curtains are still closed upstairs. It's a bit late, I think, tucked behind the buddleia bush where I can see the house but they can't see me. I look at my watch. Seven thirty. They're normally up by now. Esther leaves for school at eight fifteen and I worry that she won't have time for a good breakfast if they've slept in. I know she likes Pop Tarts, I've seen them in the dustbin. Not the healthiest choice for her, but what can I do?            I lean back against the garden wall in the shadows. I can see the basketball hoop over the garage door from here. Esther doesn't play basketball. It hasn't been used for six months at least. I don't want to talk about how I know this.            I must have gone away for a moment, because I jump a little as the front door opens. There is a murmur as Andrea speaks to Esther on the doorstep, a jingle as she picks up the milk, and then Esther appears. She unlatches the gate and steps out into the street. I wait for the front door to click shut, give it another twenty seconds and then slip over the wall.            The school isn't far away, only ten minutes walk. I wonder, just like I've always wondered, how a parent could let something so precious to them wander out into the world alone. Esther looks to be about twelve. Too old to hold a hand, but too young to make the right choices. I follow at a safe distance. I'm good at this. She's never noticed me before. Her blonde hair swings from side to side across the back of her green blazer, but a little bit is caught under the strap of her bag. I hope it isn't hurting her. I hope nothing ever hurts her.            We're nearly at the school and I tense as we walk along the street where it happened. A child looks at me strangely as I clench my teeth and fists, refusing to look at the exact spot, the place where we were all tied together forever. I smile, the grimace of the walking dead - behind my teeth there is no soul. The child looks away sharply and hurries off.            Esther goes safely into school and I walk away. I haven't done enough for today. Esther is where she needs to be and by now Philip will be at work. Andrea will be at home, like always. I go back to the house and watch her through the kitchen window. She lights a cigarette and stares into space, seated at the kitchen table. It's like this every day. She smiles for Esther and sends her on her way, but then sits in her dressing gown and smokes, one after the other. She doesn't eat or drink, she doesn't even get dressed until three o' clock so that Esther believes that she's been dressed all day. She's trying her best, I know.            I wonder how she'd feel if she knew that I was out here, feeling the same grief, the same emptiness. Andrea fills the hole with cigarettes but I need to do more than freeze in time. I need to reverse time, to put back the things that are missing. To take each small heartache and replace it with an invisible solution. The little things that would disappoint or hurt - I make them go away before they even know it's happened. I remember about the hanging baskets and sneak over with the watering can.            It's the little things, you see. When you have been robbed of something so enormous, so vast in its absence, the heart can't take the small daily insults. A chipped cup or a wilted flower can be enough to break down what meagre defences you have left. So I try to be there to intervene. It's the least I can do.            Last month, when Philip's car door was scratched I repaired it before he'd even seemed to notice it. I crouched on the driveway at two in the morning wearing a head torch, applying coats of paintwork restorer, buffing it away until the scratch was gone. When Andrea fell in the street and cut her hand I had run ahead to the house and put antiseptic cream through the letterbox. It must have been confusing for her, but at least I knew she had what she needed. Esther's so-called best friend was talking about her behind her back outside of school. I sent her a note and now she couldn't be nicer.            I refuse to let them suffer a day more. It's three o' clock now so I go back to the school to walk Esther home again. She appears through the school gates, laughing with her friends, and I feel glad that she's had a good day. She has ballet later, which she loves. I wonder if she liked the new ballet tights that I sent.            They all cross the road and a man walks towards them, dressed in a leather jacket, swinging some car keys. I've never seen him before. He smiles at Esther and she and her friends stop to talk to him. It's clearly Esther he wants to speak to, as the other girls hang back, arms folded over their blazers. The man says something and Esther laughs and turns to her friends, signalling that she's going to go with this man. I feel a stab in my chest and a cold feeling that reminds me of the time before. The last time that I was outside this school watching a young life slip away.            She walks towards a silver BMW, chatting to this man, this stranger who I've never seen before. I walk faster, not daring to let her get further away. I'm struck by my indecision in this moment. I've walked behind her for months, not wanting any harm to come to her and now that her safety is finally at stake I'm hesitating, I'm hovering, I'm failing. Failing again, failing to go, failing to stop.            She slides into the passenger seat and I collapse inside like a house of cards, imploding slowly and then all at once. I run, not caring any more if I am seen. I have to stop this. I can't let this happen again to Andrea and Philip. The car pulls away and I claw ineffectually at the rear passenger door. Neither of them notice.            The car is still moving slowly enough for me to put on some speed and I run close alongside until I reach the bonnet. I see the man's stunned expression as I hurl myself towards it, bouncing off the metal as he tries to swerve. There is pain as I bounce from bonnet to road, my head landing heavily on the ground. Everything goes black.            I can only see a little through the slits of my eyes, only opening enough to see through the shade of my eyelashes. I'm on the road still. This feels familiar but also different. Reversed.            It's her, someone says. A man's voice.            It's her, I remember her from court.            Esther's crying and I want to soothe her, to reach out, but I can't. I'm trapped inside. I want to tell her I'm sorry, that I couldn't stop in time for her brother. But I stopped this for her. I hear more voices. An ambulance is coming. The driver, the abductor's voice comes again. He's calling Andrea, he says. He knows them. Esther knows him.            I can see hazily. She's crying against his leather jacket. Everything is so familiar, it's the same as when she cried against the teacher's jacket when her brother was lying in the road. When I was frozen behind the wheel, unable to move, unable to speak.            I've tried so hard to make it right. Little things to make a day easier, to relieve an aching heart. I know it was never enough. I close my eyes and think that maybe this will be the last small act of kindness.


"What the hell were you thinking?!" He yelled, slamming his mighty fist on the table! The room went quiet. The projector shook a little after the commotion. One of these days, it would fall straight from the roof and stomp on his head like he was a goomba from Mario. But all focus remained on Death at the moment, who stared, poker-faced, at the one and only Holy Spirit as you humans like to call him. Or what I call him, the leading director of The Human Condition. Or, quite simply, boss. "Do you see what I see?!" He pointed to the screen which lit up the office. Death had always been more defiant than the rest of us. We watched as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms like an angsty teen. "You said we needed to cut down the population, so that's what I did," she said, nonchalantly. "Sure, that's what I said," God voiced angrily, "but all we needed was to slow their progress down! Not WIPE them out completely!" Death just shrugged. "You can't blame me for being *too* good at my job." "25 million. Gone. Done for. Dead. It'll take nearly eighty years for them to recover. Hell, they even call it the Black Death. This wasn't according to plan!" "When is it ever?" Death smiled. "When have you ever been disappointed in my work? I get shit done, you know that as much as everyone else in this room. Because I don't make mistakes. I'm the result of them." God restrained himself before he could erupt like the volcanos which buried the Roman city Pompeii (which was an entire ordeal on its own. I stayed overtime many days after that, trying to fix the mistake I made which led to that moment). He took a deep breath in, paused, then let it all out, releasing a faint mist of steam through his nostrils. Rubbing his tired eyes, he looked to all of us with a new-found determination. On the board, there were a number of pie charts and graphs showing the mortality rate of humans, their progress, and possible evolution cycles we had planned for the future. God clicked his fingers, and the slides changed to present the words: *God's plan for 1353.* "This year is going to be different," he said with a smile. He looked over to death who's arms remained folded. "You," he said. "No more pandemics for a while. Not until the twenty-first century, capeesh?" Death's smug look returned. She unfolded her arms and said with great delight, "I've already got something planned."  AN: Thanks for reading! First story I've posted on this subreddit, so I'm open to criticism and ways to improve my writing. I've made this little note to get over 500 words which is a required minimum to post something here. But still, thanks for reading again. Any feedback is welcomed :) Now I'm really just trying to get over the limit now. You don't have to keep reading honestly, it's fine. I only wanted to make a short story to so people's attention wouldn't drift, which is why this rule is strange in my opinion. But it's fine, cause I'm definitely over now.


