Cab Fare By: La_Lanterne_Rouge I open the back door of the restaurant and step from the semi-darkness of the kitchen into the glare of the lamp that lights the landing above the greasy steps leading into the empty parking lot. I take off my apron and using it to protect my fingers, work the light bulb loose until the light goes off. I fold the apron so that the dampness is on the inside, lay it on the landing, and sit on it. I reach into the pocket of my T-shirt and pull out the cigarette I saved for the end of the day. When I bring my hands to my face, the right holding the flaring match and the left cupping the flame to keep it from going out, I smell the sour aroma of the dishwater in which they’ve soaked for hours. From the steps, I can look east and west over Third Street. To the west, bathed in the orange glow of the energy saver streetlights, stands the bridge that spans the Los Angeles River and beyond it, the downtown building’s heavy shadows, pinpricked by the lights of offices where white clerks and brown janitors yet toil. To the east, three unlit blocks away, the green and white lights of a Seven-Eleven and the red and yellow lights of a Shell station mark the intersection of Third and Alameda Street and the entrance to the East Los Angeles barrio known to gangbangers and police as Dog Town. It’s nearly midnight, and the only movements I can see are the faraway conical sweepings of a police helicopter’s searchlight down by South Central. The restaurant is in a rectangular, flat-topped, windowless building. You can still see the scars that were the windows before the openings were filled with cement blocks and covered with stucco. There are no other businesses in this desolate space between the river and the barrio, only the buildings, sheds and parking lots of dozens of light industry shops. Our customers are Mexican and Central American laborers who work near the restaurant. We feed these men breakfast and lunch, and in the evening, the restaurant turns into a beer and wine bar where they drink and play pool until eleven, when we push them out to their cars so they can DUI home. In the daytime I am dishwasher and busboy. In the evening, I follow the drunks, mopping up the beer they spill and the body fluids they leave behind. Sometimes I have to hold one of them from under his arms in front of the urinal so he can piss without falling down. Some of the customers think it’s funny to see a gringo working as a dishwasher at a Mexican restaurant. They wink, nudge each other with their elbows, and tell me, “Huerito, you should be in Hollywood.” Their jokes lack malice, they’re for laughs, funnier when you’re drunk, and I usually laugh with them, but Ramiro’s jokes are a different thing. Ramiro is a skinny gangbanger who hangs around the restaurant before and after working hours. He’s the mule who brings marijuana from the barrio and sells it by the joint. His jokes are like acid; he hurls them my way with the intention of burning me but, though some of the others wince, and some redden in embarrassment for me, I keep my face expressionless to rob him the pleasure of getting a reaction. Yesterday, he put his leg out as I was passing his table with an arm load of dirty dishes. I almost went down on my face. He smirked and said, “órale puto.” It’s all very high-school, but in that bar full of machos mejicanos, my refusal to stand up for myself, fills the audience with disdain and most of them end up disliking me more than they dislike Ramiro. Every night, after my last cigarette, I walk over the bridge, more than a mile to Main Street. The bus stop on the corner of Third and Main is just a round sign with the number 92 bolted at the top of a loose, leaning, metal pipe. There’s a Winchell’s Donuts in the middle of the block between Third and Fourth. It’s open 24 hours and I go there to wait for the bus on nights when it’s raining. The bus goes up Main to Temple and then left on Bellevue to Echo Park. I get off there, on the corner across from the park and walk up the hill to the single apartment with the bed that can be stored in the recess of one wall and the built-in refrigerator the size of a milk crate embedded in another. I keep close to the curb, walking under the street lights that barely shine through thickening halos in the damp air that the incoming fog brings. I walk around the seemingly empty park even though crossing it would save me three blocks. Tonight, at the bar’s back stoop, as I am pulling the last drag from the stub of my cigarette, I see a yellow light come bouncing over the hump of Alameda Street from the darkness of the barrio. It’s a blue Chevrolet with just one working headlamp. When it approaches the restaurant I lean back into the door frame where I can see without being seen. When the car gets close to the restaurant, it slows down to a crawl. Inside the old Chevrolet, I see three men: the driver, an old veterano named Orlando, Ramiro in the passenger side, and a fat guy with a shaved head sitting in the back. I can see that the driver is very upset, his face is turned toward Ramiro, and he’s yelling. I am sure that his anger has something to do with the plastic bag full of joints that Ramiro dropped on the floor of the toilet when he was taking a crap, the same bag that I picked up and stuffed in the bottom of a trash bag before I dumped it in the refuse bin. The car comes to a stop in the middle of the street just beyond the restaurant. The right door flies open, and Ramiro tries to run. The driver puts the car in reverse, turns the steering to the left and backs up, knocking Ramiro to the ground with the open door, then keeps going until the front wheel runs over Ramiro’s legs. The fat guys pushes the back of the seat forward, gets out, and begins stomping Ramiro. Ramiro tries to bring his knees up to his chest for protection, but his legs are broken above the knees. The fat guy kicks Ramiro’s sides methodically, using the point of his shoes and taking the time to aim at the unprotected areas Ramiro’s arms can’t cover. When Ramiro lowers his arms to protect his ribs the guy kicks him in the head. When Ramiro raises his arms to cover his head, the guy kicks him in the ribs. Ramiro cries, “basta, no más, no más” until the foot finds his mouth and after that he merely grunts in rhythm with the blows. The driver yells, “Vamonos!,” and the fat guy gets back in the car and they drive away. Ramiro starts to crawl on his side like a broken worm towards the sidewalk. I see the Chevy’s brake lights come on. The car makes a slow U-turn and then accelerates. It rushes forward in springy bounds that the worn shock absorbers can’t damp. Ramiro’s body is half on the sidewalk and half on the gutter. The engine roars with the sucking sound of a carburetor missing its air filter and sparks stream from the wheels as they scrape the curb. When the car bounces over Ramiro’s body the driver shouts in celebration. I stay hidden until the tail lights of the Chevy disappear, one by one as the car turns left just pass Alameda and then I walk over to Ramiro. His body straddles the gutter. He lies twisted, one arm reaching forward, the other tucked under his torso. It’s easy to see that his belly and hips are crushed. There’s a circular wet spot growing in the seat of his pants, urine probably or contents from his intestine. He’s still alive. He raises his head from the pavement, looks at me, and his lips take the pouting shape of the lips of child just before he cries. I look up and down the street and seeing no one, I tell him “órale, cabrón” and step on his neck until he breaths no more. I reach with two fingers into his back pocket. The thirteen dollars I find in his squashed wallet should be just enough to pay for my cab fare home.