The sound of rain penetrates through the thick walls of my apartment. I slowly sit up in bed. “It’s still raining?” I think to myself as I look out the window at the dismal view. The distant lights of the city’s center glows in the distance. I clumsily stumble out of bed, only to see that there is a wet spot on my carpet. “For God’s sake Zelda…” I think as I see my cat, Zelda, quietly licking her paws in the corner of the room. “Don’t you know how to use the litter box?” I half yell, half say to Zelda, but she just meows back. I walk into the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast. I flip the switch when I walk in. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Whatever. I’ll go downstairs and flip the circuit breakers after I eat. But I’ll still have to make breakfast in the dark. I shuffle my feet towards my dreary table. The rotten fruit inside the plastic bowl on top of the moth-eaten tablecloth really brings the whole gloomy scene together. I slowly walk over to the cabinet, still wiping the sleep from my eyes. I pull out a long expired bread loaf. The first few pieces were moldy, but by the fourth, it was fine. As I chew my raw bread, I stare as my sister’s cat, Oreo, comes slinking out of her room. My sister, Ava, had left hours before I even got up. She works for a publishing company in center city so she has to take a tram. It can take about four hours to get in on busy days, so she probably left around 4am. Oreo is a much calmer, older cat than Zelda. He often helps our building catch mice and other small, unwanted creatures. Zelda, on the other hand, just lays around all day and pees on the floor. Suddenly a deafening crash goes shaking through the floor. Worried, I run to my front door and look out in the hallway. Half my floor is peeking out of their doors’, wondering what in the world that could have been. I take the lead and go walking towards the stairwell. My neighbor and friend, Sean Violi, follows behind me. Sean and I met a few years ago after we were both in a crash. I came out with only scrapes and bruises, but he had to get a whole new arm. It didn’t really do anything but at least he didn’t get in the crash ten years earlier. The tech for the new limbs was only just starting then, so he probably would have a stump at his shoulder. Sean and I walk down the stairs. Another ear piercing crash rings through the building. It sounds like it is coming from the lobby. I cautiously reach the bottom of the stairs and look at the lobby. Everything seems normal, except that two cars are crashed against the front of the building. I rush over to the manager who seems pretty scared. “What happened?” I say to him. “Really? Have you looked outside? We have gotten two inches of rain in the past hour!” He replies. “Well that explains it. Shouldn’t someone come and block the roads off?” “No go. There was a huge crash down by city hall. Apparently the hovertrain swerved off the tracks onto the road. I’ll check the news after we clean up.” “Remember? No power. Your gonna need to flip the circuit breakers later.” “Yeah that’s right. I forgot and I will.” At that exact moment, Sean reaches the bottom of the stairs. Sean hears the end of my interaction with the manager. He gives me a look that says, “You know that I’m gonna go get parts.” I give him the look back. “Let’s go!” I yell at him. “I have to grab my phone and get dressed,” Sean says. “ I’ll wait here.” I check my phone. No service. I yell to Sean, “Forget the phone! There’s no service!” I hear him respond, but I don’t know what he said. A few minutes later, Sean rushes down the stairs, carrying my skateboard as well as his. He tosses mine to me and I catch it and turn on the hover mode. The green lights turn on as my board lets out a puff of steam. The wheels fold in as the board hovers a few inches off the ground. Sean turns on his and we rush out the door. ✤ The street is a mess. Parts from crashed cars are strewn across the drenched cobblestones. I look around at the tall buildings as I rush towards the large crash up ahead. I can see people holding black umbrellas, slyly picking up engine parts, wheels, anything they can get of the precious cars. Scavenging is technically illegal, but even the police do it. We all know that the parts from the rich are all too valuable to pass up. Sean and I usually use the parts we find to improve our skateboards, or boards as most people call them. They are a combo of a really old skateboard combined with some slightly less old hover technology. “I see a few engines!” Sean yells over the pouring rain. I nod to him and swerve around the corner. Whenever we scavenge we normally split up. Sean tries to get things that we can attach to our boards to make them faster, while I usually try to find things we can sell. An axle from a standard hover model can sell for up to $3,000, and those are one of the cheapest things on the vehicle. Unfortunately, axles and other things on the cars are quite big, so I have to make due with smaller parts. While Sean can grab engines and put them on his board straight away, I can only grab what I can carry, which is normally just things that can sell for about $200. HONK. A car swerves around me. I turn to see a jumble of cars, all stopped at the intersection I just crossed. I skid to a stop, letting down my wheels to preserve battery. A large, armored vehicle comes around the corner. Philadelphia P.D. is badly covered by duct tape on the side of the car. Something bigger is going on here than I thought. I ignore the military looking officials walking down the street and turn down an alleyway, carrying my board so there is no sound. I see a figure near the end of the alley that appears to be trying to climb the fire escape. I walk past, quickening my pace so I don’t have to confront the stranger. I can feel his eyes follow me as I walk further down. I can see a sushi place across the street with lots of people going in and out. “The perfect place to hide, isn’t it?” The voice coming from behind me startles me, and I jerk around. Standing before me is a young man in casual clothing; jacket, jeans, even a team jersey underneath the jacket; some kind of town shirt. He looks completely normal, except his eyes. His eyes look like dark pits of water that have something dangerous lurking below. His eyes appear to draw you in and make you look at him. I notice that the worsening rain seems to curve around him, leaving him dry. “Who are you?” “Who do you think?” he says. Suddenly, a flash of lighting lights up the sky. We both look up for a second. When my eyes drift back down, the strange man is gone. I look around, surprised at is sudden disappearance. Another flash silhouettes a figure on the roof above, staring at me. I walk on, but with the unnerving feeling of being watched. Next to the sushi place, called Oriental Fuji, I see an umbrella washed up against the curb. I rush over to it and open it. Glad to have cover from the rain, I glance around to make sure no one is following me, and I shuffle past the warm and welcoming door of the restaurant, and walk on. Still feeling uncomfortable from the encounter with that unnerving man, I decide to try and find my way home. Up ahead, I see a fire escape that is down. The drains and sewers also seem to be overflowing, so I decide that fire escape it a good option. I slowly start ascending ladders and stairs, caterpillaring my way up towards the roof. Suddenly, I feel a vibrating sound in my pocket. I quickly glance at my phone screen. My sister Ava is calling me. Service must be back. I answer the phone. “Hello?” I say. “Yeah hi Lux. Have you seen this rain? My boss let everyone go home early. I should be home in about 20 minutes. Where are you? It sounds loud.” she says back. “I’m just taking a walk around the block to exercise,” I lied. “Uh-huh.” “I’ll see you when you get back, okay? I love you.” “Love you too. Bye.” “Bye.” I hang up the phone just as I reach the roof. Rain screams down from above and wind whips my light coat. I wrap myself up tighter as a strong gush nearly knocks me off the roof. Definitely a bad idea to come up here. I cautiously make my way back over to the fire escape. I make my way down, careful not to slip on the slick metal. I slowly walk down the stairs and ladders until I’m back on the street. I glance around at the storefronts lining this street. All appear to be closed, even Oriental Fuji. I check the weather on my phone. It is supposed to keep raining for a few more hours. I continue on my trek back home. ✤ I trudge into my apartment, colder than ice and drenched to the core. I throw my jacket over one of the chairs in the kitchen and take my shoes off and fling them towards the door. I decide to call Sean and tell him where I am. It rings three times before he answers. “Hello?” I say. “Hey what’s up?” Sean responds. “I was just wondering if you came back from scavenging yet. I didn’t see you come in.” “Yeah I came back a few minutes ago. You back yet?” “I must have just missed you. I just got back. Did you find any good parts?” “No, not really. Seems like it all got washed away or taken already. But I don’t really care, since we don’t need that much more on our boards.” “Yeah I didn’t get anything either. I’ll see you later I guess?” “Yeah ok. Bye.” “Bye.” I once again hang up the phone and look around my room. It doesn’t look quite as dark as it did this morning. Wait, what time is it? I check my phone. 6:07 PM. I’m startled by how fast the day went by, but I must have been scavenging for longer than I thought. I walk out of my room to start making dinner. Ava walks through the door just as I’m setting out bowls and putting sauce in them. She must smell the simmering noodles in the pot on the stove, because she says, “Mmmm, that smells good!” I turn with a smile and say, “You know spaghetti is my specialty.” I laugh at my own joke. We both know I can’t cook. I grab the handle of the pot to pour the noodles into the bowls when Ava says, “You know what we need? Some spices.” “Your right. I’ll grab them when I’m done pouring,” I say. I slowly pour noodles into each of our bowls and set the pot down. I walk over to our spice cabinet and pull out some garlic and basil. Maybe that will work? I walk back toward the sink to grab a knife and a cutting board. “I’ll cut them. You go put on some music,” Ava says. “Okay,” I respond. Suddenly, a knock on the door distracts me. “I’ll get it!” I yell to Ava. I open the door and step back in shock. It’s the strange man from the alley! As I stand there, jaw on the floor, he just walks right into my apartment. “How did you find me?” I finally stutter out. “I have my ways. Nice place you have here. It would be a shame if it got soaked in rain,” the man says in a sarcastic tone. His whirlpool eyes, scary out in the rain, are terrifying in the lights of my kitchen and entryway. You can almost see the hate burning underneath. From the other room, I hear Ava say, “Lux, who you talking to?” “I don’t really know,” I respond. The man smirks at me. At that moment, he seems to notice Zelda licking her paws on the windowsill. He smiles at her, a glint appearing in his eyes. The fading sun shines through the blanket of clouds and Zelda turns her head toward the window, intrigued by the sudden brightness. The man also seems confused at the brightness, stumbling backwards into the shadows. Interesting. “Hey Ava,” I call. “Can you open the blinds in there? The sun is coming out.” “Sure can do,” Ava responds. The man briefly has a look of terror on his face but quickly masks it with a neutral expression. Light suddenly replaces the shadow coming out of the kitchen, and the man jumps back, holding his suddenly blistering arm in pain. He is now trapped in the corner, right in the crosshairs of the final two windows in my apartment. I run over to the windows and I hear the man yell, “No! Stop!” I pull open the blinds and light cascades into the room. Behind me, the man starts screaming in agony. Ava comes running out of the kitchen, looking scared. “Stop! Don’t help him,” I say. The man looks at us, begging for mercy with just his face. But his eyes show a different story. He knows we won’t help him. Blisters erupt across his face, growing bigger by the second. The man suddenly stumbles to his feet and sprints towards the window. Zelda looks up in shock, and gracefully jumps down from the windowsill right before the man lunges out the window. Luckily, the glass doesn’t shatter, but the whole frame falls onto the fire escape right below. The man screams as he falls over the railing and down to the pavement below. I slowly walk over to the window, reach over and grab the frame from the stairs, and put it back in. Neither Ava nor I want to hear the sirens and screams of neighbors. ✤ Through the thick walls of my apartment, I can hear birds chirping. I sit up in bed, gazing out the window to the blue skies outside. Dust floats around my room, catching the light, and sending small reflections on the walls. Zelda purrs softly at the end of my bed, smiling in the warm light. Looking out my window, I can see the city’s center, not lit up in a neon glow as it was yesterday, but ablaze in the color green, the rain having made the flowers and trees of the city blossom. Dots of pink are sprinkled throughout the green, cherry trees that seem to have enjoyed the rain. I suddenly remember what happened yesterday. Attempting to push that out of my mind, I step out of bed and get in the shower. When I’m done, I get dressed and walk into the kitchen. Bacon sizzles in a pan on the stove, and toast sits on a plate, basically asking to be eaten. On the couch, Ava is laying down, watching the news. “Why aren’t you at work? It is…” I check my phone. “Almost 8!” “The office was closed today. Apparently something about water damage,” Ava says. “You know that guy from yesterday? He was apparently a wanted criminal.” Suddenly, the man’s face fills the screen, and the news reporter says, “He was close to death after falling out of a 6 story window last night. He is currently being treated at Jefferson Health. The man was wanted for robbery, murder, and attempted murder.” “Good thing we got him away from us, we could have been killed,” I say. Ava turns to me and says, “Well, since I got off work today, I was thinking we could go down to Cape May. I doubt many people will be there because of the rain.” “Are you sure you want to go? We haven't been since Mom passed,” I say, stuttering a bit on that last part. “Sure! We can just go down for the day.” “Okay, if you say so.” I walk towards the door, and Ava follows. As I step out, Zelda tries to follow me, and Oreo is close behind her. I pet her and say, “Bye Zelda. I’ll see you later tonight okay? Don’t break anything!” I then walk out and close the door behind me. ⧫⧫⧫ I slam the car door and look towards the beach. The grass waves in the breeze, as if welcoming us to their home. In the distance, clouds stand tall and foreboding, but also appear graceful and calm above the sea. Among the clouds is the floating city, called Caeli, peacefully floating over the ocean. Looking to my side, I see Ava also looking out over the sea, but I can tell that she isn’t thinking about the view, but about Mom. Ava was closer to her than I ever was, and so she misses her a lot more than I do. Not to say that I don’t miss her, a day doesn’t go by where I don’t think of her, but Ava just seems to be more sad, more often. I walk over to the sand, wind in my hair, and look around once again. I notice that there is no one on the beach in our view. I guess Ava was right. No one wants to go to the beach after a rainstorm. I step closer to the water, and slip off my shoes. The cold water licks at my feet, and I slowly step in deeper, up to my ankles. A sudden gust of wind blows cherry blossoms and leaves past me, and into the water. As they drift away, I allow myself to think of Mom again. Mom sits across from me, legs crossed, with a smile on her face. Outside the window behind her, snow falls slowly. I smile back at her, but with a twinge of sadness. We both know that her cancer is getting worse every day, and she doesn't have much time left. I reach down to grab her gift, which I wrapped as best as I could. The wrapping paper has flowers on it, and I tied a blue ribbon around the whole thing. I hand it to Mom, and she does another sad smile. Her frail fingers slowly unravel the ribbon and take off the paper. Inside is a small box with a blue lily on the lid, her favorite kind of flower. She opens it, and pulls out the necklace. The necklace was specifically made for her. It cost me a fortune, but I don’t even care. The reason it costs so much is because the blue lily pendant. It is carved from silver, and diamond. The necklace itself also has sections made of gold. “Oh Lux…” she sighs, “You didn’t have to get me this.” “I know I didn’t have to...” I pause to consider my next words. “I wanted to, because I love you more than anything else on the planet.” Mom died the day after New Years. She had wished to be cremated, and have her ashes spread over her favorite beach, where Ava and I are now. When we spread her ashes, we planted a bunch of blue lilies in the ground near the beach. Those are starting to pop up now, just the tiniest bit of blue among the grass. I hear Ava come up next to me, but I don’t look at her. We don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is feeling. In the corner of my eye, I can see her bend down and splash some water on her face, so I do the same. I turn away a walk down the beach, and Ava follows me. After a while, we decide to go back to the car and head home. I take one last look at the ocean before getting in.