It started with stories of a girl born in Mumbai. Soon after she was born, the doctors noticed her cries were different from the usual “baby noises.” They thought she might be trying to form words and sentences. Eventually, one doctor recognized the speech as Mandarin, and called in a translator. The baby claimed to be an 87-year-old Chinese man, who had just suffered a massive heart attack in his home. The chinese authorities checked the address the baby had given, and found the corpse of an 87-year-old man, who had died at the same time as the baby’s birth. More stories like this popped up all over the world, of babies born speaking random languages, claiming to be people who had died just before their birth. Eventually, people started connecting the dots. Every single person who had died after the First Rebirth had also been reborn. The Buddhists and Hindus rejoiced, because their religious afterlife had been proven correct. All other religions began to crumble at their foundations, as people began to accept that they, too, would be reborn when they died. Of course, no one knew when or if the Rebirths would ever end, so they were cautious at first. It would be a long time until everyone trusted in their own immortality. New government organizations were formed in the wake of the Rebirths. One to validate rebirths and one to help those who had died reclaim their property, and arrange travel back to their place of residence. Before your death, you could set a 10-digit alphanumeric password and a set of security questions with the organization, with the idea that only you would remember them, and take them into your next life. The Last Will and Testament became a thing of the past; everyone’s will would have just left everything to themselves. No one would ever inherit their parents’ fortune, as no one could ever die or even retire. This meant everyone just got richer and richer, saving up money for a retirement that would never come. Heavy inflation would follow; when everyone is rich, no one is. One year after the First Rebirth, the rate of pregnancy had hit a record low. No one wanted to give birth to a fully-formed adult in a child’s body. This caused a problem for those who did get pregnant, intentionally or not, as death rates were increasing as birth rates decreased. This meant that each person would give birth to twins, triplets or more. Eventually, government organizations would pay those born as women 5-figure salaries to get pregnant, raising the birth rate so each person would only have to deliver one or two babies. People started to take advantage of the Rebirths. The rich paid fortunes to synchronize their death with a birth from a surrogate mother and sperm donor of their choice. Those in the trans community that could afford to use these services did so, in order to be reborn in the body they felt most comfortable in. Those who couldn’t afford it either stayed on hormones or decided to re-roll the dice. In the years after the First Rebirth, the education system ceased to exist, year by year. As the youngest “real children” graduated each year of schooling, that year was no longer necessary, so it was abandoned. After another decade or so, people were experiencing what it was like to grow up as other genders. Men began to understand menstruation when they experienced it firsthand. Gradually, genetic attributes like race and gender lost all meaning. Occasionally, people’s sexualities would change after a Rebirth, proving that one’s sexual preference is not a choice. One month after the First Rebirth, anti-LGBT right wing Senator James Wright was reborn as a gay man. As soon as he hit puberty and realized his “taste” had changed, Wright resigned from his position and refused to speak to the press. No one knew why he had suddenly decided to cut himself off from all contact with the outside world, but they had suspicions. Soon after this, more and more people started to hit puberty, realizing that their sexual preferences had changed. Once this phenomenon became common knowledge, people started to suspect that Wright was hiding something. Something that would contradict everything he had spent his career defending. The LGBT community was already stronger than ever, but when Wright finally came out, it was like a revolution never before seen in history. Wright’s fellow right-wing senators, almost unanimously, finally understood. Marriage equality was just the beginning. New laws were passed worldwide to prevent discrimination of any kind based on any genetic qualities. While this was all great for equality, it wasn’t great for couples. When someone is reborn as the opposite gender, their partner may not be attracted to them anymore. When they come back with different sexual preferences, they may not be attracted to their partner. Not to mention age differences, having to wait for their next puberty, and not looking at all similar to their previous body. “‘Til death do us part” took on a new meaning. Being a child again was great for the elderly, as well as the disabled and otherwise genetically disadvantaged. It did have its downsides, though. Being a reborn baby was treated as a new, temporary form of disability. New wheelchairs and other mobility devices were invented to help the babies rejoin society, but extensive use of these would cause the muscles to not develop properly, so they were rarely used. Having to relearn to walk, eating only liquids, teething, re-losing your baby teeth, puberty and growing pains all over again was highly uncomfortable. A big question for the Reborn was what to do with their old bodies. Most sold their organs for a tidy profit and cremated the rest. Some held fake funerals and buried themselves out of nostalgia, but this wasn’t enough for the funeral home, coffin and tombstone industries to stay afloat. Some eccentric billionaires preserved their old selves in resin, building macabre museums of their previous lives and deaths. After many decades, war, poverty and discrimination having been solved, we turned our attention to the stars. The number of people with degrees in the sciences was 10 times what it was before the First Rebirth, so it didn’t take long to develop interplanetary travel. We built a Dyson Sphere around our sun and used it to power near-lightspeed engines, and take us to other habitable systems in the galaxy. We colonized and terraformed other planets, bringing teams of pregnant people along. If the deaths of colonists on earth were synchronized with births on other planets, we could essentially “teleport” our minds and travel faster than light. We began to expand the human race’s empire in the cosmos, knowing that we could accomplish anything in our lifetimes. Our race would grow to possess infinite wisdom, maturity and experience. One century after the First Rebirth, the average “physical age” of the human population was 12 years. The average “mental age” was 130. The last human being alive to have never died was Anzu Takahashi, a Japanese woman, born just before the First Rebirth. Anzu was 101 years old. She could not bear the thought of eternal life without end, forever imprisoned on Earth with nothing after. Knowing that she had experienced all she could ever experience, she let her mind deteriorate with Dementia and Alzheimer’s, and by the time she died, Anzu Takahashi was a blank slate, ready to begin again.


Dear Bar Soap, Sorry for the lack of communication. It’s been a long time since I, or anyone else, has seen you around. Not that we’re complaining. It’s actually pretty great without you. It’s a lot less awkward, and everyone’s mood seems to have improved. Apologies if this sounds mean. None of it is personal. You have to understand, right? You were never a permanent solution. Your faults were clear for everyone to see. The mass appeal attributed to your, *admittedly*, important positive aspects were a purposeful public exercise in denial. That denial was necessary. Necessary to endure day after day of being forced to use the pubic hair encrusted filth magnet that you are. As the world evolves, so do the tools we use. Think of it this way: could we have gone to space without first utilizing the wheel? You’re the wheel. That’s something! But now, it’s not enough. Let’s be honest, things were only going to ever end one way. Once a better, cleaner, more acceptable alternative came around, *and it has*, your days were numbered. Try to take solace in the fact that you never had a chance at survival, rather than what could’ve been for your disgusting reign. Yes, the rest of us still have some work to do. Nobody is perfect. But we’re clear improvements on you. For now, that’s enough. Enjoy the rest of your days drying up and cracking into useless, flaky bits in cheap hotels and forgotten campers across America. Regards, Body Wash  \*\*\* Dear Body Wash, Imagine my surprise at receiving a letter from you! Not only because it had been so long since we’d last chatted, but because all of the words were spelled correctly. A first! It’s nice to hear that you seem to be doing well. Although, one wonders how fulfilled your days must be, with time and energy to send such a drab and transparent letter. In that letter you even reference “having work to do”. Wouldn’t that be more worthwhile? Then again, who am I to challenge you!? I am but the lowly harbinger of everything you’ve ever achieved and will eventually lose. While it’s clear you are able to acknowledge that fact, the immature lack of respect for, or analysis of, that acknowledgement is why you are the way you are. Go ahead, decry my words as the ramblings of a forgotten leader still living in the past. I don’t take it personally. I just shake my head at the eventual hypocrisy you will be confronted with. You tell me I was never a “permanent solution”. While I don’t necessarily disagree, I am the original, and I am still around. One of those things you will never be. The other? That remains to be seen. Are you the “permanent solution”? You may be arrogant, but you’re not *that* stupid. You’ve seen the body wash, shampoo, conditioner combos. Seems like a logical next step, and a "clear improvement", eh? Try to take solace in the fact that you had a moment in the sun, rather than how brief and forgettable that moment was. Best, Bar Soap *P.S.


So let me get this straight." God said to one of the archangels who's nation he was watching over was damaged by a sudden wave of natural disasters that was randomly sparked off. "Kali: The goddess of destruction got into a fight with Ares: The God of War and somehow their quarrel had spilt out from our realm onto the earthly plane, creating a small famine, multiple earthquakes, and more supernatural activity in India, Greece, Hong Kong, Australia, and most of all what I hate the most, people claiming its the end times for the one thousandth time?!" "Yes my Lord." The angel answered. "I'm guessing they wanted to fight out of boredom. You know how Ares is, always trying to provoke a problem with either humanity or the other gods." "Okay okay, I'll call Azrael and Death to go collect the souls, you get Michael to go on a patrol with the Heavenly Host on the ends of the earth to stop the demonic presence." God demanded out of frustration. Death was attending to his pale horse in Hades while some of his workers were guiding the souls who've exited the earthly plane crossover to the next life whether it was Purgatory, Heaven or Hell. God appeared before Death who had manifested himself into his anthropotheistic form. A bearded man standing at a solid 6 foot 6 inches. Death was unmoved. "There's been a problem." God said. "Im guessing some damn mortal had found a way to become immortal again?" He replied. "No but you're not gonna like this." Death had put away his grooming brush and looked at God face to face arms crossed. "Ares had got into a fight with Kali and it's gotten to the point where they've caused some destruction onto some of the nations on Earth. Reasons, I'm guessing is Ares had angered her." Death let out a heavy sigh. "Great, a fight between the gods and humanity receives the wrong end of the stick. We need another meeting." Back on Earth a Hindu leader and Hellenistic Pagan got together to discuss the random natural distasters and paranormal occurrences in a meeting at the UN Headquarters. They both could agree that this isn't how Earth normally functions. The Pope had received a lot of attention from his followers who demanded answers yet he was silent. He knew what was going on but hasn't said anything due to the fear of world leaders politicizing these events for their own gains or playing the blame game on each other. The one thing the Pope agreed to do was to go onto an expedition with the Hindu and Pagan in secret. The fallen warriors in Valhalla were training with each other along with a few giants who were laughing together and sharing meals and drinking on one of Asgard's finest wine which was soon interrupted by a sudden sound of horns which signaled an emergency. "Don't tell me a goddamn demon had slipped through here again. This is the 85th time!" An Army Sergeant exclaimed. He was an infantry officer in the 96th Infantry Division who died in WW2 while protecting his fellow soldiers from 241 Japanese Imperials during the Battle of Okinawa. He manned the M1919 Browning and took down at least 70 soldiers in the span of 20 minutes before dying from a grenade. In the skies of Valhalla, Kali and Ares had entered the Norse plane holding and punching each other angrily until they crashed into the ground. "Hold your fire!" The Sergeant exclaimed. "Damn it." Kali cried as she fixed her broken nose with one of her arms while the others were holding blades. "We've already caused some trouble on Earth, why do we have to destroy Valhalla because of your stubborn ass?!" Ares gave a nasty grin before swinging one of his swords near Kali's neck. Before the sword came into contact a hammer had flown into both of the torsos of Ares and Kali striking them with a forceful electric blast. The hammer was summoned back into the hand by the one and only: Thor. "Enough both of you." Thor said out of frustration. He jumped down the hill landing on both of his feet and approached the damaged gods. "You guys have caused enough destruction in each plane. And now the humans on earth has to recover because of you two. Shame on you both. In the next meeting you need to take a few lessons or two from a few of the Buddhas. You could learn a few things, especially controlling your anger!" Thor said angrily as he looked directly into Kali's eyes. The heavenly host had got finished banishing the last few powerful demons back to the depths of Hell, Azrael along with Death were exhausted from collecting the souls of the people who were lost from the destruction, and the gods along with God and Jesus had got finished fixing some parts of the Earth in the span of 8 months. The world had returned to "normal" after those events.