She was left on the steps of the Humane Society in a garbage bag amongst her other siblings. I can only imagine how unloved and alone she felt; questioning why God had brought her into this world. I was neither left in a garbage bag nor on the steps of a homeless shelter but rather in a family of six, before God, questioning too why He had brought me into this world. You see, I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and it is called the “pure O” type. My thoughts control me. They are, as I have confessed many times, of the impure nature. I was not unloved and surely not alone; but in my own self-made garbage bag. How could I love anything wholly and completely without hurting it? In turn, how could anything love me back? I had been married seven years. No children. It was just me and my husband and of course – my thoughts. We had managed to make our marriage survive. My husband knew of my thoughts but also knew that is was “only” a disease. He loved me anyways but I always held back on giving myself solely to him. I was afraid of hurting him; physically. Although he would joke many times that he was a black belt in karate and could fend for himself I never truly trusted myself. I finally sought out counseling; tough, raw counseling. The person with whom I counseled had never dealt with OCD before; but with kindness and persistence he learned all about it – we both did. He would often give me assignments. For example, sleep tonight with all of the pillows on your bed not hiding them in the closet to keep from using them as a weapon against my sleeping husband. With much work and determination, I accomplished each assignment. Then, the task that would change me forever was discussed. Get a puppy. Love a puppy. You won’t harm a puppy. My husband jumped at the prospect. He is an animal lover and wanted a dog so badly. I had decided that he had sacrificed too much for too long. It was time to take this very scary and emotional step. We decided on the Humane Society because we wanted to rescue a puppy. Also, as one with OCD I had to act before I would obsessively think and worry my way right out of the decision. We called our local chapter and found out that they did have a new litter of puppies. They were black lab/shepherd mixes and they were available ASAP. It was a Saturday morning. We drove off in silence both playing out our own scenarios in our head but neither wanting to share them at that moment. When we reached the Humane Society’s parking lot it was quite full. I hurried my husband along; another OCD action. I had to do this NOW; I had to do this before they were all gone; before my mind changed; before others stole the opportunity.  As we walked in, I spotted the puppies immediately. They were in a cage to the left of me. There were only three left. I pushed my husband to go and inquire about them. The young girl took us over to the cage. One of them was spoken for, the other was a male and the third was a female. I immediately made eye contact with the female huddled in the back and she with me. I wanted her. The girl went to get the keys. I immediately felt possessive of this little black bundle of fur! It was getting quite busy by then. People were coming in at a steady pace. A little boy spotted “my” puppy. I quickly put my finger through the cage and started rubbing her front paw; as much as to say: “beat it kid – this one’s mine!” They brought the three of us back to a private room where we could hold and discuss whether we wanted the puppy. The girl said that she would leave us alone and check back in a little while. Once she left I exploded with enthusiasm. I wanted this puppy. My husband pointed out that I hadn’t even held her yet. Held her? Wait, I have to hold her? But what if I get a “thought” and the moment is ruined? What if I hurt her? What if I drop her? What if she doesn’t like me? What if she senses that I am a “bad” person? My husband ignored my ravings and dumped her into my arms. I was as awkward as a new mother holding her baby for the first time. He coached me; where to put my hands; to hold her close to me; to talk to her. And then it happened. Not one “bad” thought came to me and if it had I wouldn’t have noticed. All I could feel was the warmth, breath and love of this little creature. She licked my face; she cuddled with me --- she loved me. We decided that this was the one for us. The girl came back and my husband told her that we could come back tomorrow and pick her up. I looked at him – tomorrow? Yes, he continued, we have nothing ready; no crate, no food, no – anything!!! Once again, my OCD took control. We must take her now or I won’t come back. I have to have her now. I’m not leaving without her. My husband caved – he had learned quickly that fighting w/OCD is pointless. So, I made a check out for $50.00, filled out the necessary forms and left with that beautiful black ray of hope shining from MY arms. We stopped on the way home and got all of the essentials. The pup never left my arms. The next big task was naming her. We took her to see my mother. Mom suggested the name midnight. It was nice but I wanted to name her. I said Colby because she was dark like coal. My husband pointed out that was more for a male pup. He then said Shelby – what about Shelby? We liked it. Shelby was born. For anyone who has raised and cared for a pup I need not tell about all the incidents of both pleasure and pain. For each person, they are the same but very different.  I do, however, need to share with you how Shelby completed me and allowed me to grow spiritually and once again trust myself. Shelby was 10 years old. We had noticed that she was short of breath and not very playful. Like a parent knows their child we knew something was wrong. We ended up taking her to an animal hospital emergency room. As soon as we entered the ER, a staff member came out to check on Shelby. She checked her gums – she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. The young girl took the leash from my hand and she was gone. Just like that. The doctor came back out and said that she was stable and that they would be keeping her overnight and running blood work and tests. There was nothing more we could do – “go home” she said “we’ll call you if anything changes”. But didn’t she realize that everything was changing. I was losing my strength, my friend, my dog – my child. The next day we were called back to meet with the Veterinarian specialist on the case. They took us into a small room. There were comfortable chairs, low lighting and soft music. She began by telling us that Shelby was very ill. Her blood work showed that she had end stage leukemia. They presented the option of chemotherapy but said that she would still only live 6 months at the most. They left us to consider our (shelby’s) options as they went to get her for us to visit. My tears began to flow. I knew what we had to do but could only think of what I would be losing. Shelby had given me trust in myself. She had taught me that I could love something and care for it and not harm it. She had also taught me that I could be loved back; that I was worth that love. At that moment, I heard the click of her nails in the hallway. She entered the room; tail wagging and came right up to me. I gave her such a big hug. She looked happy. We had decided that the best thing for her was to put her down. They had told us that even if we took her home she would become worse within hours. They left us alone to say our goodbyes. How do you say goodbye to a part of you? To something that you love beyond all else? To something that has helped you conquer a horrible disease? You know what? You don’t – you just cry and hurt and cry some more. The vet returned. Were we ready? How can one ever be ready for this? The vet asked if we’d like to give her one last biscuit to get her to lie down. As I extended the biscuit to her I couldn’t help notice that she was smiling, tail wagging. I had to ask. I turned to the vet. We are about to end her life and she seems so happy – why? I don’t understand? And then, the vet said something that will always be with me. She said “that’s because dogs live in the moment”. Several weeks after she passed on, I slept with her dog collar and cried myself to sleep. Then,  one morning something came over me and I had an urge to write a prayer in honor of her. I would like to end with that prayer. Shelby was not only my dog she was a part of my heart, a gift from God an answer to my prayers. She inspired this prayer and still continues to inspire me each day. She will always be with me and when I get down on life or on myself I try to say this prayer and learn from her --- to live in the moment and trust not only myself but He who made me and that wonderful Shelby. Lord- Show me the way To best use my day Show me the how To live in the now Show me the love That comes from above Show me the light To choose what is right Show me the power To fulfill every hour Show me the why To continue to try Show me the peace To make worries cease Lord, show me the way to best use my day! Amen to God and Amen to my Shelby girl; my strength in this life and my weapon against OCD – where living in the moment used to be only a dream but was now becoming a reality.


John scurried around his room, throwing things from his closet onto his bed “where the fuck is it!?” he asked himself. His mom called from downstairs “Johhny sweetie what are you doing?” she asked “N-nothing mom! Just... gonna go hang out with my friends. I am looking for something…” he waited for a second. “Um… ok honey just be careful”. John sighed “yea, I’m not going right now, but I have to walk through the kitchen to get to the door so… you’ll know!” he said finding his duffle bag he was looking for. He threw it to the side and packed food and water into the bag. He looked at the pistol laid out on the ground and the pack of bullets with it “it’s an antique” he thought “do I really wanna use it as self-defense?” he shook his head “of course I do. The police have protections against light beams. These things will go right through them.” he threw the revolver into the bag and covered it with the food. He smiled a little bit of an evil smile. He found an airsoft mask. A metal mesh face mask and tinted goggles he threw them in the bag too and slung it over his shoulder. He walked past his mom and gave a little wave before quickly getting to the door. He sighed and got a little choked up before putting the mask on and his earbuds in. The older music was hard to find and frowned upon to listen to. Anything the government frowned upon John was all for. He walked across the street and into the park. He reached into his pocket grabbing out a fist full of coin. “Ok… that’s just enough for one meal along the way and a one way trip to the freight district,” he said walking to the kiosk in the middle of the park. He slipped two coins in the kiosk and waited “Please State Destination” a robotic voice said. John nodded “the freight district please,” he said. The screen loaded for a few seconds “please display a worker ID to be sent to the freight District” John’s heart sank “um… alterer motive” he said, he never had to use this command before and this was not a time he wanted to try but there was no other option. There was a static noise and he was connected to a person “hello sir, it says here you stated alterer motive after being prompted for a worker ID.” a woman asked “yea, that’s about right, I don’t have an ID cause I don’t work there yet, I want to go apply” he said as instantly thousands of better lies flooded his mind. The lady paused for a moment “ok, I’ll transfer you through, sorry for the inconvenience” John sighed and waited until he was teleported to the freight district. He looked at the teleportation kiosk and looked at the train about to leave. He grabbed a metal pipe and smashed the kiosk screen in. he then ran looking at the pit the floating trains were suspended over. He jumped onto one of them slipping and barely catching himself from falling into the twenty-story deep pit “ok!” he called out jumping to the next and almost dropping his bag “ok… one more” he said jumping the last gap and quickly onto the train. He let out a long sigh and climbed into a neer empty freight. He landed onto a pile of raw metal ore. He grabbed his back and writhed a little “OUCH!” he called out before clamping his hand over the mask. He waited in anticipation for something to happen before relaxing again he set up a camera on the pile of ore as the train started “hey! If you are seeing this… either they are making a documentary about me, I am dead or… both. And if the police hadn’t vaporized my body and possessions on sight.” he pulled a necklace out of his shirt “I want my mom to have this. It was my dad’s he was killed by the damned corrupted system we live in. I was named after him actually. Our names are the exact same. I’ll tell his story later. Just… see ya” he said flipping off the camera and putting it in his bag. He sat back and went to sleep. He was awoken to the train docking at a landlocked stopping point, this was rare. John looked up seeing a police drone over him. He reached into his bag and grabbed the pistol aiming to the top of the container. A policeman jumped in and was shot by John without hesitation. John sat shaking “I’m not getting out of the country” he cried to himself “nope” he heard a policeman say from behind him John shot that one too, grazing his cheek and breaking his heads up display but not hurting him worse than that. The cop brought his hand to his cheek and swore “you fucking kids are too ambitious.” he said picking up John and throwing him over the side of the container and onto the grass. John coughed and readied his pistol “please! I just wanted to spend my sixteenth birthday in a country that won’t immediately feed me to the bears!” he shattered another’s heads up display and was shot through the shoulder with a light canon “sorry kid… but you’re not the god damned resistance” the cop shot. John cried and saw the cop bringing a vaporizer to him. John threw the gun as if it was on fire putting his hands in the air “Look! Vaporize me then! But give my mom this!” he broke the clasp on his necklace and threw it into the grass. The cop with the vaporizer scoffed and kicked the necklace into the pit that the Freight traveled over “NO!” John shouted collapsing in tears. He sobbed and didn’t resist as the man placed the device on his back and pressed the button. The device fell to the ground.


I hate icebreakers. I don’t want to break the ice. The ice can stay firmly intact for all I care. I don’t want to get to know any of these people. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and my boss wants me to join a project about the reintegration of systems for the financial something or other... I wasn’t listening. I’m sat behind a stout balding man of about fifty. Counting the hairs on his head is the only thing keeping me engaged right now. It can’t be more than sixty, I don’t think. I wish he would just shave them off because that tragic combover is fooling no one. I bet his wife isn’t bothered. I heard him talking to the man next to him about what he did over the weekend and which restaurant he went to with his wife, and which seafood he tried for the first time and wasn’t a fan but his wife enjoyed. I find it kind of funny how wildly different people’s lives can be. Some people get so lucky, and some are cursed. I’d guess he’s probably fairly in the middle. He’s a nice guy, I’m sure. I said I would try to be less negative, but I’m fighting my nature. The project leader is rambling on about himself. I thought ice breakers were meant to be quick introductions but I’d have his life story by now if I was listening. As I watch the next person stand up and swing their pickaxe into the ice, I think about what I’ll have for dinner. I can’t be bothered making anything, I’ll probably just get a take out. Next, a lady about 40 years old is standing, giving her contribution to the big old iceberg. She must be the next closest person to my age, and she still has at least fifteen on me. Fifteen years is a long time. I used to think a couple months in the summer was a long time as a kid. A lot can happen in a couple months. Maybe a couple months still is a long time. Time seems to move so slowly now.

“And you, sir?” The project manager is staring right at me.

Shit it’s my turn. I shoot up like I’m spring loaded. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” I mumble through the shame.

“Where would you go if you had a Time Machine.” The project manager beamed at me waiting for my response. Every other head has swivelled round and locked on to me. The balding man stares into my soul. I can almost read contempt on his face as he awaits my reply. He must have known I was counting his hairs. I need to say something. It’s not a big deal. “Where would you go if you had a Time Machine?” But it is a big deal. If I had a Time Machine, I’d probably go back to the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action. I’d love to see Socrates orate the shit out of that place. I’d visit Plato’s academy and - I don’t know why I’m lying. I never understand why lie to myself. Do I think I’ll get one over on my own mind? No, I know exactly where I’d go and I knew it from the second he asked the question. It’s all I think about. I try to pretend it isn’t but it is. I’d go back to the night at the lake with her. My mind’s embarrassed because I hate being soppy, but what the hell am I going to do in Athens? Yeah, no, I’m going back to see her again. Do I even need a Time Machine? I relive it every night in my head. I always think that reliving memories is like tending to a garden. You have to water them or they’ll fade away. And this is a memory I cannot lose. I cried myself to sleep one time when I came to the realisation that my brain can’t hold every single conversation and moment we shared together. I just found it so frightening that I was losing a part of her. This is all that exists of her now but in my mind I can’t catch all the little bits that fall off her. That’s a scary thought. It’s probably the worst part of grief. I’ll never have a new memory of her so I have to make do with my dwindling supply, that slowly trickles away day by day, year by year, until I’m in a nursing home and I don’t remember my own name.