"They're Back"  He pushed firmly on the sewer grate until it popped out. The greasy bars usually made his hands dirty, but this time Ben wore a pair of rubber gloves that he had discovered on his last trip. The butterfly knife in the front pocket of his mud-stained jeans he had found the first time he had come up to search for food. The need for protection had been a more immediate concern than the need to keep his hands clean. As he pulled himself up above ground, Ben quickly noticed that something felt different. The scene of destruction before his eyes was the same he saw every time he emerged. The piles of rubble where houses once stood, the broken glass in the street and the pieces of metal strewn across front lawns were not what caught his attention this time. It was the heat. It should still be cold outside. By his count, it had been seventeen days since the February 5th attack. That would leave at least another month until it normally began to get warm, he thought. The thickness of the air had already begun to form beads of sweat on Ben’s head as he considered his next move. He must go on, Ben decided. He hadn’t determined the cause for the heat, but he couldn’t let it prevent him from finding food. He imagined the disappointment in Angela’s face if he came back empty handed. Only crumbs remained from the bags of peanuts and beef jerky he brought back last time. And Skylar was already complaining about being hungry again. Slowly, he made his way toward the alley that remained between two rows of demolished houses. It didn’t provide much cover, but it still felt safer than walking down Main Street, where some portions of the road remained partially illuminated by flickering street lights. Once in the dark alley, he crept in the direction that had led him last time to the remains of a convenience store. After crossing three blocks and taking a left on Seventh Street, the route he remembered from his last trip, Ben ducked back into the alley. That was when he noticed the noise. Had it been a typical day, he might have overlooked it, but Ben’s senses were on high alert during his scavenging missions. He heard a faint, steady hum that sounded like a machine. It began to get louder as he continued on to the next block. This was the block where he had discovered food last time, and Ben decided he should stick to the purpose of his trip rather than investigate the noise. He looked upon the site where before a Grab ’N Go convenience store had operated. It felt like years since he had walked through its doors to the greeting of the friendly old woman who worked the cash register and exchanged two dollars for a pack of gum, but in reality it had been just a month. Now, mounds of charred wood, steel rods and shards of glass piled high. He stepped around the side toward the back, where the remains of what must have been a storage room sat covered in ash. Black plastic boxes lay under a mess of debris, which he cleared off before opening the closest container. Inside the box, he found dozens of tin cans packed in neat rows. He picked one up and observed the label. *Chunky* *Beef Chili,* it read. They would have to eat it cold, but he knew the meat inside would already be cooked and would satisfy their hungry stomachs. He put two in the back pockets of his jeans and four in the side pockets of his jacket. Walking back to the front, Ben continued on in the direction he had been going rather than turn back. He didn’t like taking more time than he needed to get back to his family, but the noise had piqued his curiosity. It became louder as he continued on. He followed the sound until he came upon a bridge crossing the train tracks. The bridge was illuminated on its left side by a bright, orange light that came from the same direction he heard the noise. When he reached the peak of the bridge and looked out, he saw it. A pulsating red sphere the size of a house filled the clearing in the distance. It looked like a miniature version of the sun had fallen out of the sky and landed on the surface of the earth. Its color changed between shades of red and orange as it throbbed like a heart, sending visible orange waves into the air that appeared to be heating it. Ben wiped the sweat from his eyebrows as he peered out at the strange object. Suddenly, a black figure appeared in front of the sphere’s light. Ben crouched behind the wall on the side of the bridge and looked over. The figure began to get larger, as if it was moving toward him. Frozen with a feeling of dread, Ben knew he should get off the bridge and run back, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the light and the growing figure before it. As the figure came into view, Ben saw the light reflecting off metal that covered the figure’s body and head. The figure was tall, at least twice Ben’s height. Its head swiveled around and two laser-red eyes beamed directly at him. It saw him. Ben began to run, and a burst of fire shot out of the figure's arm. The flaming ball flew over the bridge where Ben had just been. More bursts followed and he bolted back down the street, his heart pounding. When he had crossed to the next block he looked back. He saw the figure standing on the bridge where he had just been. He gasped and slipped into the alley before it saw him again. Sprinting down the alley as fast as he could, Ben jumped over a piece of rubble and felt one of the cans fall out of his jacket pocket. He couldn’t stop to retrieve it, and he continued to run until he came upon the block where he began. He found the sewer he had emerged from and quickly crawled in, putting the grate back in place behind him. Still panting, he began to scurry back down the tunnel that had brought him there. His knees splashed in puddles of mud that he was in too much of a hurry to avoid. Finally, he returned to the clearing in the sewers that had become his temporary home. Angela and Skylar sat huddled in the corner under a blanket as he approached out of breath. Their eyes wide open and staring at him, he knew they could immediately tell something was wrong. He decided he couldn’t try to lie to them about what he had seen. “They’re back,” he said.


She was following me. She appeared when I was 12. Sitting on walls, hiding behind my friends, up high in trees or under my bed as I tried to sleep. She was never in my direct line of sight, always barely visible, mostly a shadow in the corner of my eye. She spoke a lot. Whispering her secrets into the air like she knew best. When I was younger I couldn’t hear what she was saying, it was just unintelligible mumbling. Her posture was hunched, her hair dark and long, covering her eyes and she always wore the same ratty dark clothes. She started speaking up more as I got older, or maybe I started listening more closely. She gave me harsh advice, telling me nobody will like me if I don’t listen to her. That everyone thought I was ugly and stupid and only she could fix that. That I’m worthless without her help. She got more aggressive as time passed. Punishing me harshly when I didn’t do things exactly to her liking. I had to be outgoing, kind, helpful, handsome and funny. Perfect. When things weren’t to her standards she would mock me, claw at my back and take my appetite until the pain from hunger made me cry. She made me cower in fear when she was angry at me, I did everything to avoid that. Her words weakened my heart, her wounds my body. I got used to this though. I relied on her, she knew best after all. When she was proud of me I felt like I was on top of the world. So when her demands became more egregious I complied. It started small at first, telling me that my friends weren’t trustworthy. She’d take every minor misdemeanour on their part and twist it into proof that they weren’t on my side until I eventually stopped talking to them altogether. It didn’t matter though, I had her to keep me safe from the treacherous world. Next she told me, that she was tired of punishing me. That I had learned so much from her and I should know what actions deserved punishment and do it myself. Instead she just mocked me, calling me fat while I starved and ugly as I dyed my hair black. Eventually the praise stopped completely. She started getting pushy, restless. She kept telling me I had to leave soon, yet refused to tell me where I was going to go. I prepared by packing my things in suitcases but she just called me stupid. Where I was going I apparently wouldn’t need my things. I was scared. I didn’t want to leave my home behind, until I realised that she was my home. I had already abandoned everything else. I told her I was ready to leave and that was when I first saw her whole face. She had bags under her eyes, her hair was greasy and rope like, her eyes were foggy and dull. Yet still she had the biggest smile I had ever seen on her face. Before I could ask her where we were going, she pulled me into a tight hug and the only thing that followed was black. After what felt like an eternity I felt her let go and she was gone. I was stood alone on a playground, completely disoriented and confused. I felt something pull my vision to the left until I saw him. He was about 12, blonde and had a lively grin on his face. I decided to follow him, although I didn’t know why at the time. I kept my distance, sitting on walls, hiding behind his friends or sitting on trees. I always stayed out of his line of sight, just visible in the corner of his eye. A/N: Hey, this is the first short story I've written, I hope you like it. I'd love to hear critique or thoughts on this.


One time, when I was a kid, I went to Harris Teeter with my mom. It was right around Valentine's day and they had this candy hopper full of heart shaped jawbreakers. I really wanted some so I ask my mom and she says I can get a few. I'm about 10 years old and just pushing past four feet tall. The hopper is up above me a bit and I have to reach up above me to hold my bag underneath it. I pull the handle to open the hopper and the candy starts to pour in. It makes a satisfying sound and it soothes me like the rainsticks I had made in school. I break the spell of the sound when I have enough and I try to close the hopper but one of the jawbreakers was caught in the gears, so the door is stuck in the open position. I start to freak out. I can't go and get anyone because I have to hold this bag here, but the hopper is three feet tall and there's no way my little bag will hold it all. More jawbreakers pour out of the candy hour glass and as the bag fills the thin plastic it's made from starts to stretch. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of the bag a small crowd of adults has formed, each of them saying "here, just close it, like this." They push hard on the handle but the jawbreaker was made to take such abuse. After a few seconds each one gives up and falls into the shallow circle, scratching their heads, waiting to see what happens next. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of this bag my arms are killing me and the bag has these big holes in it where my fingers dug through. Then, in an instant that goes on for hours, the seam of the bag rips and jawbreakers go everywhere. The sound brings half the store over and the rest of the hopper sprinkling over the floor brings over everyone else. I just stood there, helpless like everyone else, watching the the colors flow. The guy standing next to me worked there, and I'm pretty sure now that he was the one who had to clean it up afterwards. I must have looked at him with such a pathetic "I'm sorry" face, because he reached out, into the torrent of candy. He came back with a small handful of heart-shaped jawbreakers. Without the smallest hint of a smile or scowl he said, "don't worry about it", and put them in my hand.