That night is locked away in my mental doomsday vault though. It’s still so fresh, even though it was over a year ago. I can still see the crescent of the moon, lonely in the clear sky dancing on the surface of the water, as we dangled our legs over the edge of the jetty. I can’t believe we still thought we were just friends back then. It was 2am and everyone had gone back inside. It was just me, you and the lake. We were sitting there for hours just talking. I could talk to you nonstop from now until the end of time. It was like breathing, it shouldn’t be that easy. You had no business being that fun. Who gave you the right to have me in stitches with a single glance. We were cackling away on that jetty. You were telling me the story of that time where you lost your friend at the bar when you were really drunk, and you came home and thought they had died so you started planning their wake, phoning funeral directors out of hours. I’d heard it before, but it almost got better each time. Our laughing slowly faded, and we looked out onto the surface of the water. The glassy surface was almost completely still, save for the little ripples our toes made when we tapped the water. Then we turned to each other, and I really looked at you for the first time. I stared into your eyes, and was shocked at what I felt. My gut was in free fall. You became the only light to my eyes, at the end of a very long tunnel. Then I felt that magnetic force; I could no longer turn away from you. The realisation hit us both at the same time, I think. We looked at each other confused. I was always indecisive; you helped us out by putting your head on my shoulder, and we just watched the lake in peace. In perfect tranquil silence.

“It’s funny,” you said eventually.

“What is?” I turned my head to your face.

“I feel like … I knew this moment was coming. And yet it’s still all a surprise.” I could feel your warm breath on my face now. “Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” I laughed. “But I feel you.”

You lifted your head off my shoulder and looked at me, taking me in. “I think I know what happens next,” you said. Our faces were inches apart.

“Oh yeah?” I smiled coyly, trying to act aloof. But my was heart pounding, you could probably hear it. Your hand was on my face and that magnetism drew us together and we kissed for a lifetime. My life could have ended there. Sometimes I wish it did. When we finally pulled away, everything was different. The moonlight seemed far more beautiful, each little ripple in the lake telling its own story, and your eyes were worlds upon themselves that I could fall into forever. We laughed, and you put your head against my chest, but I lost balance and we both toppled into the lake. I thought I was going to have to give you CPR the way you were catatonic with laughter. With your arms around my neck we played in the water, and splashed each other as we waded about in our soaking heavy clothes. We let our outer layer dry on the jetty, and laid back on the grass where we fell asleep, you in my arms, under the infinity of endless stars.

If I had a thousand time machines, I’d go there a thousand times.

To be honest, my memories aren’t cutting it anymore. I feel like I’m burning when I think of you, like I need to reach out and grab you but there’s nothing to hold on to. There is a dark empty hole in my body that can’t be filled, a necessity that I’m starved of. I get by, but just about.

Over and over again I play our memories together in my head. It’s the only time I am alive. I need those memories like a needle in my skin. The happiest moments of my life are tainted by your shadow, and yet I torture myself anyway. Can I even say I miss you at this point? It’s a masochistic fascination. But it’s like you’re trapped in my head and if I could just let you out… I could drag you through the back door of one of my dreams and yank you back into the empty spot on my bed beside me. We could laugh the whole thing off, and I could hold you, and see you and feel you and tell you there’s no such thing as pancreatic cancer. We could go out to dinner the next day and I’d be acting nervous because there’s something I want to ask you. And we’d go to the park with those old fashioned street lamps you love, and the overlook of the city. I’d grab your arm and get on one knee and show you the ring. You’d say yes, you don’t get a choice. Sorry it’s my fantasy. We could live in a tiny house we can barely afford, with just a mattress on the ground and we’d cuddle up by the heater. We’d love it because it’s ours. We’d have kids and grandkids and grow old together. I think we’d be one of those old couples that both go peacefully together barely days apart, like some act of fate.

But you won’t grow old. I’ll grow old without you, counting down the days until I go, and we’re reunited because life hasn’t been the same without you. Because I have this aching pain in my mind worse than any wound I’ve ever had. I feel this pain every moment and I just yearn for you. My shattered heart will never be whole again. You took the pieces to the grave. I can’t take you as my wife, I will be married to the void.

“Sir?” The project manager was speaking to me again. I get whiplash from the speed I’m yanked back to real life. I’m surrounded by strangers. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and the bright office lights are blinding me. “What would I do with a Time Machine?” I ask. “I’d probably visit the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action.”

The project manager smiles a polite thanks, and moves onto the next person who is now droning on about some medieval battle, while I swallow the lump in my throat and feel your hands slip away.


There once was a girl with a golden gaze. Everything she looked upon would be made to look and feel beautiful, including other people. Gazing upon people and making them feel lovely was the girls favorite thing to do, and she would make friends with everyone she came across. When the girl grew into a woman there were many men who wanted to be in the light of her eyes. Men would talk about all the great and wonderful things they would do for her if she let them be soaked in her gaze. The woman knew that her gaze had changed and should be given to those who were worthy of it. She would pick and when she did the lucky man would get a look with her eyes wide open. Some men were overwhelmed by this and couldn’t stay around. Some other men tricked the woman and when she realized it she left them in the dark. One day a man convinced the woman that her gaze shouldn’t be shared but should be special for one man. The woman thought it would be good for her to focus all of her light on one person and in return feel the pride of making that one person feel golden. So, she agreed and went with the man. This man, like many others, turned out to be greedy and not worthy of her gaze. He locked her in a room and put a blindfold over her eyes. He told her that her gaze was for him only and that he would tell her when he wanted it. The woman sat for days on end waiting for the man to return. When the man would return and remove her blindfold he was so sweet and gentle the woman always thought he had changed his mind and would free her. He never did. Instead he would take in her light until he was happy again, then recover her eyes, and tell her about how the world had forgotten her now. The woman became less and less of herself each time the man took her golden light until one day when he took off her blindfold her eyes were dull and no longer could he bask in her light. Appalled the man had her thrown into the streets. She took off the blindfold and started walking the now unfamiliar streets. This proved difficult as her dulled eyes could hardly see what was in front of her. The woman made it to the forest at the edge of the town. She continued walking into the trees and began feeling a strange drowsiness. When she reached a meadow she could not take one more step and fell asleep among the sweet flowers and the long grasses with the wind softly blanketing her. She did not awaken from this slumber but she found her gold once again.


Of course I remember what happened on that terrible evening. Even if I wanted to, I could not forget the events of that damned night. I know you do not believe me. No one in their right mind would believe it. I myself would have laughed at anyone who even hinted at something like that, if I had not seen with my own eyes that disgusting, unspeakable and unnatural spectacle… But you need the details and I’ll have to start from the beginning… We moved into this neighborhood two years ago. My wife and I, with our two children, bought a nice cozy house on this quiet, shady street. My wife is a wonderful mother. She spent the whole day doing household chores, our children went to school nearby and I went to work in the city center. We were a happy family… until some bad luck made me buy that damn meat. You’ve probably seen the butcher shop on Main Street. The one where the gloomy, fat man stands behind the counter all day, wearing a bloody apron and proudly displaying his big lumps of raw meat in the window. In his shop, the meat is always fresh and juicy and no matter if you fry it, roast it or boil it, the succulent meat just melts in your mouth. I do not know what made me enter his wretched shop and buy three kilograms of pork that evening. Had I known then how things would turn out, I would never have set foot across his threshold. But I was unaware of the dangers, even though I glimpsed the evil glint in the eyes of that vile butcher when he handed me the package of meat and even though I noticed that despite the cold weather, the meat was very warm. How could I have been so careless? When I got home, I threw the package of meat in the fridge and went upstairs, collapsing into bed without even undressing. It had been a hard day at work and I was extremely tired. My children were playing somewhere in the street and my wife was hanging up clothes in the back yard. I didn’t sleep very well. I had a very strange dream. I dreamed that I was at a pig farm, wandering around aimlessly, making my way through the mucky stys. The buildings were falling apart and looked almost as if they had been abandoned. There were remnants of stone walls, pieces of charred wood and other garbage. The stys were filled with pigs and the disgusting animals were wallowing in the mud, rolling over and over and covering themselves with dirt. These fat pigs stared at me as I walked past, with drool and slobber dripping from their snouts. There was something otherworldly, something inexplicable about the place. It exuded the air of something disgusting and evil. I wandered among strange ramshackle buildings and the mucky pig stys as if I was spellbound. Something inside me would not allow me to leave this accursed place. I was looking for something, but I did not know what… Then I found it. Half-hidden under a layer of mud was a hatch with a rusty iron ring. I do not know why I did not run away from there at once. Instead, I pulled up the rusty ring, opened the hatch and peered down into the darkness. A set of stone steps led down to a dungeon. A faint ray of sunlight lit up one tiny corner of the dungeon and that’s when I saw them. Bones! The floor of the dungeon was littered with bones. Hundreds, thousands of skeletons lying there in the dark. Some were very fresh, with hunks of meat still clinging to them. Others were dry and dusty and must have been there for years. I do not remember how long I crouched there, staring down into that monstrous cave. All of a sudden, I woke up in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. My heart was pounding in my chest and I could barely breathe. I looked over and saw my wife snoring peacefully beside me. Although I tried, I could not get back sleep and when I looked out the window, I saw the sky was already beginning to brighten as the dawn approached. I decided to take an early-morning drive to calm my nerves. I got into my car and drove out to the countryside. I wanted to get some fresh air and convince myself that my nightmare was no more than a delusion. As I drive the butchers words repeat over and over in my mind. "Enjoy your meat." I try to ignore the pit in my stomach and sense of dread. The butchers face... The diabolical glint in his eyes... The vile grin he had while handing me the meat... I realize this must be me feeling disturbed from the nightmare and letting my imagination twist earlier events. I shake off my dread and enjoy the scenery around me. When I got back to my house, it was around noon. As soon as I opened the door, the unmistakable smell of grilled meat hit my nostrils. At that moment, it seemed like the most appalling and terrible stench I had ever smelled. I went into the kitchen and saw my wife and children sitting at the table. They were eating big hunks of juicy, roasted meat, the same meat I had bought at the butcher’s shop. I watched them gnawing the cooked flesh off the bone like wild animals, chewing, chomping and slurping with abandon, then swallowing it down with relish. Their hands and mouths were covered in grease and they licked their lips hungrily. My wife was about to say something to me, when suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence and started coughing and choking. The children started coughing and spluttering too. Then, they all fell to the ground and began writhing around, foaming at the mouth. I stood there, unable to move, but I saw everything… all the hideous details… No! No! Please don’t force me to remember that abominable scene. How can I put such a monstrous sight into words? How can I describe the way my wife and children suddenly started gnawing on each others limbs, tearing off pieces of flesh with their teeth. I can’t bear to talk about how they grabbed knives and began slicing pieces of flesh off each other and devouring them. I simply cannot put into words the grisly mess they made as they gobbled and chomped and chewed on each other’s bones until all that was left were just three skeletons lying in a pool of blood and guts on the nice, white, tiled floor of the kitchen. And that’s how the police found me the next morning, surrounded by the skeletal remains of my beloved family. They dragged me out in handcuffs. They accused me of horrible crimes. They told lies about me and said I ate my entire family… No! No! It’s not true! Do not believe their lies! They’re involved in a conspiracy against me. They’re protecting the butcher. They’ve eaten his damned meat and they’re lying to protect him.