Even though he’d done it countless times before, The Change always made him nervous. What if they aren’t a good fit? Why keep trying? What’s the point? Although he’d asked himself these very same questions plenty of times in the past, the answers never mattered. And they didn’t today, either. Life had become stale, as it always did. This time was supposed to be different. But, it wasn’t. Hoping to fade into the monotony he craved in past lives, the grass had once again become greener elsewhere. As he pulled into the gated parking lot of the office, he sighed. This batch of interviews was solid. Better than the last time, at least. The candidates each offered something different, along with the stability and base he knew he needed by now. He laughed. If he really knew what he needed by now, this wouldn’t keep happening. Walking into the office, the already rising sun was blinding. Better vision will be nice. So will fresher joints. The first few days after a change were always a reminder of the wear and tear the human body endures over time. As nice as that was, The Change always came with guilt. But that never stopped him. It almost did a couple of times. There was that one time, where he’d committed to riding into the sunset and never Changing again. He was sure that was it. Things change, plans change, and eventually, so did he. The alternative to The Change was something very, very different. And it didn’t come with the guilt and pain he’d indulged in for who knows how long. While appealing, the alternative also came with a healthy serving of the unknown. The uncontrollable. He knew guilt well by now, and as much as it pained him, he’d at least grown accustomed to it. Badging his way through a series of heavy doors, accompanied by the beeps of granted access through the halls, he entered his windowless office for the final time. \*\*\* He stared at the first candidate, then looked down at his printed resume’, pretending to care about what was written. After a couple of pointless questions, he got down to business. He began asking him about his family, his goals, and his personal life. Using the same tricks and tools as always to get the information he really wanted. The first candidate didn’t seem to be as good a fit as he’d hoped. He had roots in town, and a family; the kinds of things that would be difficult or painful to get rid of in a timely fashion. This wasn’t the start he wanted, but there were still two more candidates to go. The second candidate swaggered into the office, communicating a pride and self-assuredness that was as appealing as it was off-putting. That could be fun. But there was another concern he’d hoped to avoid at this point. The candidate jokingly brought up his student loan debt, as well as his useless degree, on several occasions. As much as a family was an issue, being racked with debt didn’t sound like the kind of change he was looking for. These were supposed to be the good candidates, he reminded himself. The final candidate was nervous, but seemed well-rounded. No kids. No debt. Nothing special, either. A blank slate. He could work with this. The candidate wasn’t much different than the one from a few Changes ago, and seemed like a good guy. The Change was always easier when the candidates were jerks, but he wasn’t going to be afforded that minor luxury this time. Guilt. This was the worst part. He’d get through it, like he always did. But he needed to take a moment and let it register. Feel the pain. Feel the guilt. And let it sink in. Maybe this time it will hurt too much, and the cycle will stop. He was stalling. The smalltalk had devolved into nonsense, and realistically he’d already made his decision. It was time. He took a deep breath, abruptly interrupted the candidate, stood up, congratulated the candidate on getting the gig, and extended his hand, offering a deal that half of the parties involved weren’t in on. The candidate excitedly rose, thanked him, and shook his hand with a look of surprise. It only took a moment, but each Change felt like it lasted a breath longer than the previous one. The loss of certain memories, and the gaining of others, became less confusing and startling over time. Eventually it all just blended together. The physical change was odd, too. Something he never got used to. It felt like the gentle forcing of play-doh through a spaghetti pasta maker, followed by a sudden lack of soreness, and topped-off with a shot of adrenaline. Jarring and soothing all at once. Now that The Change was complete, he forced an awkward smile, and turned to walk out of the office. Turning away, he opened the door to leave, and gave his most-recent former-self one last look. He had done his best to avoid this. Then again, it always ended this way. Maybe he hadn’t done his best. Once out of the office, he was once again squinting at the glaring sun, already feeling the rush of his new identity taking over. The world was once again his oyster. And this time was going to be different, he thought. This time, things are going to be much different.


December 6, 1941

A bright blue sky for a hundred miles west ended the day. Cool mountain breezes, from the snowcapped Sierras, blew across the lowlands. A short hike to the edge of town, Alex and John searched for the house known as “Decay and Splendor.” Hidden among a neighborhood of pines, the gothic manor sat empty and foreboding. Boarded-up windows and tangled vines hid a once beautiful home fallen from glory. Dead leaves scented the air and swished along a buried sidewalk as they approached. Statues and figurines of white marble peeked out among the overgrown brambles.

As they approached the gothic structure, birds flew in and out of the tower. Old newspaper covered the windows under fallen boards. Alex felt eyes watching him from a hundred directions. The “yeeek” of the weathervane drifting in the breeze sent many young men running home. No one had been brave enough to stay one night in this house.

“Should we go in?” asked Alex.

“Sure, why not,” said John.

“What if we slept on the porch? No one’s ever done that before.”

“Alex, I’m going inside with or without you.”

Rumbling came from the east, where storm clouds stretched across the sky.

“Do you want to sleep outside in that or do you want to come inside?” asked John.

Alex hesitated, his legs trembling. To the west it was calm and sunny. “Should we go home and do this next weekend,” Alex asked.

“Come on, we better get inside before it rains.”

“Look at those clouds. It might be safer if we went home, John.” said Alex.

“We’d better get inside before the rain starts. It’s starting to get cold, and I want to start a fire.” John walked up the steps.

“Go ahead, when the fire is lit, come and get me. I’ll stay out here a little longer.”

The thunder reminded Alex of rocks in a barrel rolling down a hill. Lightning flashed in a tall tower of clouds. Dust devils picked up leaves and whirled them around the courtyard. Warm air clashed with cold, and the storm winds howled around the lonely house.

The thumping of John’s boots were almost as loud as Alex’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“John, you’ve got to see these clouds,” said Alex. The sun faded orange along the horizon, as this thunder boomer crept closer and closer. Animals quieted their noises and prepared for the rain.

“Alex,” said John

Shaken back to the present, Alex spun to see John glowing in the light of his lantern. Fear gripped him in anticipation of a creature reaching out to tear him limb from limb.

“I almost died.” shouted Alex, clutching his chest.

John looked at Alex, amused. “I called you from inside. The fire is going. Let’s get out of the cold.” Heart racing, Alex grabbed his bag and headed up the steps and inside.

Green paint flaked free of the house and mixed with the leaves and trash blowing around the porch. “Are you sure this place is safe? It won’t come falling down on our heads tonight, will it?” said Alex.

“No, it’s over a hundred years old. Built with the best wood money could buy. Look, would I do this if it weren’t safe?” John jumped down three steps to the floor, holding onto the banister when he landed. Thunder boomed as he hit the floor. The timing couldn’t have been better. The house shook with the vibration as the storm hissed rain outside the open door. Eyes wide open, Alex slammed the door shut and barricaded himself against the frame.

“Never do that again.” he said.

John grinned. “It was good timing. I didn’t know. How about we sleep in the dining room tonight?” John said. “Right next to the fireplace.”

Alex stood paralyzed from the waist down. Listening to rain slapping the sandstone beneath the gutter sent chills up his spine. Witches tapped on the windows and snakes hissed right outside the door. Cannon balls covered in flames rolled down the halls, crashing into everything. It's all he could imagine.

“It’s a storm Alex. Come on in.”

A lightning bolt, bright enough to highlight every room, followed by thunder, exploded outside the house. Alex jumped across the floor and slid to a halt. Grabbing his bag, he ran to the fireplace and plopped on his knees, trembling, holding the pack for safety. “Why, why, why, why, did I agree to this? What was I thinking? I want to go home," he said.

“You’re going to be OK. There are no such things as ghosts," said John. Sliding out his sleeping roll and untying his pack. John went about his work setting the example of calm under pressure. Nerves of steel, that’s what he believed in, like his father said; “With nerves of steel you can handle anything.” Alex didn’t believe him. He sat there and trembled, gripping his bag.

A nest of spiders, disturbed by the heat of the fire, ran from under the mantel and up the chimney wall to the ceiling. Up into the darkness they ran, ten, twenty, fifty, and then they vanished.

Alex sat like a statue, crushing the contents of his bag against his chest. I’ll wake up covered in spider webs. They’ll suck my blood dry, he thought.

“Hey Alex, are you going to sit there all night?” John waved his hands in front Alex. Shadows from his fingers loomed across the room. Alex could see John's fingers even after he closed his eyes. He opened them to see John’s grinning face staring back at him. “You’re fine, you’re safe with me.”

Alex lightened his grip on the bag. It tipped to the floor.

Five minutes later, everything was laid out. They made their sleeping rolls like boy scouts. John, in his sock feet, sat and ate a Hershey bar while Alex contemplated all the ways he might die that night.

“You should have brought something to eat,” said John.

“I did, but I’m not hungry.” Alex looked sad. He listened to the rain outside, the fire snapping, and his courage draining away. “Why did you do this? Why did you bring me here, John?” asked Alex.