“Groceries?” my father called from the armchair. This was his way of asking if I had remembered to purchase groceries for the two of us on my walk home from school. A single word was all he could spare. I watched a spiral of thick yellow cigarette smoke drift from his mouth and meld into the ceiling before replying. “Yes papa, I have them.” Two blonde women in bouncing bikinis were on the television. I hoped they would provide enough distraction for me to slip away. “Bring them over son,” my father said. One flabby finger clicked the off button on the remote, nearly swallowing the thing beneath folds of sweaty skin, and the girls disappeared. My heart sank but I did as commanded. I crossed the short room and placed the overstuffed plastic bags at his feet. The grocery store was six blocks away and my shoulders ached something awful. My fingers had turned to flaming concrete and they did not straighten when I dropped the bags. If the smell of cigarettes was bad, my father's breath was worse. Hot mucus. It flew into my face and up my nostrils. I sealed my lips, but did not dare flinch away. To look away from father whilst he addressed me meant certain punishment. For such a crime, I might have to wear a blindfold for the rest of the week. “Coke.” he said, not a question. I pointed out the two litre bottles of Coke-a-Cola. Three of them. Two was too few, four was too many. Buying too few bottles meant another trip to the grocery store at the very least. Too many bottles would mean having to drink the extra in one sitting. “Cookies.” I pointed them out. There were Chips-Ahoy, but cookies also meant Twinkies, Mr. Felix’s Buttercream Tarts, and a host of other baked goods. To name them all would require tremendous effort on my father’s part. ‘*Cookies’* would have to do. He considered my offering. “No ice cream.” Sweat broke on my forehead. This was the part I had been dreading since the moment I saw the empty freezer shelf. My father weighed over three hundred pounds, and to rise from his chair required several seconds of intense effort. Only by heaving back and forth, using his own weight to catapult himself forward, was he able to rise from bed or stand out of his chair. The time it took him to stand was all the time I had to defend my actions. Once he was standing, a punishment was delivered without exception. Either for the crime of disobedience or for the crime of taking too long to explain. “They were out,” I said. The store was not completely out of ice cream, of course, but No Frills *was* out of triple chocolate fudge brownie with chunks of cookie dough. The cashier mentioned that she had just sold the last tub to the customer before me. Then she asked, as they often did, why I was shopping alone. I answered as I had been taught to: ‘*My dad is sick and my mom ran out on us when I was a little kid’*. My father stopped his rocking, but did not settle back into his seat. I was not free yet. “So what?” he said. “I got extra Mr. Felix’s.” I pulled one flap of the grocery bag away to reveal the extra box of sweets and my father relaxed. I was safe. With the trouble of the ice cream out of the way, I breathed a sigh of relief. My father, perhaps noticing that I was no longer worried, hit a button on the remote control. The bikini girls were kissing. “Eggs,” he said. I showed him the eggs. After a pause of inspection, the Tv clicked off. My heart skipped, then took off. “These...,“ he said slowly, “are the wrong eggs.” My blood went cold. I snatched the carton, careful not to break a single shell. I read the label frantically as my father restarted the heaving process. “No,” I said, trying to interrupt the squeaking hinges of his chair. “No. These are right. These are…” But they were the wrong eggs. My father required twelve extra-large, free range, brown eggs from Campbell’s Farm. He required the expiration date to be no less than a week into the future, and for the price to be no more than $3.50 even though I was the one paying. The eggs were white. “No,” I moaned, “I’m sorry, I’ll go back. I’ll leave right now. Please.” “These are the wrong eggs,” my father repeated. He managed to get his hulking frame out of the armchair and his mass was such that I was forced backward against the television. I would go back to the store tonight, we both knew that, but not before being punished. “Come,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder. I was eleven years old, and all I had ever known was to obey the command of adults. I was as likely to consider disobeying my father was as I was to consider swallowing my Canadian History textbook. He guided me to the kitchen. One hand was locked on my feeble shoulder, the other held the offending egg carton. “Sit,” he said, directing me to a chair at the kitchen table. I sat. I whimpered, and my whimpers became tears which became heaving sobs, but despite my fear I did not dare move. To move from the chair before being excused would mean being forced to sit there for a whole day, even if I had to go to the bathroom. I did not know what punishment my father had in mind this time. This was a rule I had not broken before. My father lumbered to the corner cupboard. Bending at the hip, a task of not inconsiderable difficulty for him, he retrieved a blue plastic bowl, a white dinner plate, and a worn frying pan. He put the frying pan on the stove, and the plate and bowl off to the side. He removed one white egg from the carton, cracked it, fed the runny yolk into the pan, tossed the shells in the garbage bowl, then picked out another egg. He repeated this cycle a dozen times. When all twelve eggs were in the pan, he turned the burner on medium and whisked the eggs with a fork. The result was a yellowy soup. He did not so much as look at me while he prepared the dish. “Please papa,” I cried. “Don’t punish me, I’m sorry. Please.” I was ignored. A robin landed on the window sill outside and my father thumped the glass, scaring it away. When the yellow soup had gone spongy, my father salted and peppered it, then took a bottle of ketchup from the fridge and applied a generous helping to the edge of the plate. Then he slid the tremendous omelet from the frying pan. It landed on the plate with a wet slap. The firm eggs looked like earwax but smelled fine enough. If father had added something to the omelette, something bad, it was odourless. He sat in the chair opposite mine, the only other place at the table. It groaned in protest, as chairs often did when my father sat in them, but did not break. “Eat,” he said. But he did not present me with the titanic omelet. He gave me the bowl of shells. “Papa, please.” He did not answer. Instead, my father carefully carved a generous slice of egg with his butter knife, drowned it in his pile of ketchup, and plunged the wedge into his mouth. “If you don’t eat it all before I’m done,” he said, displaying a mouthful of yellow slush, “You’ll get another bowl when you come back with the right eggs.” “Papa I can’t…” He leaned across the table and slapped me. Then he belched, souring the air. My cheek burned from the slap and my eyes stung with heavy tears. I chose a medium sized white shard and placed it on my tongue. It had no taste. I closed my mouth and swished it around a little. The shell was sharp, and cut my tongue. “Ow,” I squealed, holding one hand to my cheek. “Chew,” my father said through a second mouthful. I chewed. It was like chomping down on glass. My blood mixed with the sharp fragments of shell to produce a coppery swill. “Swallow.” I swallowed. Ants bit my throat all the way down. “Good boy,” he said. *He’s already a quarter done,* I realized, staring at father’s plate. *I better hurry.* My trembling hands selected another hunk of shell and as I stuffed it into my bleeding mouth my free hand was already picking another piece. It cut my finger tips, drawing more of my blood. “Brown eggs,” my father said, and took another bite.