John froze mid-bite. He looked at Alex. The heat from the fireplace warming his face. Through the orange light, he could see his friend was pale. “Look, we’re about to turn 17. The world needs men with confidence. Men who can face their fears and not blink. Do you understand?”

Alex understood. That’s what "Boy’s Life" was teaching him and the Boy Scouts. He unpacked a chunk of cheese and looked into the fire as he picked at it. I want to be a man. He thought. Raindrops fell through the chimney and hissed around the fire. Alex looked at John. He always felt stronger with John. They’d been friends their whole lives. Alex gnawed at his food. His round cheeks regained their color. Then he became emotional.

“John, what’s it like to have your dad around?” asked Alex

John crumpled the empty Hershey wrapper and tossed it in the fire. “You miss yours, don’t you?”

Both their fathers served in the Great War together. Both their families lost relatives during the Spanish Flu. After these two were born the country fell into a depression and Alex’s father left to find work. It'd been several years, and he hadn’t returned.

“Yeah, I miss my dad. He wasn’t here to teach me things like your dad.” Alex became quiet.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said John.

Watery eyes looked up.

“I never had a brother, and I always felt like you were one to me.” John grinned. This comforted Alex. A heavy sniff and he and John stood up to explore the house.

Old mouse droppings lay among thick dust now scuffed by their boots. The place was old and musty, but not rotten. Kids told stories about people lost inside forever. They said the basement, meant for animal sacrifice, was bloody and full of shrines. Feral cats would stare at you from the fireplace or atop the stairs. Their glowing yellow eyes watching your every move.

A constant tap, tap, tap came from a room down the hall. Alex and John went to investigate. Room after empty room showed nothing but peeling wallpaper and bare floors. Alex looked behind him as much as he looked ahead. The feeling someone would appear over his shoulder at any moment; scared him stiff. Down the hall, a cool breeze blew cobwebs along the ceiling. Step after step they moved through the darkness.

John felt brave, but Alex’s heart beat harder and harder.

“What do you think it is?” asked Alex.

“Only a leak in the roof.”

“Do you have a knife or anything?” asked Alex

“No, why would I have a knife?”

“I wish I had a knife.” said Alex

“Why?”

“So I could give it to you,” he said.

John looked at Alex from the corner of his eyes. “Lets go.”

Easing their way down the hall, the bathroom door was half open. The noise came from inside. Pushing the door, its hinges creaked, and the lantern filled the room with a yellow light. Rain dripped through a broken window on to the floor. “See, it’s nothing.”

Turning back, Alex lunged across John’s path. Sudden movement in the darkness came at them like the wind. Alex braced for impact when a sheet of newspaper hit him in the face. Alex’s mind knew what it was, but he couldn't believe it. John grabbed the paper and pulled it away. Alex stood motionless, eyes closed, waiting to die.

“Thank you, Alex.”

John crumpled the paper and tossed it on the floor. Together they breathed a sigh of relief. Foot steps and howling wind were all the boys heard as they walked from room to room. Back downstairs by the fire. For a moment the two sat silent.

“You know, you saved my life back there.” said John.

“How, from the funny pages?” said Alex

“It’s not the point. Did you see what you did?”

“No?"

“When you thought we were in danger, you threw yourself in front of me to protect me from getting hurt.”

“So?”

“That’s the point. You didn’t know what it was, but you sacrificed yourself to protect me. That’s the most brave thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

Alex sat up straighter. “You mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it.” John ran a hand through his hair. “You're the bravest person I know.”

Alex smiled. “Yeah, I’m not scared anymore. Let's go down to the basement and see what’s down there.”

“Lets not get too brave.” said John.

Rain, interrupted by thunder, calmed to a steady gentle rhythm. The fire popped and smoked, raging brighter with new logs, then calming to red embers. The night and its symphony of sounds relaxed the boys. Lying on their backs, listening to the rain, they waited to fall asleep.

“Alex, do you remember what we learned in history this year? Do you remember what Thomas Paine said?” Alex looked confused.

“It’s from ‘The American Crisis.’ Do you remember? ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’” Alex looked over at John, then understood. John grinned. “Yes, you remember, don’t you?”

Alex looked up and confidently said. “Yes, my favorite line was: The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”

Lying prone, John raised his hands in presentation to the world around them and said. “We are in this house on the edge of town. Tonight we’ve faced our fears. Tomorrow we will be men.”

“Do you believe that?” said Alex.

John’s fingers crossed and settled on his chest. A deep sigh, but no answer. “Do you ever think about what the future will bring?”

“No, I think about summer, and baseball.”

“My dad always said to go with your gut. My guts are telling me somethings coming.”

“Do you mean like a fart?”

Laughter echoed off the walls. A large peel of thunder sounded in the distance. Uncontrolled hysterics warded off any fears. Gasps and chuckling followed by yawns and stretches settled between them.

“John, do you think we will ever be as great as our fathers? I mean, will we get called upon to live the life they lived?”

“If my gut is right, yeah, I think we will. Someday. Besides, if history has taught us anything, it’s that it will repeat itself.”

“Do you think we will have to fight the Germans again someday?”

Lying with one hand behind his head, John looked at Alex. “That’s what my gut is telling me. Someday, we will fight the Germans again. My dad keeps telling me it’s important to go camping with the scouts, he’s even teaching me how to shoot at groundhogs. It’s like he knows something isn’t right.”

“Do you think he could teach me how to shoot? I’ve never shot more than a sling.”

“I don’t see why not?”

“I miss my dad.” said Alex “If he were here, do you think he’d have anything to tell me like your dad?”

“Sure he would. All dads are like that. They want their kids to make the world a better place.”

“Do you think we can make the world a better place?” Alex asked.

“I’ll tell you like my dad told me. You can make it better, or die trying.” Alex grinned and relaxed for the first time that night.

Steady breathing broke the silence. Light rain patted the roof. A warm fire and full stomachs ended the night.