“Let me put it in terms that even you, with your exiguous human capacity for only the most basic comprehension, may understand. Consider for a moment a scenario something like this: at some point in the dark, dim and distant past, some sick-slob of a cosmic entity has a flash of inspiration for conjuring up a bit of distraction. Picture a pasty-skinned, grossly overweight, greasy-haired slacker-type who looks like he hasn’t bathed or changed his food-stained T-shirt for months and smells so rank his dog steers clear of him… a degenerate knuckle-dragging exemplification of utter moral atrophy who, to the misfortune of anything under its dominion, possess a certain degree of... omnipotence. Someone you know perhaps? Minus the omnipotence of course. Somewhere out in the space/time continuum of the infinite cosmos this error of empyrean evolution eventually gets bored with its meaningless existence, having run through it's vast collection of quantum-computer games so many times, it can now play any of them in it’s substance-assisted sleep and win every single time. In a rare blink of brilliance, it decides to write a little program for some diversion... for a bit of mindless amusement... something that will perhaps stem the recurring flood of it's ennui for a while. It codes-up a sweet little star system out in the back forty of what you humans refer to as the Milky Way, close to the outer edge of that superlative spiral galactic array. It conjures a modest but slick solar configuration, with a lovely little yellow sun and nine companion satellites... including a beautiful ball just bursting with promise and potential which circles well within the yellow power-plant's habitable zone. It gives this third stone from the sun an interior dynamo core of liquid iron to generate a magnetic field which acts to deflect the searing radiation generated by that happy star. Wouldn't want it to be toasted to barren cinder after all. It then covers two thirds of that planet in deep, vast oceans teeming with life and oxygen-producing phytoplankton... shapes the land-masses into majestic towering mountains and lush fecund valleys, interminable grass-covered prairies and savannas, along with prodigious forests, awe-inspiring canyon panoramas and gently rolling verdant hills... next it fills the whole planet with a fantastic potpourri of plant life and a multitude of creatures, virtually uncountable in number and diversity and all living in perfect harmony within a totally self-sustaining system... Paradise incarnate!!! That annotated book of fairy tales you creatures call "The Bible" refers to it as The Garden of Eden. Ring any bells for you? And then that execrable empyrean entity, being the unhinged sick-slob that it is, figures to make things just a little more interesting by adding a jolt of adrenaline to the whole equation. It gives half the animals on the planet a taste for fresh blood and still warm and quivering fear-infused flesh, programming that half to stalk, kill and eat whatever it can catch of the other half, which now desperately clings to it's miserable nightmare existence, waiting for Death to claim it's bounty at any moment... and Shazam! Just like that, paradise turns into a pitiless and terrifying place for the hunted... their short brutish lives become one of frenzied and perpetual heart-pounding panic, more often than not punctuated by a horrific and grisly end… really not a pretty picture is it? Sure fun to watch all the action though! But as one easily bored, this deranged bad joke of a being cranks-up the entertainment factor a notch and introduces yet another life-form... a woefully confused biped with a large brain mischievously constrained by a tiny intelligence and most importantly, a sequence in its DNA making and forever keeping it violent, blood thirsty, forever fearful but best of all, totally and utterly insane. And then this fatuous, fiendish Creator of Cosmic Chaos leans back in its well-worn food-stained recliner, reaches for a fistful of Extraterrestrial Twinkies and cracks another can of an ethereal energy drink. With a stream of drool slowly working its way down its chubby unshaven chin, it watches gleefully with a dolt-like smirk as those naked, psychotic apes really screw-up that beautiful little blue-green ball circling the happy sun... over and over and over again... in an infinitely repeating loop! Sleep well little human.


“Son.” I coughed. “Yes, father?” My son, Jacob asked. “Let’s go for a walk along the shore.” I said, stifling another cough. “But it’s raining father. You’ll get sick.” “I know son, but c’mon, spend some time with your old man, while it lasts.” I smiled at him. “If that’s what you want, father. Very well, let me get my coat.” “Take your time son.” I coughed. As Jacob walked toward the closet of our home, I couldn’t help but look at how much he’d grown up. “You’ve got nothing but time on your hands, son. Unlike me.” I whispered as I coughed some more. Twenty years in the blink of an eye. Felt like only yesterday that I was changing his diapers, and teaching him to walk. I grabbed my poncho, cap, and lantern. Jacob came back a moment later, his raincoat around his shoulders. “Look at you, my boy. All grown up. Brings a tear to my eye.” I said wiping my eyes. “Yeah...I learned from you. And mom.” he smiled at me. Such a good kid. I’m glad I raised him well. “Ready to go?” I asked, scratching my greying beard. “Of course father. Lead the way.” I smiled at him, and turned on my lantern. I opened the door and heard the sound of the pouring rain, pattering on the ground. The cold, and dark night was oddly alluring. I took not but two steps out onto the porch before the rain began falling off my poncho. The amber glow of the lantern bathed the rundown, muddy road in an orange light. Jacob was right beside me as we began to make our way down the road. “Father, why on all nights would you want to go out at a time like this? It’s cold, wet and you’ve been getting ill lately. I’m worried.” “It’s a special night son. A night that I want to spend with you.” I said following the winding road. “What’s so special about it?” “I’ll tell you in a bit. When I-when were both ready.” I said smiling. Jacob looked at me with a confused glance. “Okay then father, lead on.” he said. Such a good kid. “I always loved the rain. And thunderstorms.” I said as I laughed through a cough. “Why is that father?” Jacob asked. “Well you see, I always believed there was a dragon that lived in a cave. And every time he woke up, he snarled and the smoke poured from his nostrils and into the sky. Then he roars, and there is a distant rumble of thunder.” I closed my eyes, picturing it in my head. “And then a maiden of the sky came down, to soothe the beast. But he tricked her, and locked her away in a cage. And the maiden began crying, her tears forming the rain that soaks the earth.” I said, looking up, the raining splashing on my face. “And then came a prince atop a Pegasus of the gales, it’s wings flapping, beating to the howl of the wind. The prince, his resolve unshakable, draws his sword. Every swing the prince took, carves across the dragon’s rocky hide as sparks of lightning flash across the sky. But the dragon is eventually outsmarted by the prince, and goes back to his cave and is put to sleep and the maiden is released. ‘Till the dragon stirs from slumber again.” I explained as we walked down the road. I saw the giant lighthouse sitting on the bluffs of the beach. To the left of the cliff’s face was the beach. The sands drenched by the raging waves that crawl onto the beach. “I don’t know why, but there’s something calming about the rain. Don’t you think, my son?” “You could say that.” Jacob said. “You do know dragons, maidens and princes don’t really exist?” Jacob turned to me, looking at me with disbelief. I laughed. Which then became a hard, phlegmy cough. “Course I do, son. But also, nothing is impossible when you put your imagination to it.” I laughed as I held my arms out, the lantern swaying in my hands. “I guess your right.” He shrugged. “C’mon son. Humor your old man, just this once?” I asked. “After all, you don’t know if the time you spend with your dad will be your last.” I said, looking into his deep blue eyes. “Sure dad, I'll humor you. Seventy years old, and still acting like your twelve.” Jacob laughed. “I’m old, son. I like to think about my younger years. Makes me realize what I missed out on when I was a kid. Getting old is a beauty. You’ve lived a lifetime, seen the world pass you by, seen it change. I remember when I was but a lad, that lighthouse wasn’t even built yet. This beach was nothing more then sharp rocks, and water.” I said, looking over to the lighthouse’s peak that sits a silhouette atop the cliff. “Yeah. Mom used to say that the Lighthouse was built fifty years ago. I never really thought about how much time that really is. Least until now.” He said, admiring its beauty. “Aye.” I nodded. “Puts things into perspective.” I went on. We got to the edge of the rocky slope. “Come son. Have a seat with your old man. I’m tired.” I said, groaning as I sat down. I patted the soggy grass next to me. Jacob sat down. I took a deep breath and let it out. I smelt the briny sea water and hit my nostrils at the same time the salty texture plastered across my taste buds. It reminded me of my time on the waves. “Ever heard of the Pilgrim son?” “Yeah. Thought she was an old folk tale.” I chuckled lightly. And then began coughing again. “No. Not really. When I was a youngin, and sailing the seas, me and the crew used to pray to her for guidance. Some say it’s her who created the wind, the storms, the waves. And fer a while, I believed ‘em.” I smiled. “I did too.” Jacob said. “Really?” I asked as I placed my hands on the ledge of the slope. “Yeah. Every Time you were away, I prayed to her to keep you safe. Look over mom, before she…And now that your starting to get sick...I’m worried.” Jacob said. “Don’t be. I’ll get over it soon enough son. Then you won’t have to worry about me no more. Matter of fact. I think by tonight...I should be all better.” “What do you mean, dad?” Jacob looked at me. I smiled. “I’m dying, son.” His expression dropped. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?” He asked, desperately trying to read me. “That can’t be true.” “‘Fraid it is son. Not much I can do about it either.” “No. You can’t be dying. Your gonna get better dad, you have to fight this!” He said, his voice breaking. “It’s hereditary son. My Father and I had the same conversation when I was your age. And everything you said, was what I said. There’s nothing you can do son, except make this old man happy. Make his last night on earth a memorable one.” I told him, my smile still never cracking off my face. Jacob seemed to be taken aback by my words, but I still looked at him with the biggest grin I could muster. “You’ve already made this old dog happy on his last night by going for this walk with him. As much as I would love to keep going on. I can’t. I’m afraid I don’t have enough strength to make it, son. Your the only one to carry on our lineage.” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m only telling you this, because I’m doing everything in my power to give you one last night with your father. To say your goodbyes before I pass on.” “What makes you think your dying tonight?” Jacob asked. “I can feel it. Woke up this morning and said to myself “This is it. This is the day I die.” I shrugged. “And your not upset?” “How can I? seventy years on this beautiful earth? Fifty of them spent with your mother? Thirty of that spent with you? I can’t cry over that. All the memories I have? The times I spent with you and your mother? I can’t pass those up. Just remember to stay strong son. You’ll find a woman out there for you. And soon you’ll have this conversation with your son or daughter later on down the line.” I felt the stinging of the tears in my eyes as I gazed upon my son for the last time. I didn’t hide it as I let the tears roll down my cheeks, the smile still not fading from my lips. “Goodbye son. I always loved you.” I said, my lips quivering. “Goodbye father. I love you.” Jacob said, between his sobs. “May the pilgrim guide your way, may she add my life to the stars above.” I said with the last ounce of my strength as I slumped into my son's warm arms. Such a good kid. Such...a...good...kid. Such...a...good. Such...a… Such… And I shut my eyes.


In the night chill of a bitter December, two boys fled through the narrow back alleys of New York City, the taller one carrying a duffel bag in one hand and tugging the smaller boy along behind with the other. They tore through the eternal detritus of the city between dark brick walls forever stained with ancient graffiti, their ragged shoes splashing up water as they ran across puddles from the previous night’s rain. “They’re over here!” a voice called from behind them. “Shit, shit, shit,” said the older boy between exhausted breaths. They skidded around a corner into the next alley, the darkness swallowing them whole. “My feet hurt, Riley,” said the younger boy. Riley stopped abruptly, the younger boy slamming into his side. “In here,” he said, lifting the lid to a dumpster and tossing the duffel bag inside. “Quick!” He put a hand out and the younger boy stepped on it and pulled himself up and over the wall of the dumpster. Riley followed, his foot slipping on some grease before tumbling inside onto piles of full garbage bags and shutting the lid. “It smells real bad in here, Riley.” “Shh, keep quiet.” “What are we keeping quiet for, Riley?” “I said shh!” Footsteps approached from outside the dumpster, the soles of their shoes slapping against the wet pavement. “Where the hell did they go?” a voice said. “Little shits are probably back on the street by now. We’ll find ‘em. Come on,” said another voice, their footsteps disappearing into the distance. “Can we go now? It smells real, real bad in here.” “Not yet. Let’s just wait a while. Do you have your notebook with you?” The younger boy produced a small black notebook from his jacket pocket. “Good. You can make some drawings while we wait. Here’s your flashlight,” said Riley, handing it to the younger boy. Riley unclipped his own from his belt loop, clicked it on and unzipped the duffel bag. Stacks of cash spilled out, each marked with one thousand dollar bands. “Oh my god. There’s like $20,000 in here,” he said, running his hand through the bag. “We can finally leave this rat hole.” “Look what I drawed, Riley,” said the younger boy, holding up his notebook containing a crude sketch of a stick man floating in space with stars dotted around him. “Drew, Spaceboy. Not drawed. Do you remember how old you are? Can’t be talking like a little kid anymore.” Spaceboy held up nine fingers and grinned. “Almost. One more. You just had a birthday, remember?” Spaceboy extended his thumb and started clapping. “That’s right,” said Riley, smiling. “But keep quiet.” “Do you like my drawing, Riley?” “Of course I do. I always like your drawings. What else you got?” Spaceboy smiled and flipped the notebook back to the first page; on it was a similar drawing to the last: a boy floating in space with a bubble for a helmet, a big wavy smile across his face and surrounding him were the stars Riley had taught him how to draw. “This one is me.” He flipped the page and again it was almost identical, but the person had long hair. “This one is Mommy.” He paused a moment looking at the sketch and Riley was sure he was going to cry, and wasn’t entirely sure he could hold back his own tears. For Spaceboy, heaven was a place in outer space, and Riley very much liked that idea. He put a hand over the page and looked at him. “Now that we have money, we can get you proper markers instead of that ratty old pen. You can make it look like real space. What do you think?” Spaceboy broke into a smile again. “Yeah!” Pointing his flashlight up towards the black dumpster lid, Riley looked at the specks of debris glued there, some dripping down onto the bags in the winter condensation. “Look, Spaceboy. Stars.” Spaceboy looked up and smiled. “Wow! Are they real, Riley?” “Not quite. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” “Real pretty.” Riley piled the cash back into the duffel and zipped it back up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He peered through a small gap between the dumpster and lid, and when he was sure the alley was empty, he lifted it and leapt out, helping Spaceboy down after him. He was nearly to the street when he looked back to see Spaceboy was still by the dumpster, looking up to the empty black sheet spread out beyond the ethereal glow of the city lights - the starless New York City sky. “Do you think we’ll ever see real stars, Riley?” “Yeah,” said Riley, smiling. “Yeah, I think we will. Stick with me. Space men don’t ever leave each other, right?” “Never.” They came out of the alley on E 90th and sprinted south towards 86th, the accusing yellow eyes of the street lights burning their dark skin. “I’m tired, Riley,” said Spaceboy. “I know, I know. I am too. Not much further.” They arrived at 86th and Lexington out of breath and dripping with sweat, even in the cool December air. “Hey! They’re over here!” a voice called out from behind them. “No, no!” said Riley. He gripped his brother’s hand and they continued towards the subway station stairs. “Get the hell back here!” Riley looked back at the shadowy figure chasing them through the evening gloom, a gun in one hand aimed towards them. “Spaceboy, get in front of me!” Riley pulled Spaceboy in front of him and pushed at his back as they weaved between cars. A gunshot rang out - thunderous in the streets. It pinged against the metal subway station railing. Both boys ducked and kept running, tearing down the stairs and nearly slipping on the slick pavement at the bottom. Green pillars whooshed by like concrete trees as they ran. Another shot came from behind them as they leapt over the turnstile, reverberating against the graffiti-covered station walls and piercing their eardrums. Spaceboy covered one of his ears with his free hand. “It’s loud, Riley!” The rumble of a subway train shook the ground as it screeched to a halt next to them, its doors opening with the sound of clanging metal. “Get in!” Riley shouted and shoved Spaceboy inside. Another bullet shattered the window next to them, the raining glass glistening silver under the humming fluorescents like spilled mercury. “Go, dammit, go!” The door shut and the train hissed back to life. The boys heard their pursuer yelling something, his voice trailing off into the distance as the train barrelled onwards through the tunnel. Riley threw the duffel bag onto one of the seats and slumped down next to it. He felt a sharp pain and a cool wetness tugging at his t-shirt as his back touched the metal. Tentatively, he peeled the fabric off his tender skin and brushed his fingers over the wound, wincing. “Aw, no.” “You okay, Riley?” said Spaceboy, scribbling away in his black notebook. “Yeah, I’m okay.” They got off at 116th in East Harlem and hailed the first taxi they saw. It pulled up to the street corner and Riley guided Spaceboy inside before stepping in himself, wincing and holding his back as he squeezed in next to him. Sweat coated his forehead and dripped down from his nose onto the duffle bag. The cabbie looked at him from the rearview mirror. “You alright there, kid?” “Do you have a map?” The cabbie dug through his glove compartment and handed Riley a folded, coffee-stained map. Scanning it with his finger, he left a trail of red up north to the Bronx - looking for anything green and far. “We need to go to Woodlawn Cemetery.” “I ain’t goin’ that far, kid. My day’s almost up.” Riley unzipped the duffel bag and handed the man one of the stacks. He looked back at Riley, shrugged and put the car in gear. “Alright, boys. Buckle up.” Riley watched through the window as the street lights drifted by in a ghostly haze, his vision clouded by sweat. Spaceboy’s eyes were still firmly fixed on whatever he was drawing in his notebook. “Hey, you got any markers?” Riley asked the cabbie. “I got a couple Sharpies. That good enough?” “Yeah, give them to me.” The cabbie passed him the markers. “Here, Spaceboy. These should help,” he said, handing them over. Spaceboy looked at his big brother and smiled before popping off the lid to his new Sharpie. The night became darker the further they got from the city, as did Riley’s vision. He struggled to keep his eyes open as the low hum of the engine nearly lulled him to sleep. *Can’t sleep, can’t sleep.* He counted the gradually slowing beats of his heart to keep himself awake until finally, the car came to a stop. “End of the line, boys.” Riley stumbled out with the duffle bag and looked back at the stain he’d left on the seat. Spaceboy still scribbled away even as he stepped out of the car. They came out before a gate and Riley tossed the duffle bag over it with some strain. He boosted Spaceboy over first before attempting it himself. His stomach lurched as he kicked his leg over and fell to the pavement on the other side. Drool dripped from his jaw and his back burned in protest. “Are you okay, Riley?” Riley picked himself up and swung an arm over Spaceboy’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” They walked over rolling green hills decorated with grey gravestones of varying shapes and sizes - angels and tombs and plain small ones. To Spaceboy, it looked like they were in one of those old black and white horror films he despised so much. Spaceboy held Riley up as they went. His breathing had become shallow and hoarse. “Up that hill. We can stop there.” Riley tumbled from his brother’s arms in between gravestones as they reached the top of the treeless hill. Spaceboy sat next to him and opened his notebook to the page he was working on. Riley rolled onto his back and looked up into the sky. “Hey, Spaceboy. Look up,” he said and coughed. Spaceboy did. Snowflakes drifted down from the still night sky like thousands of white-hot meteors tumbling through space. “Stars.” Spaceboy wiped his face as they fell to his skin in tiny droplets, some falling onto his drawing. “Are they real, Spaceboy? I’m not dreaming?” Spaceboy hesitated and looked down at his big brother; his eyes were half open and snow rained down on his sweating face. “They’re real, Riley.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I knew we could see them from here.” “I drew you a picture, Riley. It got kinda messed up though.” Spaceboy handed his notebook to Riley who took it with trembling hands. The page was almost completely black, save for the two figures clad in space suits floating in the middle; one with long hair and the other with none. It reeked of Sharpie. Wet marks dotted the paper, leaving small splotches of grey in the black ink like dim stars. “It’s you and Mommy.” Riley looked at it a long while before tearing out the page and slipping it into the pocket of his tattered jeans. “I’m gonna take it with me and show the other spacemen.” “Where are you going, Riley?” Riley pointed up to the starless sky. “Up there. To the stars.” “But spacemen never leave each other, remember?” “Well, sometimes they go to other planets.” Spaceboy wiped his eyes. “I guess so.” Riley handed him back the notebook and took his brother’s hand. Smiling, he closed his eyes. His breathing had become even more shallow, but the ache in his back was little more than a faint echo of pain now. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he saw stars. “Goodnight, Spaceboy.