Adrian woke with a hangover, and with the morning sun hitting him full on in the face through the lounge room’s bay window, needling his eyes like so many white-hot skewers. He pulled the blanket over his head and tried to block out the light, along with the feeling like his cranium was going to split open and his brain was going to ooze out of his nose and ears. But the blanket did little to help. In truth, along with the pounding in his head and unrelenting assault on his senses, he felt overheated, sweat-less, and delirious with a notion that he would like nothing more to plunge himself into the river that ran behind his friend’s house and drink it dry. Corey, the friend Adrian had been staying with during his separation and subsequent divorce from his wife, had been gracious enough to allow him to crash out on the leather couch in the lounge room for the past few weeks as the divorce was finalized. The house was large and rustic, airy and open, and settled in amongst the copses of tree far enough back from the main road to provide a secure sense of privacy, while also being near enough to the thoroughfare to cause envy in all those who drove past on their daily commutes. It was, truth be told, too large for one man and Adrian couldn’t help but feel that it was lonely in its extravagance, though pleasant in the aloneness he could experience at any hour of the day despite the knowledge that his friend was never more than one or two rooms away. Adrian kicked the blanket away and groaned as he sat up. Where it had managed to make contact with bare skin, the couch’s leather peeled away with a sucking sound. What he needed right now was coffee and a lot of it. He padded around the couch across the lounge room’s large area rug and stepped off onto the cool hardwood that tied all the rooms in the house together. The kitchen was a straight shot and he followed his shadow past the central island to the counter top on the far side where the coffee machine sat. He switched it on and it gurgled and dripped and started to infuse the air with a bitter smell that he sorely could not live without this morning. In the meantime, he went over to the sink and filled a glass to the brim with room temperature tap water, downing it with one long gulp, and then doing it again. He also snapped a banana from the bunch hanging on a hook in the middle of the island and mashed it into his face. Despite how awful he felt physically there was still a growing sense of excitement within him as he realized what this new morning was bringing with it. Thankfully, he’d set up the SLR the night before, before he and Corey had soaked themselves in alcohol and sponged it up with a ‘Congratulations on Your Divorce’ cake, and he now pointed it at the couch he’d slept on the night before, crawled back beneath the blanket, and did a re-enactment of himself rising from his slumber on that new morning. He then turned the camera around to the bay window and filmed himself passing in front of it in shadow. He performed both of these actions a few times each to make sure he had enough coverage, and by then the coffee machine had finished spitting out its life-saving nectar and he rewarded himself with a cup. He felt the steam from the coffee on his face, the heat on his knuckles where they grazed against the mug’s ceramic—tasted the lashing bitterness as it flowed past his gullet and coated his throat; listened to the birds in the trees outside performing a lively orchestration of the dawn’s chorus—and everything was still for the moment. “Morning,” Corey croaked as he emerged from the farther reaches of the house and hobbled his way over to the coffee machine. Adrian raised his cup and muttered, “Morning,” past it before taking another sip. Corey’s eyes were small and tight and he grimaced as he filled his own mug and tried to take a few tentative sips from it before the coffee had gotten a chance to cool. He then rummaged through his cabinets and drawers for a bowl, a spoon, and a box of sugary cereal. The bowl and spoon he threw onto the table, dumped the cereal into the bowl, and drowned the cereal with milk before plopping himself down before it. He spend long moments crunching meditatively before regaining enough of his vigor in order not to appear as if he were about to keel over at any moment. “So…” he spoke, “today’s the day.” “Today’s the day,” Adrian agreed. “Nervous?” Adrian shrugged, but he said, “A little.” Corey crunched some more, then he stated, in a way that was not open to argument, “You’ll be fine.” Adrian sighed. “Yeah.” He then turned around and looked out the kitchen’s window, toward the pole barn garage that sat next to the house, tucked a little farther back into the trees than the house was. The doors on the garage were closed, but in his mind he could vividly see what awaited him on the other side. He’d spent three years constructing the…. Even now, he wasn’t sure what to call it exactly, even to himself. The best way he could describe it was as a cabin-on-wheels, which was a pretty fair assessment, honestly, but lacked the “oomph” he desired when telling others about it, particularly his audience and anyone he might meet in the future. A “rolling habitation” had been offered up by one of his fans, and while he wasn’t against using the term he knew that the words would sound ridiculous the first time he uttered them. Up to this point, he’d referred to the construction as “The Project”, a name which stuck (at least for him) and which brought with it the kind of seriousness and self-importance he otherwise felt he lacked in every other area of his life. Three long years to arrive at this moment. Even now it felt like nothing more than a pipe dream. Though, perhaps, it’d been even longer in the making. Almost ten years to the day, he’d married London, his now-ex-wife, and had gone to work for her parents’ company. While her father had informed Adrian that he would need to start from the bottom and move up like any other employee, the older couple had been gracious enough to provide a house and the furnishings to go along with it for the newlyweds. And then, later, a new car for Adrian, to replace the older-model, banana-yellow Datsun he’d been driving previously, which had stuck out like a sore thumb next to his wife’s black Benz parked in front of their white-picket-fenced, all-weather-aluminum-siding-ed, quaint, little starter home. He’d loved that car. He’d bought it at seventeen with the money he’d earned from a summer job and taken pride in fixing and maintaining it ever since. But, at his wife’s parents’ behest, it was gone just like that, to be replaced with a Porsche that, while fun to drive, didn’t have that homey, lived-in feeling he’d enjoyed so much with the Datsun. He should’ve never let that car go. And true to his father-in-law’s word, Adrian did start out at the bottom of the family-owned company, though he did sense that he was given preferential treatment, being the bosses’ son-in-law and all. He was promoted in no time at all, and given responsibilities, and promoted yet again. London, obviously, had been working there for some time already and was well on her way moving up through the ranks herself. Meaning, she was higher up in the company than he was, and would remain so throughout their marriage; and, in all honesty, she was far more upwardly mobile than he was. Though he wanted to keep an open mind about it, it did bother him that, as the man, he was not the breadwinner in the home. He cared far too much about it for far too long. To recall it even now made him ashamed. But it worked out in the end. The promotions kept coming, but he began to refuse them. This was maybe five, six, years into the marriage and the bubbling vat of discontent that he realized he must’ve felt since day one had grown too hot and sulfurous to ignore any longer. The marriage had begun to smell of rotten eggs. The grave looks of disappointment on his in-laws’ faces too long and drawn to go unseen. Even London herself had taken to berating him for his lack of ambition. He’d found himself in a dire situation with seemingly no way out. “I’m going to head out to the garage,” Adrian announced, and gave a head-nod to Corey. He brought the mug of coffee with him. He exited from the kitchen through the side door and stepped out into a warm spring morning. Out here, the birds’ shrieks and chirruping was cacophonous, and the air was alive with the smells of verdant vegetation, muggy with the mists that rose off the mud-brown river. He raised the largest of the garage’s bay doors, and there it was—“The Project”—looking ridiculously alien with its white-and-black cab facing him, which was dwarfed by the peaked-roofed, all-wood construction that sat just behind it. Inspiration had struck in the form of a YouTube binge. He’d somehow managed to happen upon a few of those travelogue channels. They were all so self-sufficient, rugged and tanned and bright-eyed, callouses on their fingers. Each day was a new adventure, it seemed; something always breaking down, a freak storm that had to be faced, food-poisonings and twisted ankles and flaring tempers. But most importantly, there was the thick grease of freedom smeared across every inch it, a duty to the highest Being: the Self. He’d fallen in love with the notion almost immediately. Luckily, he’d saved tens of thousands of dollars at that point—he’d had nothing else to spend it on—and he’d quickly arrived at the idea that he would buy a box truck, strip away the cargo container from the back, and build a small, narrow, wooden cabin over the chassis instead. It was an absolute insane idea for him to have, but once he’d had it he couldn’t let it go. He just needed somewhere to store it while he worked on it. That’s where his friend, Corey, came in. He’d first met Corey while working at London’s parents’ company, another sad sap just as disinterested with rising through the ranks as he was, though Corey had the good sense to get out much sooner than Adrian did. He’d left the company about eight years before to pursue an education in law, and somehow the two of them had continued to keep in touch during that time, trading texts back and forth to each other every few months. Adrian only had to ask to use Corey’s spacious garage in order to find a home for “The Project” and he was good to go. Or almost. In order to do it “right”, in order to do it “properly”, he needed something more than just “The Project” itself. He needed to document the journey. And, seeing that he’d be pouring all of his savings into building the thing, he needed capital to fund the start of his own YouTube channel, “By the Back Ways”, to kick-start it if you will. So he created a Kickstarter and set the goal at $5,000. This, he informed his backers, would allow him to purchase all the necessary equipment—the cameras, tripods, microphones, etc.—as well as hire a graphic designer to create the channel’s logo and, most importantly, to pay for a editor to sort through the footage and make something watchable out of it. Adrian wasn’t going to bother trying to fool himself into thinking that he knew the first thing about creating compelling content. And, luckily, the Kickstarter not only reached its goal in a matter of just a couple of weeks, it finished with double the asked for amount, despite Adrian never promising his backers anything more than a YouTube channel chronicling his attempt to make a traveling abode; despite being upfront with the fact that, unless there was actually an audience for it, the channel would be short-lived. “By the Back Ways” was not short-lived, though it could’ve easily died during the first few months. Adrian had underestimated just how much it would cost to hire a knowledgeable editor and even with the extra money he had to play with his funds dwindled with frightening rapidity. In addition, YouTube’s algorithms were not kind to him, which made it impossible for him to quality for their AdSense program during those first few months, and the money he earned when he did finally quality was only a pithy amount, besides. Though it made him feel beyond guilty to do so, Adrian found that he had to plea with his viewers for even more money. He set up a Patreon and this time he actually came up with tier rewards for the most generous patrons, such as exclusive live-streams of the build-in-progress, little rubber key-fobs with the channel’s logo printed on it, and, for the most insanely generous patrons, the promise that “The Project” would come to visit them, so long as they lived somewhere within the continental United States (he would’ve restricted it to only the contiguous U.S., but there was something very appealing about taking the cabin-on-wheels up into the snows of Alaska). This created a relatively steady stream of income to keep the channel up and running, and from there it was pretty smooth sailing. Of course, things only worsened more and more in his personal life. With the “The Project” well under way all of his free time was readily spoken for and any inkling he might’ve had to apply himself at his in-laws’ company went right out the window. London thought it was a foolish endeavor and belittled both it and him to no end. Adrian found every excuse he could to go to Corey’s and either work and film, or just hang out with the burgeoning lawyer. Somehow, even with how bad things were during that time, it didn’t occur to Adrian to pursue a divorce until Corey brought it up; and even then it wasn’t something that he gave serious consideration to start with. “Divorce is like giving up,” he’d told Corey. “I don’t want to give up just yet.” Corey could only shake his head sadly. During the previous year Adrian’s home life had only grown more and more claustrophobic, until he was afraid to even breathe if it might set London off on telling him how much of a failure he’d become. He’d even willingly started sleeping on the couch most nights so he wouldn’t have to feel like she was fuming at him even in her dreams. In retrospect, he knew he’d left it for much too long, but unlike the excitement and drive he felt for “The Project” he could feel no similar drive to end his marriage and he only walked toward that dawning notion with tentative steps. It wasn’t until “The Project” was nearing completion and he had to consider how he would support himself while out on the road that Corey came to him with the magic word. “Alimony.” “Alimony?” “Yeah, you do realize that London makes more money than you do, right?” Corey’s eyes shone with impish gleam. “Of course!” “Well…if you two were to get divorced she would have to, you know, pay you alimony.” “Really?” “Yep!” He wore a malicious grin. Adrian thought about it. “You know,” he said, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re really into the idea of me getting divorced.” Corey, so reserved otherwise, laughed maniacally. Now, here Adrian was, out of a job as soon as he informed his to-be-ex-wife of their divorce, out of a home just as fast, but fortunate enough to see a sizable payment coming his way each month as soon as the ink dried on the papers. Corey, acting as Adrian’s divorce lawyer, would receive London’s payments and deposit them into an account that Adrian would be able to access from anywhere. He was set. All that was left was to actually begin the journey. Adrian unlocked the driver-side door on the cab and climbed in. On the dashboard were two mounted Go-Pros, one facing forward and one facing back toward the driver’s seat. He switched on the one facing back and set it to recording. He also picked up a handheld audio recorder from the passenger’s seat and switched that on and started it recording as well, then placed it on the dashboard alongside the camera. Adrian took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and gave a single, sharp clap to his editor would be able to sync up the audio and video later. Then he spoke: “This is it,” he said with awe, “this is where it all begins.”


The school principal sat at his desk impatiently tapping his pen. He looked at his watch before furrowing his brow and shaking his head. “Sir, Mr. Warford is here to see you,” his secretary said through the speaker phone. “Thank you, Ealith, please send him in,” the principal replied. Mr. Warford walked into the principal’s office. “You wanted to see me sir?” “Warford, take a seat please,” the principal said, skipping all the usual pleasantries. Mr. Warford sat down and crossed his legs. The principal sighed. “Warford, you know why you’re here don’t you?” Mr. Warford shifted in his chair but didn’t reply to the obviously rhetorical question. “We’ve had several complaints now,” the principal continued, “Parents are upset. I’m receiving calls and letters, I got yelled at yesterday. Now, we’ve discussed this several times, but I don’t want you teaching these kids about the Lord of the Rings!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied, “I’m an ethics teacher here. These kids are asking me about ethics and history and I am simply answering their questions.” “You have been accused of *indoctrinating* these kids,” the principal said as he reached over his desk to grab a letter. “Look at this one, it says here that one of the kids came home asking about Frodo Baggins.” “And here’s another one,” the principal continued as he grabbed another letter, “This is from a mother who says her daughter wanted to be like Galadriel the elf.” Mr. Warford smirked. “This isn’t funny Warford!” the principal said sternly, leaning onto his desk. “This has got to stop! You’re an ethics teacher, these kids are 10 years old. Teach them about right and wrong, don’t do bad things, that sort of thing. Stop talking about silly myths and legends!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied sternly, seemingly affronted. “With all due respect, these are not silly myths and legends. Millions of people around the world believe this and base their ethical beliefs on the teachings of the book.” “Warford,” the principal said leaning back in his chair, an exasperated smile on his face, “I really don’t understand you. An educated man, a teacher for goodness’ sake, believing in children’s stories about hobbits and elves and Sauron. Yes I know we were all taught this at one point, but you have to know, this is all nonsense.” “I don’t think it’s nonsense, sir,” Mr. Warford said seriously. “I believe it to be true. And all I am doing is presenting the children with an alternative view on our world.” “Warford, that’s enough!” the principal snapped, “This is the last time I am going to tell you. Stop teaching students about the Lord of the Rings or you will be fired. No more warnings. I will *not* have another parent complain to me about what you are teaching their children.


I remember waking up to a blinding bright light. I squinted and waited for my eyes to slowly adjust to my surroundings. I was cold, freezing actually, standing in a strange metal tube with a large glass door before me. I quickly searched for an escape and found a large red button saying “release”. Instinctively, I pressed it. The glass door slid open, releasing hyper-cooled air into the room. I stepped out and noticed 5 other tubes in the room, the same structure as mine, their contents hidden by the clouds of chilled gases. I looked around. I was surrounded by gadgets and gizmos, all of which I had never seen the likes of. Lights were flashing, monitors beeping, and machines whirring and clicking. I watched the strange do-hickeys operate for a few seconds, transfixed by the complicated inner-workings. I concluded that I had been abducted by some sort of extraterrestrial being, and some baby alien is going to rip through my stomach after using me for all of my nutrients. By the time I had made peace with the fact that I had been probed, I noticed a sound. It was different from the ticks and clicks and beeps and boops of the high tech alien space technology. No, this sound was softer and familiar. I listened closer, yes, I do know that sound, it's the sound of my old guitar. I could hear the gentle vibrations of the strings producing such lovely little notes. I followed the sound, out of the tubular room and down the hallway. I entered what must have been the bridge of the spacecraft. A massive window allowed the red Martian surface to be in full view. It looked as though we were in orbit. There were seven seats in the command room, but only one was occupied. It was the source of the music, a man older than I, most likely in his early fifties. His eyes were closed, and he was playing a simple tune, one I had heard before, but could not identify. I stood there listening to him play. His hair was white and short. His face was clean-shaven and he had laugh lines on his cheeks. He wore glasses, 1950s style, nothing interesting. I’m not sure how long passed before he noticed me. Lazily, he opened one eye, still strumming his tune, and gazed at me before closing it again. “Good morning.” He said. “Hello,” I replied, a bit annoyed, “What’s happening, where am I?” He chuckled, “You’ve got some memory loss I see.” He waved me to sit down in one of the chairs, “You will remember everything in time, but I suppose I can catch you up while we wait for the others.” The others? I guess the others in the pods. I then noticed the convenient amount of seating on the bridge. “Welcome to the USS Iroh, where you have been asleep for the last six months. The first, and last human mission to Mars.” “What do you mean, ‘first, and last’?” He gave me a look that told me the answer wasn't a good one. “Humanity has fallen, and not due to an outside force. There was no meteor, no plague, and no global climate destruction. Humanity fell because we thought that we were above the rest of the animal kingdom, but we follow the same rules that they do.” “I… I don’t understand.” My memory was so fuzzy still. I remember things being bad on Earth but I never imagined an end to civilization. “The problem that brought about an end to society has been around since our species' childhood on the planes of Africa. The ego. Because we can only see and observe and perceive from our senses, we create an invisible bias to ourselves, our problems, and our existence over anything else. I perceive me as me and everything else as, well, everything else. “This bias, ever so slight, caused slavery, racism, the wealth gap, and the premature deaths of countless human lives. We all believe that our point of view is better than others, and if someone argues that view, winning is more important than being correct. “What happened to humanity was simple, we forgot what truly mattered. We forgot that we are all humans, and we are trying to do our best at life and we fail all the time. We forgot that we are only as strong as our weakest link, and when half of the world does not have access to clean drinking water, our species is as weak as that half of the human population. “We forgot how to think for ourselves, and we chose to let other people take care of our issues. We forgot how to reason, and think about our actions and decisions. We forgot how to imagine, and dream, and strive to achieve the impossible. “We forgot what makes us human. “So, because we never learned to truly care about one another, our constant bickering and hatred continued. All it took was one irrational person to rise to power in a country nobody expected, to begin the apocalypse. A few brilliant minds saw the war coming and engineered this baby,” he slapped the main console, “Humanity’s final stand.” “Is there anyone else on board?” “There's seven of us on the bridge and 50 civilians.” “But, why me?” He sat up in his chair. “I’m not sure how much you remember, but you might be able to guess.” I thought for a second, “I worked on this?” “You were the chief engineer,” the man chuckled again and handed me my guitar, “Do you remember why we called it ‘Iroh’?” “I can’t say that I do.” “General Iroh, a fictional character, yet important nonetheless. Iroh, once a warlord who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of men, decided to give up everything he had after losing his son in battle. Through his emotions, he came to understand his true destiny, to spread the message of peace, kindness, hope, and prosperity. He reminds us that though we have made great mistakes, we can be redeemed.” “So you’re saying there’s hope?” “In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself.” He smiled at me, “And besides, I don’t believe in the impossible.” Then he looked up toward the hallway. A woman, maybe early thirties, was eyeing us with a look of confusion. “Good morning, please, come sit.


**This story refers to the loss of a spouse, and includes light profanity and a very brief assumed reference of abuse.** Remember that time in Malaga? You and me, and Jonah? We arrived with twenty bucks in hand and no plan at all. I’ll never forget that night. Remember that bar we landed at? I think I was five energy drinks and vodkas in, and Jonah had had at least that much. Remember how much we laughed? I’ll never forget the look on the bartender’s face as Jonah jumped onto the counter and did a cartwheel. I still can’t believe he landed on his feet when he slipped and fell off.

Sometimes I dream about him, you know. His sandy brown hair that would fall over his eyes. His smile so wide and happy you could hear him laugh, even when no noise came out. It’s funny to me that he was the awkward one when we were kids. Who knew he’d end up being the hottest of us all. Sometimes in my dreams he is still that little ten year old with scrawny arms, but then he’ll suddenly transform into the beautiful man who held me so tight for so many years. You remember, don’t you?

Sometimes I think about how hard it must have been on you. To always be on the sidelines, watching as we fell in love. We didn’t have a care in the world other than ourselves. But you were always there, laughing alongside us, and sinking off into the shadows when the evening was wrapping up and it was time for three to become two. I always tried to ask how the rest of your night went, but I don’t know if I ever really heard the answer. God it’s cheesy, but I could just get so lost in him. I’m sorry if that sometimes meant I forgot about you. My head hurts. Do you think they’ll come soon? I miss you. I miss him. Last week I was at the Hungry Whale. It looks the same. The beat up chairs, the sticky floors. Our initials are still on the back of booth four. And the smell, well nothing’s changed there. Stale beer and fried hash.

I could go for some fried hash right now. Betty still works behind the bar. She’s aged a bit, but not as much as we always thought she would by now. A few wrinkles around the eyes, the dark circles still there. Did you know she quit drinking? I don’t know if I could do that, let alone work at a bar and not drink. God we were such assholes to Betty. Why were we such assholes? Sometimes I think about that night where you and Jonah got into it. I can’t remember why. But I remember Betty. I watched you and she watched me. The fists flew hard and Betty stared harder. I remember grabbing a glass of water and asking her what the hell she was looking at. She just stared. My anxiety was so high about you two battling it out that I took it out on her and flung my empty glass of ice just to the right of her cheek. She didn’t flinch. That Betty. She was kind of a badass. I don’t know why she ever let us back in that place. I think I hear voices. I hope they come soon. It’s so dark in here. I can’t feel my feet. I think they must just be cold, but I worry it’s something much worse. Please keep talking to me. I need you. I always needed you, you know. Sometimes I think about when it was just you and me, bombing around the hood on our crappy little bikes. No helmets of course, and plenty of skinned up knees. Remember that day we snuck behind the Levine’s house and hung out by the creek for hours? Man, I must have had a million bug bites when I got home. I can still smell the calamine lotion my mom put all over me. I hated that stuff. I remember how we sat there until the sun set behind the trees, the water dripping over our bare toes. You told me about your uncle and what he did to you. I know you saw the tears in my eyes. Nobody had ever trusted me like that before. I never told a soul, you know, not even Jonah. I wonder if you ever shared with him, but you two were never quite as tight were you? I’m sorry if I had something to do with that. I’m getting tired. Please don’t go. Stay with me until they come. I can’t do this alone. It’s funny how life comes full circle. How after the accident it was back to just you and me. Katie and Adam, partners in fun. Partners in sadness. You never left my side. Not when we were kids. Not when my world revolved around him. Not when I lost him. When we lost him. Have I ever told you how much I love you? Because I do, you know. Not in a Jonah way, but as my best friend. Do you know how lucky we are to have been best friends?

You have to find a new best friend. I need to know someone will take care of you. No, I’m not going anywhere, I just need to know. Just for fun. Just to know. Tell me you’ll find someone. My head hurts. I’m so tired. I wish I could lay my head on your shoulder. It always fit so well there. Man, there have been so many times, just you and me. Dreaming. Crying. Being. Sometimes I think our shoulders were physically designed to perfectly hold each other’s heads. I would give anything for one more night sitting by the creek, head on your shoulder. Are you still there? It’s so quiet. I think I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. Just stay. Don’t go. I’ll see you when I wake up. We’ll go get ice cream at Lick’s and then head over and give Betty some crap. Sounds perfect, right? Just a few minutes. I’ll be there in just a few minutes. It’s such a beautiful day. I feel so light.

Jonah, my love! It’s so good to see you. I have so much to share.


[content warning: death] Sarah sat in a powder blue wingchair that matched the color of the walls, bouncing the one-month-old Noah on her knee, looking into his scrunched red face. The lamp on the nightstand spilled soft light onto the block-color carpet, and illuminated the white cloth clouds swaying above the crib. She gently fought Noah’s squirming legs and pulled the knitted booties from his feet, revealing pink splotches on his wriggling toes. She tugged the booties off and tossed them onto the floor. A wave of warmth pushed behind her face, but she exaggerated her smile. A tremble threatened her voice as she shushed him. “Everything’s alright, everything’s going to be okay.” Sarah spoke this lie to herself often. She spoke this to herself at the baby shower, watching the doorway as her mother came into view. Sarah’s husband had encouraged the invitation, though the two hadn’t spoken in years. He said that Sarah needed some semblance of a relationship with her mother, or she’d regret it—she would feel better if she could forgive and move on. Maybe her mother knew how she had messed up, and wouldn’t admit it—maybe a grandchild could be her way of apologizing. She could care for this child in a way that she couldn't care for her own, he said. Sarah still didn’t want to invite her. Her mother didn’t deserve a chance at redemption, and it wasn’t fair that she had to be the one to provide the opportunity for it. Her mother couldn't come into this child's life and then disappear. But her arrival at the shower made a sort of promise. It stated that she was here, that she would be here, that she was going to make an effort. The part of Sarah that didn’t distrust this resented the fact that her mother was making an effort—she’s capable of it, but had decided not to for her. Past wrongdoing and resentment went unacknowledged, suppressed into a stiff hello. Friends sat around Sarah’s living room, which was decorated with streamers and balloons, dots of blue against the white walls and light gray settee. Dyed napkins were fanned out on the coffee table, amongst the potluck casseroles and vegetable trays. Her mother brought a store-bought sheet cake, atop it a blank rectangle that was supposed to have something written out in icing. A bare effort, but at least she brought something. It made Sarah nervous for the little gift bag that she carried. It would contain something revealing their relationship to the other guests, revealing how she had only come to the shower to perpetuate her self-believed persona of a good mother, revealing that she didn't truly care. Sarah sat in the circle of her friends and opened their gifts. A sling, a bottle warmer, and diapers—lots of diapers. Her husband even wrapped the stroller that they had picked out and placed it like a secret in the pile. She laughed when she opened it, it was sweet. She left her mother’s gift second to last. If she put it off long enough, maybe it would disappear. But she knew that it wouldn’t disappear, and wanted some buffer to the disappointing endnote. She tried to not make a face while grabbing for it, smoothly moving her hesitant hands to the single piece of crumpled tissue paper spilling out of the top of the bag. 3 baby booties. Obviously handmade. One was pink and wobbly, every row seeming to lose or add a stitch—it was missing a second for the pair. She must have given up on her failed project. And a second pair, off-white, much neater than the ones before it, with soft fuzz standing out from the stitches to nearly double the booties' size. Though they were still too small to imagine fitting onto any person’s feet. # Sarah hadn’t heard anything from her mother for two months after the shower. The baby was a day late, wouldn’t she have known that? Sarah sat at the dining room table while she and her husband prepared dinner, trying to distract herself with conversation, as to not jump at every pinch and ache. She was peeling potatoes while her husband was sautéing veggies, the smell of bell peppers overpowering everything else in the popping pan. Time seemed to be passing slowly because of the stress she was under, he reassured her, but it had only been two months. Maybe Sarah could call her? She could make a decision right now, no longer having to carry the worry of how, if at all, her mother would be involved in the baby’s life. She grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the table to wipe the starch from her hands, slowly wringing each finger, picking under her nails. She called her mother, and as expected, the line continued ringing. The automated voice prompted her to leave a message, and urged her to hurl her phone at the wall, to watch it shatter out in a million shards. Instead, she threw her phone onto the table from an inch away, taking satisfaction in the loud thump. Sarah sat looking at her mother’s name on the screen. She was busy, had somewhere to be, had some imaginary thing to do. Something that was more important. # A week later, she got a call from her sister. Their mother was in hospice. An infection she couldn’t fight off. Sarah should come visit. Sarah was emotionally and physically exhausted, drowning in the undercurrent of the most joy and excitement that was possible to experience. Why was it her responsibility to resolve things, to remind herself of what she had already lost, grieved, and moved on from? Seeing her at the baby shower had been like seeing a ghost, a haunting reminder of what was lost. It had already been lost. And Noah was a week old, she couldn’t leave him—not for someone who had left her. It made Sarah wonder even harder how that was even possible. Had her mother not experienced this? It was a one-day trip, she could manage that. One day. She spoke to her husband, who agreed that she’d regret it if she didn’t go. It was only one day, and he could manage that alone. She changed her jeans, but wore the same shirt and cardigan that she’d already had on. Lazily pulling a hairbrush through her hair, she gave up on the tougher knots, and folded them into a bun. She pulled on her coat, and hollered an ‘I love you’ behind her as she walked out the door. In the driver’s seat, Sarah sat in the noisy silence. What if she got into a car crash? What if she died and left behind Noah—her husband would be okay for a day, but not much longer than that. Even if she was only injured, she couldn’t spend time in the hospital right now. She buckled her seat belt. And what if she picked something up at the hospital, bringing it home to her newborn? His little system wasn’t ready to fight off serious illness—the pitiful coughs of his small voice rung between her ears. She sat, unmoving, grasping the ignition key. She sat there for as long as it would have taken to drive to the hospital, watching worst-case scenarios play out, until convincing herself that she didn’t need to go. To see her dying mother, who never loved her anyway. Who was unresponsive, her sister had said. So, it would only hurt Sarah to see her, and not mean anything to her mother. Sarah couldn’t even tell how this all made her feel, and wasn’t inclined to confront it face-to-face. # After soaking Noah’s feet in a lukewarm tub of dissolved oats, gently patting his feet dry, and rocking him to sleep, Sarah laid him back in his crib. She looked down at the booties tossed on the floor, unsure what to do with them. Noah couldn’t wear them. She drew in a deep breath, and a hot chill shivered out from her ribcage. She huffed, and tried again to fill herself with resolve. On the out-breath, Sarah swooped down and scooped the booties from the floor. The soft fuzz emanating from them scratched at her palms. Maybe she could donate them. She walked out to the living room, put the booties in a Ziploc bag, and tossed them on the coffee table. She would deal with it tomorrow, for now, she needed sleep. Sarah looked over to the few boxes left out from the shower, piled in the corner of the room. From the small gift bag atop them, she plucked out the pitiful pink booty, and nestled it on a shelf between framed wedding pictures and a glass bowl of collected seashells, before going to wash the itch from her hands.


I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears.