Feeling his hair blowing wildly in the breeze, he kept his eyes set forward toward the light, just breaking through the trees. It was far too late for his comfort, but the boy kept moving anyway, too many nights having been spent against a tree or in a field for both his emotional and his physical comfort, young joints aching as though he were of an old man, hunger weighing his body down toward the earth below his feet. If his navigational skills were any good- the main part of that phrase being if - then it was likely he’d find himself in civilization once again. Perhaps that was ignorant hope or naive optimism, and he’d simply be walking these woods until he wasted away.

He finally paused for a moment, chest heaving with exhaustion as his lungs gasped for breaths that, in reality, it truly didn’t need , but longed for, reaching for the feeling of being fully human, rather than this bone-weary shell of his starved potential. he allowed his pack to slowly slide off his back, hitting the ground with a solid thump and gazed upwards. If he were near any sort of civilization, perhaps he’d be able to see it more reliably from higher up than on the lower level in which he stood at the moment, obscured by trunks reaching what felt like to the heavens. With a heavy breath, the boy grabbed the lowest branch, beginning his ascension, branch by branch, a trial of judgment of his weight and resilience. After minutes passed, branches threatening to splinter and give in from the force of his hand’s grip, he managed to find a solid footing in a fork in the canopy, poking his head out from the branches of the oak. There was a decent-sized cabin not too far from where he stood, the lighting of candles bringing slight illumination, though nothing that gave the boy an idea of whether they were able to be trusted. Aside from that, the next town he could find still was another few miles off, and that didn’t even guarantee a place to stay without having to beg.

With the hope of a comfortable place to stay beginning to dwindle, he sat himself down, leaning against one of the sturdy offshoots in the canopy. If he were going to have to continue walking for so much longer or risk having to spend the 3rd night without a bed, he at least deserved a small break, at least a reprieve of the pressure under his feet.

“Hey, kid, you doing alright up there?” The shock of hearing another man’s voice below him almost brought the boy off the branch, instinctually gripping a close branch near him.

“I-... er, yes sir, I’m okay,” he responded, his voice gritty from lack of use, as though his own words were scratching his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m… not trespassing, right? “No, no, I was simply on a walk.” The man came into his eyeline now, seeming small from where he sat, but with a strong frame, his hair unkempt and choppy at the shoulders, but held no look of malice in his eyes. “Jesus, you look awful… kid-” “My name’s Lucas, if that helps at all.”

The man grinned, nodding with some combination of relief and compassion. “Thanks, didn’t wanna pry, but you really don’t look well, and it’s late into the evening.” “Yes sir, I know. I’m trying to find a place to stay, sorry for distracting you from your walk.” “Don’t worry about that, I wasn’t trying to get anywhere specific.” He squinted up at Lucas, before speaking once again. “Would you be alright with coming down here? You look like you’re in pretty awful shape, even from down here.” He gave a friendly grin, but perhaps that almost off-put Lucas. With so much uncertainty and rioting from desperation, something about even the concept of receiving kindness felt foreign to him, but he wasn’t completely blinded by his despair to not at least entertain the kindness.

“...that depends. I’ll come down on two conditions.” “Alright, what do you want?” “One, can you give me your name? Y’know, since I gave you mine and stuff-” “Ah, yes! Sorry, kid, the name’s John.” The certainty and speed of the answer brought Lucas comfort, but he still kept his guard up, watching the man below him carefully.

“Okay, thank you Mr. John, but…” a wave of exhaustion hit him again, and he had to shake his head just to refocus himself. “Sorry, I… yeah, anyways, why… Why are you talking to me?” John’s expression turned from something of compassionate amusement to genuine concern, though somewhat masked. “It ain’t often you see a kid sitting in a tree who looks like he’s going to fall off at any moment.”

Fair answer, can’t judge that.

He nodded, before, very carefully, descending himself down the tree, a feat that, while far easier than trying to pull yourself up branches, left him feeling far more anxious, the risk of falling a dangerous amount more likely with less certainty about the strength of branches, but managed to find himself back on the ground no more scathed than he was before. John stood about 6 inches taller than the boy, and the strength in his form even more noticeable now that they stood, one in front of the other.

“...you’re taller than I realized.” John gave a good-natured laugh, eyes that were creased with worry now a little bit less stressed. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Something about good bones, or something.” There was a calming quality to the amusement in his tone. If there was an attempt to lower Lucas’ guard for nefarious reasons, it was pretty effective, in all truth. Still, he didn’t fail to notice the concern in John’s eyes become just as clear as it had been before, now seeing Lucas in all of his starving and exhausted glory.

“...I promise I’m okay.” “‘Okay’ clearly does not have the same definition between us, bud.” “I just.. Y’know, a little hungry, a little tired.” John nodded, silent as he thought, before speaking once again. “Would you like a place to stay tonight? I stay in a cabin pretty close by with a friend of mine, we have an extra bed and some soup, you could rest up for a day or two if you need.” Lucas looked at him, eyes wide and body still. “I… Why?” “Why what? Why am I showing you basic human courtesy? Lucas, kid, you look like you’re about to collapse, and you’re a good bit out from town, I’m worried about you.”

“You barely know me, though.” “Doesn’t matter. Honestly, you look way too worn-down to do any damage even if you wanted to, I’m not worried about it.” John spoke with only genuosity, such a rare sight that Lucas allowed himself to nod at the offer, smiling. “Well… If you insist, I’d appreciate that, sir.”

“I promise you don’t gotta call me “sir”, kid. Anyways, it makes me feel old, I’m not that late into my 30s.”

So Lucas grabbed his pack and the two of them walked, the light conversation at least being enough to somewhat distract the boy from his aching limbs and his empty stomach. Despite being somewhat small talk, likely motivated on John’s end by the desire to make sure Lucas didn’t wear himself down too much, Lucas still learned a good bit about him. He fought in World War I, just 17 when the war started and 20 when he joined. “Not an experience I’d recommend, really, and not a war I found myself understanding the purpose of, but I didn’t know how to cope with my teenage spite,” he said, and, one some level Lucas found himself sympathizing with this, despite not liking even simple confrontation, much less violence, but he did find himself relating to the idea of unplaced spite. One could even argue that was why he was out there, so stubbornly set on making sure he didn’t follow the steps of men who he knew he didn’t want to resemble. Hateful, pretentious men who see themselves, and by proxy their ideologies, above others.

Of course, he didn’t want to admit that he was spiteful to the man who was giving him a place to sleep and food. Still, though, there was simply something he trusted about this man, the sort of bright, yet not wide-eyed, attitude he had, clearly with his own experiences and their impacts, but not sunken down by them.

Eventually, they reached the cabin, and once couldn’t help but think about how nice this must have been, just the quiet forest, a nice, decently sized garden, and your friend. That honestly sounded like a dream, but as most dreams are, was more than realistic. One of them must have had the house before all of this, lucky enough to be able to survive decently enough to not have to sell it. Lucas didn’t have that, he barely had enough to keep moving and keep getting small jobs, much less find himself any place to live. After walking next to Lucas’ side most of the walk, he walked ahead when they neared the door, taking and twisting the doorknob.

“Henry, I’m back, and I have somebody with me.”

Looking past John’s shoulder, he saw another man come from around the corner, with shorter- though just as shaggy as John’s- hair, much closer to his height than his friend’s. There was a moment of quiet between the two, a couple of back and forth expressions, a silent sort of connection only close individuals could have, before he looked Lucas over, before motioning to John to come inside.

“You two come in. The soup is done, and you look like you could use it. What’s your name?” Henry’s voice had much less energy, coming off as slightly aloof, though not mean. Jaded, perhaps.

“Lucas, nice to meet you, sir.”

There was a small chuckle, copied by John. “Kid, I promise, you don’t have to call us sir, we aren’t your school teacher.”

He nodded, following him into a decently sized kitchen and dining room (even having one felt astonishing, though) Henry reached up and grabbed a bowl, pushing his heels up just slightly to reach. “So, Lucas, what were you doing out here? I assume you found him in the forest, John?”

“You say it like he’s some stray cat,” John laughed, getting a look shot at him, though the smile pulling at Henry’s lips betrayed amusement.

“Hey, no, that’s not what I intended, and you know it. Lucas, I’m not saying you’re some stray, just curious as to why you’re out here.” “Ah, just… trying to find work, I suppose? I got a bit lost trying to find another place to stay and work, though.” His voice was quiet, glancing down at his feet and shifting his feet awkwardly, hoping that they didn’t take that as some excuse. “Hard to find any 1 place to have consistency, though, so I kinda just try and go around. Saw a town past the forest on a map, and just thought that I could shortcut my way there…” “Wait, so how long were you out there?” John spoke up, raising his eyebrows.

“...well, I’ve been walking for about 2 days, in the forest for over a day, through the night, so not long.”

The men were quiet, looking at each other with concern etched on their faces before Henry looked back at him. “And how old are you?” “15, which I know seems young, but I’ve been traveling for work for a while, don’t worry. Anyways, you gotta learn survival skills at some point with how… y’know, just about everything is. You have to sort of rush around to make it.” He could feel their eyes drilling into him, though they quickly averted their gazes as he looked up, and he reached to try and lighten the tension, letting himself grin. “Y’know, you could say this is my coming of age arc. I’m a little old for it, but better late than never, I suppose.” The other two gave somewhat crooked smiles, slightly amused but expressions still marked by worry for the boy, though perhaps somewhat lighter now, whether that be out of a want to not stress Lucas out or genuine relief, and Henry turned his back to grab a ladle and fill the bowl.

“Give him my portion too, please, Henry. I’m not hungry, and he could use it.” The expression Henry shot back was one of reluctance, but John was too set for any words to be effective, so he gave a small shrug and refilled the ladle. John drew his attention back to Lucas, then behind him, toward another small hall. “We can get you set up in the extra room once we get you fed. If you need, we’d be happy to let you stay here for a couple of days while you figure out where you’re planning to go next-” “If he needs, finds some work in the town over, I’d personally be alright with him staying in exchange for some help in the garden or running to grab something from town,” Henry spoke over John, coming over to hand the boy a bowl of vegetable soup, the carrots and celery looking far better than anything he had gotten his hands on in quite some time. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like he was being parasitic to the strangers’ kindness, and Henry picked up on this quickly. “It’d be helpful to have another set of hands around here, and we have the extra room, it’s not being used by either of us.”

“3 bedrooms is impressive, this is a wonderful place.” There was a moment of confusion on each of the two’s faces at the 3 , but they both understood the misunderstanding and silenced their corrections. Explaining the situation would be far too complex of a feat to try and convey to this child, and far from safe. Best to just let him draw his conclusions. Anyways, Lucas was comforted by the kindness shown between these two men. They were close, though he wasn’t sure just how close. Still, a part of him found himself jealous of their close companionship, wishing he could have reached for that without the repercussions from his family, the stern lectures and the forceful attempts at “firming the boy up.” Still, that was on a different level than what Lucas assumed they had, the likelihood of being able to live out his dream like that… “I’m sure it’s really hard to keep yourself this well though, I don’t want to make anything harder-” “Kid, I don’t think you realize that we’ve been living out here since before all of this. You need a place to rest for a while, and I don’t want to have to wonder if you’re going to accidentally get yourself back to this condition again. You don’t have to be dashing around, there’s a better option for you, as long as you want it and are willing to help out around here. You don’t have to keep rushing to give yourself anything. I’m not saying you’d be able to fully take it slow- I don’t think any of us really can- but you can at least recover, maybe, with some luck, find a place to work without having to worry about where you’ll stay.” Maybe, on some level, John could see the struggle this kid was going through. A 15 year old was young enough to want home and old enough to be useful, clearly something had happened, and there were a lot of bad men out there. Maybe part of him wanted to protect and guide him, and he could see that same concern in the way Henry looked back at him. He couldn’t make the kid choose to do any particular thing, but he could give him some sort of chance.

“John, you’re talking your head off, let the poor boy eat something,” Henry teased, handing a bowl to him as well. “And you eat too. There’s enough for all of us.”

Lucas took that offer with no objections, finishing it within minutes of letting his weary legs rest, finding an almost instant rejuvenation, refreshed by the full meal and the supportiveness. The talks for the rest of the evening were lighter, and while there were still questions, there was a mutual understanding that they could wait till the morning. For 1 night, maybe they could all take it slow, not worry too much about the hatred and panic of their reality.


I parked my car in the gravel lot and walked toward the rusty “Scenic Overlook” sign. It was the same as I remembered. Though the stone wall of cemented stones looked like erosion had taken a toll on it. I rested my arms on it and leaned my head over the edge. Waves crashed far below, losing their never-ending battle against the massive boulders off the shore. I used to look at the view every morning on my run, but that was years ago. Back before Mrs. Leary. Back when I ran for myself. Back when I wasn’t running from anything.

I moved here just over thirty years ago when I was twenty-two. It was 2022. I was fresh out of college and just starting my first job as an analyst. It paid the bills but I really wanted to be a cop. Burgundy, OH was a nice enough town. Cheap rent and good people. It sat right up against Lake Erie which made it a popular tourist stop during the summer. I used to run every day. Rain or shine I’d lace up my Nikes and be out the door by 6:30 am. My route was nothing too interesting. Up and down my surrounding neighborhood streets until I hit six miles. When you really give yourself over to a routine, you notice everyone else’s. The same grey Ford passed me on mile two. They usually gave me a wave or flashed their lights if it was dark. On mile three I’d pass the window of Rob Morrison’s deli. It was closed, but sometimes I got a glimpse of him in the back, prepping for the day. I liked that routine. Not just because of the running, but because of the people I saw. They were part of my day, and I was part of theirs.

My favorite part of the morning was when my running app told me my run was over. It happened at the same spot every time; right outside Mrs. Leary’s house. She was an old sweet lady who I presumed to be in her mid-seventies. When I first moved there, she’d wave as I passed. After a few weeks, she started asking “You want some water, hun?”. Not long after that, she’d have two hot cups of coffee, a bottle of water, and a modest breakfast ready and waiting for me to finish my exercise. We hadn’t known each other aside from me being the kid who jogged outside her house at 7:30 each morning, but we became close. I never met my grandparents. I guess I assumed they died before I was born but never got confirmation on that. If I had to guess, this is what having a grandma felt like. I don’t remember the specifics of what we talked about, but we’d shoot the shit for a good hour before I’d walk the half mile back to my apartment.

As the years went on, she got older and missed a few mornings. Couldn’t blame her, though it did disappoint me and usually never happened more than two days in a row. As selfish as it sounds, I sometimes wish I would have never met her. She was a wonderful lady, but damn did she leave me a mess to clean up. Not that getting murdered was her fault.

It was a cool morning, on the cusp of autumn 2025. I had already waved to the grey Ford and saw Mr. Morrison loading his front window up with fresh cold cuts. On cue, the voice in my headphones told me I’d finish my jog. I looked up at Mrs. Leary’s porch which was empty for the third day in a row. Three days was the longest we hadn’t had our morning coffee together. Can’t exactly tell you what flipped in my head but I decided to check on her. I opened the screen and knocked on the old wood door. After a couple of cycles of waiting and knocking I walked around back, peering through windows on my way. I couldn’t see much as most of them had the blinds drawn. One didn’t but required me to climb on the air conditioner to see through. Once on top, I cupped my hands around the sides of my head to see clearly and saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was the kitchen I had been in multiple times, as clean as ever. The tiled floor was perfectly white and there were two clean coffee mugs on the drying rack. I hopped down and made my way to the backyard, which at one point was surely a beautiful garden. Over the years, it had taken over the yard and looked like its own self-sustaining ecosystem. I walked up the back stairs to the door and resumed my knock-wait cycle. Eventually, I got restless and worried so I tried the handle. It was unlocked.

“Mrs. Leary?” I shouted. There was no reply but the silence was deafening. I continued through the living room which looked normal enough and up the stairs to the second floor. The lacquer on each step had worn off over the years of ups and downs. I could feel my heart beating after each step I climbed and I was positive it had nothing to do with the jog. The wallpaper was an off-white floral design. Out of date, yes, but definitely in line with Mrs. Learny’s personality and taste in fashion. Once on the second floor, the bathroom was directly ahead. I peeked inside but nothing notable stood out. In fact, the immaculate condition of the house was jarring in and of itself. After walking through the other bedrooms, I got to what had to be Mrs. Leary’s room. The door was closed but unlocked. I turned the nob and the door jumped open as if it were a challenge to get closed. I opened the door further, slowly revealing a tidy and organized bedroom, complete with a vanity and record player. As it swung further open, the foot of what had to be Mrs. Leary’s bed came into view, paired with her feet poking upward from under the sheets. Looking back, I find it quite interesting how in that moment of seeing her feet, I was absolutely positive about what had happened. Poor Mrs. Leary had slipped away in her sleep. No family or friends, aside from me, noticed her absence. To be honest, my first thought was confusion about who to call. Whatever emotions I initially felt sprinted away when the door was fully open. I saw it for what had to be less than a second, yet I see it in my head every time I close my eyes. Mrs. Leary had clearly been shot once in the head while she was asleep. She looked so peaceful as if she was just sleeping, but the black hole on the center of her forehead told the true grizzly tale. My memories of what happened after are a blur. I remember calling the police but I have no recollection of how I got to the police station. Honestly, the next thing I remember clearly is punching in the code to my apartment.

I showered for the first time that day, nearly eight hours after my morning jog. Afterward, I called my boss to explain why I hadn’t logged on for work that day, and why I likely wouldn’t for a few more. There seemed to be a film of grey over everything that week. The colors were dull and eating food made me nauseous. I didn’t run. I didn’t wave to the grey Ford or Mr. Morrison. I tried to distract myself and pass the time with movies I enjoyed but the sight of her laying there was burned into my eyes. It was everywhere I looked. You probably won’t be surprised to hear I was pissed off for the entire next week or so. Not just because my friend was murdered but because I didn’t hear shit from the detectives.

A few days passed and I decided to lace up the Nikes. Thought it might shut my mind down for a bit. Took my usual route. Saw the Ford, but didn’t wave. Don’t even remember passing the deli. Paused a while at the “Scenic Overlook” but continued on after a small break. I turned on Mrs. Leary’s street and made my way down to her house. I realized I hadn’t done this run for myself, it was an excuse to stop by Mrs. Leary’s house, maybe talk to a cop or detective and see what was happening. It didn’t take long for a chill to run down my back. The road was a solid three-quarter of a mile, but from the far end, I could tell something was wrong. There were no police cars. No crime scene tape. After a minute or so, my phone told me the run was over, and there I was, outside the house I’d been seeing in my nightmares for the past week. It looked as normal as it ever had. I walked up the steps and looked through the front window expecting to see official-looking people working tirelessly inside. Nothing. I walked around the house as I had days before to the back and walked up the back steps. I tried the knob again, trying to ignore the aggressive deja vu. This time it was locked and I was livid. How could there be nobody here? My friend, a harmless old lady, was murdered in her sleep and nobody in this quiet little town seemed to give a shit. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. I wasn’t sure if this was an emergency per se but at that point, I didn’t much care. “911 where is your emergency?” said a man’s voice. “I want to know what’s being done about Mrs. Leary’s case.” There was a long silence before the voice returned. This time it was cold and emotionless. “Hang up the phone, kid. Leave it alone.” “Wha…” The line cut before I could finish my sentence. Even this many years later, I can feel the anger and confusion I felt that day. If I think about it too long, my cheeks turn red and my adrenaline starts pumping. I walked home confused trying to think who to call or what to do. I probably would have called a neighboring police force or the FBI, but that’s when I got the envelope. Now it’s not that big of a coincidence. It didn’t just show up that day. I had neglected to check my mail for the entire previous week and the envelope had been delivered at some point over those days. It was a legal size manila envelope, sealed with a string on one end. Inside, a handwritten note. Hello, my dear, I’m sure you have plenty of questions. I’m hoping to answer them as well as I possibly can but I can’t make any promises. I’m writing this in 2022. Today we had our first cup of coffee together, and I know it won’t be our last. If you’re reading this, I’ve made the mistake of getting too close to you, which I was not supposed to do. As you’ll learn, I can be quite stubborn so I’m also sure I’ll have no regrets about it at all. Surely, you will be the one to find my body. That wasn’t supposed to happen either but that’s my fault. I’m sorry you had to see that. I also want to say that you’re likely not going to believe what you read next, and I don’t expect you to. In time, all will make sense. I don’t know how this whole thing started but what I do know is a long time ago, a version of me in a different timeline did something bad to you. As a result, some kind of domino effect led to a global collapse and destroyed all of humanity. I don’t know what I supposedly did or what it caused. All I know is it can’t happen again. To prevent it from coming to fruition, you and I have been set up in an infinite time loop together. The loop is intended to ensure that at no point I can screw up the intended path of the future. For it to be avoided, I must die in every loop and it must happen before I get a chance to do whatever it is I did to you. Once I’m gone, I can’t interfere with you or the future of humanity. If I’ve sent this, you’re clearly a wonderful boy, and I’m sure I’ll grow very fond of your company over the years to come. Remember me and cherish the memories. In time, my error will fix itself and all will be resolved.

Keep running, Mrs. Leary And that brings us to today, September 17th, 2025, again. I’m fifty-five years old and have been a cop for the last twenty. I’ll be honest, I thought the note was bullshit too. Sure enough, three years ago in 2052 (yes, I know it’s confusing) the loop reset and it was 2022 again. The reset didn’t affect me at all. I still looked like an out-of-shape middle-aged man with a hairline that seemed to disappear more each day. Soon after the reset, I met my wife, had a couple of kids, and tried to live my life as it was intended. I kept my distance from the younger Mrs. Leary, only reaching out to inform her of the loop. It took some convincing but she came around once I showed her the note she wrote for me. She also promised not to interact with my younger self this time. I made the same promise and quit jogging in order to put on a few pounds. I hoped that was enough to kill any resemblance between the two of us. The one thing I couldn’t leave alone was figuring out who did it. From a distance, I kept my eye on this loop’s Mrs. Leary. Nobody seemed to dislike her or want her dead for any reason at all. I kept my ears open every day for nearly thirty years but never found a motive or anyone else aware of the loop. It wasn’t until I accepted that there was nobody in the world who wanted to hurt Mrs. Leary that I finally figured it out. I took one last good look at the view of the crashing waves at the “Scenic Overlook” and got back into my grey Ford. I drove over to the road that I had run down hundreds of times in my younger years and parked outside the familiar quaint house. I knocked on the wooden door and was greeted by a sweet old lady. “Thought I told you to keep running,” she said as she looked at my gut. I laughed as she gestured for me to come in. I was worried she didn’t know why I was there but she must have seen it on my face. “Don’t worry. I figured it out too,” she said. “How about a cup of coffee for old-time sake?” “Sounds good,” I said with a smile. After the cups were empty, the two went upstairs and walked down the floral hallway to her bedroom. She tucked herself in and looked up at me with a tear in her eye, one that I mirrored. She nodded her head and closed her eyes. She already looked like she was peacefully sleeping. I couldn’t help but feel sorry. Not for me or her, but for the younger version of me running around the neighborhood at this very moment. Not yet aware of what he’ll have to do later in life. Not yet aware of what he’d already done an infinite amount of times in the past. Not aware of what he had just done. For now, I could let him run. One day he’d have to find out and I’d likely have to be the one to explain it all to him. But not now. For now, I’d let him run.


\[If I am posting in the wrong space, thank you in advance for letting me know.\] To give some context, I write as a livelihood. So one day, my editor and I were having a conversation about how sometimes it can be hard to sleep at night where every bump or notion keeps one awake, and that reminded me of this original that became associated with the notable caption of ' **Teddy bears: protecting innocent children from monsters-under-the-bed since 1902.**' Its potency allowed it to endure in my mental workshop for the longest time. This story came to me all of a sudden, one of the rare ones I write from inspiration rather than structure and conscious planning. It sprang from my wanting to create stories that do something, in this case as a bedtime story, to help bring peaceful sleep. And that, is why I write. Thank you, Enid Blyton. Enjoy 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵. \ ‘Mommy.’ Says the little girl sitting on her bed, hugging her pillow tight, looking at her mother with wide eyes. ‘Yes, Delilah?’ The mother closes the storybook she is reading to her daughter, ready to tuck her in for the night. ‘I don’t want to sleep.’ She pouts, trying not to shed tears. ‘Ohhh, sweety pie, why?’ The mother checks that the nightlight is working, and lets the curtain fall enough for the moonlight to shine through the window facing the little girl. ‘Cos I’m scared.’ Delilah burrows into her bed even more, pulling the blanket around her. The mother stands in the middle of the room. ‘Well, that’s the best reason to ask your friends to help. If you can pick, which of your toys do you want on the bed with you--’ ‘All of them!’ The woman smiles, admitting defeat. ‘Okay, there are too many toys and too small a bed. You don’t want to be on the floor and only the toys can fit on the bed, do you?’ ‘No………’ Delilah shakes her head side to side. ‘Okay, so, how about this.’ The mother raises one palm and splays out her fingers. ‘Five friends. Pick five of them and they will be with you the entire night so you can sleep safely.’ Delilah’s eyes brighten, loving this game. She scans the room, clearly making decisions in her small frame. ‘Teddy.’ The mother picks up a plain-looking teddy bear that has seen more years than the daughter. ‘Cos you gave him to me.’ ‘That’s right. It was mine and now he is your friend too.’ Delilah hugs Teddy as the mother passes it to her. She points to a toy hat on the dressing table that has two expressive eyes always in mirth. ‘Hat comes too. She talks funny and makes me laugh.’ The girl picks out a plastic hammer on the floor. ‘Magic Hammer!’ The mother places the squeaky hammer on the bed. ‘The better to scare the monsters away.’ Delilah looks at her cooking set. The mother knows what she is seeing. The woman pulls out of the pile a miniature serving cloth that waiters hang over their arms, but is a security hanky for her daughter. The girl’s palms are open and grasping to touch it, and she hugs it tight to her chest. ‘Alright, honeybunch. Last one.’ ‘Kito please.’ The woman smiles. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’ She steps over to the chest of soft toys, and brings over a small plushy hedgehog. Delilah sighs in contentment as her personal toy rests in her small arms. All her fears slough off her tiny person. ‘I want you to be up nice and early for pancakes.’ The girl squeals. ‘Pancakes!’ ‘Yes, so sleep.’ The mother brushes the girl’s hair away from her eyes, and pulls the blanket over her. The toys are all nestled under it, around Delilah. Her eyes are already closing, and her breathing goes even. The mother kisses her forehead. ‘Good night.’ She pads over the floor, holds the door, and closes it behind her as she heads off. Creature slinks from under the bed. It towers over Delilah. It wants to feed. The blanket moves. Creature wonders if the girl is waking up. No. The bump under the blanket comes out and stands on its small hind legs. Teddy steps closer and looks up at Creature. Creature sizes him up, and chuckles a throaty snarl. It glides closer. It does not notice that Teddy has a weapon behind his back. Teddy swings. A growl like a guard dog echoes in the room. Creature howls in pain as Teddy smashes its snout with the Hammer. Usually a squeaky toy to amuse a little girl, it is now pulsing with a steady glow, a low growl coming from deep within it. Teddy brandishes the Hammer again. The growl gets more menacing. Creature pulls back… ...and flings a toy at Teddy with one of its inky tendrils. Only for Kito to appear and turn around to have the toy bounce off her spiky back. Creature hisses. The baby hedgehog goes to Teddy, looks up at him, and imploringly opens her tiny paws to ask to be carried. Teddy reaches out with his left paw. Kito embraces the paw as she curls into a ball, pulling the paw inwards. Teddy pulls his paw back into place, his shield, Kito, ready to protect. Kito sniffs the air. She notices something. She makes a chirrup noise. Teddy spins, just in time to block the attack of a tendril snaking up from the side of the bed. It was moving too fast for him to strike back with the Hammer. The weapon chuffs with annoyance, its prey out of reach. Hat hops up and lands on Teddy’s head. It spins around on its own accord, its big eyes seeing everywhere for danger. Two tendrils are coming over the headrest behind Teddy. But there is no behind for Hat. Hat spins about and gives a death stare, as bright light flashes from its eyes. The tendrils quiver and disintegrate before the luminance. Creature bares its black fangs, its wounds cauterized by the searing light. Hat turns to look at Creature. And winks. Several other tendrils hit out, but Teddy blocks with Kito or shatters with Hammer. Creature casts its hateful look at the girl sleeping soundly beneath the blanket, unaware of tidal forces clashing within her room. Creature takes in a deep breath. It holds. And holds. Holds some more. Teddy does not wait for it to do something. He leans forward to break into a run. Creature exhales. Brown vapors escape from its mouth, flitting about the room, making their way to surround the brave companions. Vapors that carry multitudes of whispers that sing for death and promise a kiss of agony. Teddy swings the Hammer through the brown gas, but the vapors playfully dance around it. Teddy pushes Kito’s spiny back into clumps of gas, and all it did was scatter to reform. Hat flashes its eyes everywhere but light does nothing except highlight the vapors encroaching towards Delilah’s sleeping form. Creature snuffles, its malignant version of a suppressed laugh. Cloth whips up and ties itself around Teddy’s neck, security hanky by day, sentient battlecape by night. It flaps and flaps and flaps, using Teddy as an anchor as it creates eddies in the air. The brown vapors, so close to Delilah’s cheeks, blow away as before a strong wind. They break apart, and every time they try to reform, Cloth sends them scattering, and eventually, unable to piece together. Creature, frustrated beyond its capacity to understand or endure, shrieks a shriek of rage. Teddy and Kito and Hammer and Hat and Cloth brace for the mighty confrontation about to come. This is the moment of the night. Where Delilah either dreams, or has nightmares. Creature charges, bearing its full size and dark powers at them. The Indomitable Five stand fast. That is all they can do. That is all they want to do. For Delilah. Creature bares its maw open to devour the interfering upstarts. The Five strikes.  *Five friends come together,* *Five friends stand supreme.* *Five friends to fight for the child forever,* *The child’s sacred right to dream.


eases back into his chair and breathes a sigh of relief. It was his 92nd birthday; retirement age. No more 10am starts, no more having to relinquish three days a week to the full-time employment rat race. Finally.. free. He relishes the moment, feeling his chair snug him warmly, its material continuously and amorphously shifting around his frame to maximise comfort. The quality of the air, the heat from his coffee cup, the light beaming through his window. Goldilocks would be jealous, he joked to himself. “Sim-space, show me my father’s television from 2018 please.” The sim-space AI assistant quickly peruses the latest scan of its owners memory and inquires, ‘The Samsung, Mr Chivers?’ Marnold confirms with a nod. The boundaries that contain the sim-space glow to resemble an empty cuboid against the wall, warning any bodied-beings not to come close. For a second, Marnold hears that call of the void that so many do and wonders “what would happen if I put my hand.. ?” He’d heard the horror stories, obviously, but couldn’t quite fathom the science of it. Some picoseconds later however, there popped into existence a perfect reconstruction of the television from his memory inside the sim-space. Marnold picks up the remote, a device that was used to remotely control electronic devices back in Modern times, and looks through the simulated content on the television. Marnold squints at the screen, reacquainting himself with the 2-dimensional nature of Modern video. His eyes widen at a collection of pixels - ‘World Snooker Final’. It had been too long since Marnold had last watched a real game of *chess with balls* - as he would put it. His finger instructs the remote with a button press, and a pulsing infra-red energy bathes the room momentarily. The television summons to life a broadcast of yore; a gentle ensemble consisting of a giant green table centre-screen, with smartly-dressed human beings knocking sticks and balls over it. Marnold catches himself daring a smile, “the good old days.” He puts his feet up on the stool in front. “Grea’granda!” Plucked away from his contentment and with a whiff of irritation, “Wh-wha? Who’s there?” “It’s Russ you fool, happy birthday -slash- retirement! Thought I’d whip by, ya know, see how you are. Thought it better than just sending another dopamine hit.” Marnold smiles. He could never put his finger on it, but there was always something better about seeing people - he had never fully signed up to the idea of reading a well-wishing and injecting the enclosed gift of dopamine. It felt nice, sure, but he couldn't help but feel there was something missing. Cards, too! Of all the social-niceties that Marnold hoped would die off with technological progress, cards had stuck around like a bad smell. Maybe 92 is when you start getting cranky he thought to himself. “Ahh thank you, it *is* good to see someone non-digitally once in a while,” he replies, concealing his cynicism nicely. Russ points to the sim-space. “A television? C’mon gramps, of all the things you could will into existence.. a television?” Marnold squirms. “Well the good vibes sure lasted didn’t they(!) Listen, sprog, being 50-something may feel like it has conferred some sort of worldly understanding upon you but, believe me, you’re just starting out. You still have no idea what the important things are in life. And if you can’t appreciate the simple things in life, you have no foundation for the complex things. This television is my simple thing. It is my birthday. My retirement day. And I wish to spend it as I mean to go on - appreciating the simple things.” So rarely does he socialise these days, Marnold had almost forgotten how quick he was to anger. “Simple things, simple minds. That’s what father says.” Marnold mumbles his frustration, “Yes. I know *exactly* the kind of person my son-in-law is.” A palpable silence hangs. It’s funny how tension can manifest socially, no other emotion can fill a room in the same way. The 2040’s wave of pheromonologists got close to understanding it before *you-know-what* happened. Russell’s cortisol-meter started shrieking which didn’t subtract from the awkwardness, but does at least act as a call-to-action for someone to cut the tension, “Well- what are you watching then?” “Snooker” is the unenthusiastic, staccato reply. Marnold continues watching the screen emptily, pretending to be engrossed but projecting annoyance. “Didn’t know humans used to play.” Russ responded. Marnold groaned as though those words were daggers to his sensibilities. “Yes... It’s just another domain that AI took from us. God damn robots - they have no philosophy! Pure pragmatists. They completely destroyed snooker - turned it from a gentlemanly game into an arms race.” Through a flattened smile and nodding dog routine, Russ’s lack of interest was obvious. He signals to the entrance with his thumb, “Well I’d better be goi--” “-- an arms race I tell you! That’s why there’s so many rules governing the game these days. It started off as a friendly between bot and human - just a novelty, like that Jeopardy show and IBM’s Watson?” Marnold looks to Russ for a bodily cue to continue.. nothing - at least, nothing encouraging. "Ah well," he thinks to himself, "it’s my birthday and I'll rant if I want to." “Well, maybe it’s not living memory for you youngins but the world went crazy for the first bot v. human snooker match. It’s ironic thinking back on it now, we were clapping our eventual oppressors. Everyone tuned in to witness flesh versus circuits and saw a microcosm of their future. ‘Ronnie O’Sullivan vs G147-365’. Man vs machine. And what a machine(!) A jumped-up laptop connected to a junkyard frame. It couldn’t even pick up its own cue - it had to be carefully inserted into its grip by a technician.” Russ was looking in Marnold’s direction, but you couldn’t charitably say that he was looking *at* him. Looking *through* seems more appropriate; his mind clearly pre-occupied. “It was a bloodbath - metaphorically, of course. I mean, the bot started off quite slow, sure, but it was learning. Every time it whiffed a shot, it updated its algorithms to appropriately account for the mismatch. By halftime, the only shots Ronnie got to take was when it was his turn to break! G147 was hitting maximum points routinely by the end. And you know what? Not one of them were as beautiful as Ronnie’s 5 minute corker back in 1997.” Russ, eyeing the clock on the wall, noticed a pause amid Marnold’s white noise and felt he had to prove he was listening. “Uhh... 1997 huh?” Marnold, noticing that Russ had only picked up on the last word he’d said, continued with spiteful grace. “Yes. 1997. But that’s what I mean by no philosophy, there’s no meaning in what they do. It’s just all numbers and logic gates. No art, no style. Pure pragmatism.” “It didn’t end there though. Ooooooh no. Then the bot v bot matches began. Every country in the world slowly jumping in to prove their AI researchers were the best. You know, like how America and Russia fought a proxy-war by proving who could get to the moon first - thereby proving who was technologically superior? Snookerbots were fast becoming that, except it had no end goal. They just competed endlessly, accepting diminishing returns on their victories each time - perhaps preferable to other forms of national chauvinism, granted.” “But they’d be outfitted with fancy cameras and sensors - detecting every possible detail of the table. The knap, the humidity, the moisture of the cloth, microscopic blemishes on the balls - even mapping the material density of the side-cushions! Soon enough, they were making shots that made no euclidean sense since they could take advantage of unseen imperfections in the table and balls. It used to be that people would clap astonishing feats; maybe an amazing curve shot, or a cunning safety play. But it got to a point where the audience could only appreciate what they were able to understand - everything was so baffling. It was like chaos theory to everyone but the participants.” Marnold continued with his frustrated nostalgia, “And the sonic booms! That was a game changer. The balls were starting to chip - and sometimes explode - from the impacts of the bots cuing them. So they were upgraded to some nano-whatever to allow the bots to really let rip. And boy, did they. They would hit the cue ball so fast that a mini sonic boom would disturb the entire table! The algorithms of course learned to account for this and soon enough every match was just a stalemate of mini explosions. No country's bot was able to win any more, all they could do was not lose by default - ie, their bot suffering a mechanical malfunction. So, a once-great game became a war of attrition.” With Russ’s vague silhouette in his periphery, and still looking at the screen (though paying it no attention), he continues. “They’d reached an impasse - every bot was as good as the next one. No further improvements to be made because they were limited by the human imagination. Viewership figures dwindled, sponsors started pulling out and human snooker players were even being asked to come out of retirement - what a novelty(!) They all refused, naturally.” “So, some hot shot from America gets the idea of asking the bot what it needs to improve. This is what happens when you don’t read and heed Asimov. The bots’ AIs up until this point were permitted to update their algorithms in accordance with sensor data. It was not permitted for an AI to freely rationalise - and for good reason! But, this was pseudo-Cold War 2, and global dominance had to be demonstrated. Now, I’m no AI researcher but I’ve heard it explained as them creating a sort of positive feedback loop between perception and reflection, causing something analogous to consciousness. I mean, whatever, however they did it, they did do it. And so, they fed it the question: What do you need to improve at your task? And do you know what it said?” A silence goes unacknowledged as Marnold leaves his chair and heads towards his bookcase. He thumbs through a few newspaper cuttings and, after an insociable amount of time in quiet, he produces an article that had the ‘scoop’ back in the day - a printed transcript of the AI’s thought process. Marnold turns around to hand it to Russ but is met with an empty room, and then an empty spirit. He’d left. Marnold slowly lowers his out-stretched arm, article in-hand. He wondered how long he’d been speaking to himself for, and starts his own feedback loop of doubt and self-loathing. “God damn it..” he scratches the back of his head and makes for his chair again. As he settles in, the material again moulds around him with a pathetic agency - but it is of cold comfort now. Unpacking Russ’s gift, Marnold loads the syringe and looks longingly at the television. “Happy 92nd Mr Chivers...


TW: Language and Chaotic Sequences Terri set the cooler and tote bag on the grass beneath her feet. She pulled the big blue blanket out of the bag, gripped the edge, and let it unfold in the breeze before setting it on the ground. She set the cooler on one corner, the tote bag on the other diagonally opposite.

“Well, come on, then,” said Terri. Her eldest child Lexi, carrying her youngest brother Ezra, stepped onto the blanket. She let Ezra go as she crossed her legs, scooping her red hair behind her ear and away from the wind. “This isn’t the best day to do this,” said Lexi. “I can’t see anything.” “It’ll let up,” said Terri. “Don’t worry about it.” She opened the cooler and pulled out a handful of sandwiches handing one to Lexi and tearing one in half for Ezra. He stayed standing, holding the sandwich in his clenched fist, examining his surroundings. Terri couldn’t tell if it was bewilderment or confusion on her son’s face but found it comical regardless. “Sit down, Ez.” He sat, feet forward and cheeks red. “Why peanut butter and jelly, Mom? We have this every time,” said Lexi.

“It’s the standard,” said Terri. “I didn’t hear you once volunteer to pay for and make new sandwiches.” She smiled but Lexi didn’t reciprocate, just forced a bite and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’re not going to be on that phone when your father gets here. We’re going to spend quality time together.” “That phrase makes me want to puke. ‘Quality time’. Isn’t any time quality time?” “Don’t get analytical with me now. Just eat your lunch.” Terri watched Ezra bite his sandwich, a glob of jelly slipping free from the bread and landing on the blanket. She thought to complain but saw it paired nicely with the old vomit stain Lexi had put into the blanket six years prior. The bloodstain by her flip-flops was now a deep brown, a remnant from when Patrick had kicked their orange soccer ball a little too hard and drove it into Elliot’s nose. He had come running to her, a mix of tears and blood streaking down his face. One of his teeth, having already been loose, was knocked free. They’d left the beach that afternoon without finding it, even after another hour’s worth of search. Patrick had put a dollar under Elliot’s pillow anyway. Pop! The snap of Lexi’s gum brought Terri back to reality. She could smell the artificial grape flavoring despite the wind blowing against her daughter’s mouth. A yellowjacket came to visit, floating under Terri’s nose. It hovered, nudging at her cheeks. She swatted several times, shooing it away. It circled around, almost tickling at Lexi’s scalp. Ezra watched it float off into the trees behind them, licking the peanut butter off his lips.

Despite the wind, Terri felt proud for picking today to have lunch at the park. The sun shone in a sky as blue as toothpaste, wisps of clouds drifting along like slow-moving animals searching for rest. The trees shuddered in the wind, leaves singing and dancing in the invisible current. A couple of families studded the grassy expanse of Ridgeville Park like pimples, some sitting at benches, others playing with a yellow frisbee. A play structure sat to their left, built with seven slides and a set of swings on the end. There was a sandpit with a crane arm and seat, giant climbable tires, and some sort of spinning seats attached to poles that made her nauseous to look at. “Da!” said Ezra, bouncing in his place. His left hand was covered in jelly. He pointed with his right down the slight incline, near the play structure. “Da-da!” Approaching them was Patrick and Elliot, both with hair like fire. Terri stroked her brown hair, throwing it over her shoulder as best she could with the wind. Elliot charged up to the blanket, almost tackled his mother with the hug. Despite being only ten, he had his father’s strength in him. Patrick came up, handsome as ever with his beard and button-up shirt and tie. He picked up Ezra, placed him on his hip. “Hey buddy,” he said, giving him a forehead kiss. “Having a good day? Are you giving Mom hell as always?” “Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Terri. Patrick kissed her as he knelt, rummaging through the cooler. “That’s my boy,” he said with a smile he’d hoped to hide from his wife. “Hi, Lexi.” Pop! “Hi Dad,” said Lexi, looking at him before returning to her phone. She was lying on her back now. Patrick shrugged and took a big bite of his sandwich. He’d tossed another to Elliot, who’d already taken several bites by the time he started his, eating around the crusts. They looked like toenail clippings.

“How was the dentist, boys?” Terri asked. The wind had begun to settle, the gentle tickle giving their hair an ethereal floating effect. Ezra’s nose had regressed from red to pink. “Fine,” said Patrick, resting on his right elbow as he leaned back. “They found a couple of small cavities between his teeth but everything was fine on the surface. They gave him a small bag with the usual stuff but gave him two cartridges of floss and heavily emphasized that he start using it.” “I will,” Elliot said, chipmunking his sandwich as he nibbled on a carrot. “Trust me. I don’t want my teeth pulled.” “Slow down, hon,” said Terri. “Swallow the food already in your mouth before shoving something else in.” Elliot gave a hard swallow, almost choked, and took a sip from his juice box before eating again. Snap! went Elliot’s carrot. Pop! went Lexi’s gum. “Nothing too expensive, I hope?” Terri asked before biting into a Thin Mint. She’d bought a box two days prior when the Girl Scouts had migrated to their side of town. Her family didn’t need to know she’d gotten an extra box of Tagalongs for herself that was currently hiding under the driver’s seat in the station wagon.

“Compared to what we have to pay for our dental work? Not expensive at all,” Patrick said. “One less thing to worry about,” said Terri. “For now.” She reached into the bag on the opposite side of the blanket and pulled out a short wave radio. Her father used to have one himself; they’d stay up past her bedtime listening to old radio broadcasts from the 50s; crime dramas that kept her up until morning, praying the batteries had enough juice for the next episode the following evening. When she left for college, her father had given her a spare radio he’d hid in the garage when she was home but worked on repairing for her when she fell asleep. She’d cried over it when he bid her goodbye and she cried over it again the night after he passed away. Now, she flicked through the radio stations, hoping for something more interesting than adverts and pop songs. “Brite-Shine, the new mold-clearing cleaner that’ll have your tubs looking as shiny as the-,” said one station. Click . “I just can’t hold this feeling in me anymooooo-” sang some twenty-something. Click . “-the bombing of Jackson Bank on the north side of Ridgeville. This assault is the third in what appears to be a string of serial attacks against-” This was enticing but she didn’t want to scare her boys. Click . “You say goodbye and I say hello,” sang the Beatles. Terri smiled and set the radio down, taking in the sun. Birds chittered somewhere in the trees surrounding the park. Behind them were cars, some honking, others revving. Despite being two in the afternoon, the avenues were packed. She thought of Dr. Seuss and Oh, the Places You’ll Go! That one line came strong amongst the others; Everyone is just waiting . When Ezra’s curiosity got the better of him, he took off toward the playground. Terri began to rise but Patrick ushered her back down. “I’ve got this,” he said, chasing after his three-year-old son. He stomped down the small incline, roaring and swaying his arms like a monster. Ezra shrieked with happiness, took off under the monkey bars and they were gone, lost among a jungle gym and the plastic construct of the slides. Terri ate a Thin Mint and looked at herself. Her sides were peeking through the lowest part of her shirt, pale skin exposed for the world to see. She put her hoodie on, zipped it up. She admitted that maybe she could cut back on the sweets and left it at that… until she ate two more cookies. At least Patrick still thinks I’m pretty… right?

“Can I have the cookies, Mom?” Lexi asked, reaching out her hand. Terri blinked. “Did you eat your sandwich?” Terri wondered, her eyebrows raised in challenge. “Like… half of it,” said Lexi. “Please?” “Fine, but you need to eat some carrots sometime before we go, okay?” Terri said, tossing her the sleeve of Thin Mints. With the quietness of a panther, Elliot dove headfirst and snatched the cookies out of the air. Terri flinched and Lexi squeaked.

“I’ll take those,” said Elliot. He popped a Thin Mint into his mouth, his smile full of crushed cookie. “Fucker!” said Lexi, getting up and giving chase as Elliot began to run.

“Hey, watch your language!” Terri called after them. “Don’t hurt your brother, please!” She heard Ezra shriek at the playground. Patrick was chasing him, arms in the air, swaying back and forth with slow stomps carrying him forward. She thought there was dirt in Ezra’s hand but couldn’t tell from the blanket. Lexi had Elliot pinned. Face to face, she geared up her gum and blew the biggest bubble she could. Elliot squirmed as the purple sphere neared his face.

BOOM! Terri couldn’t tell what had happened. It was like her vision went dark and she was just now able to see again. Her ears rang, the screams echoing through them muffled. Lexi was still on top of Elliot, frozen and staring straight ahead. Terri sprinted to them. Elliot bucked from under his sister, trying to wrench free but to no avail.

“Get off, Lexi!” Terri said, wrenching her hands from Elliot’s wrists. “Are you both okay?!” “I think! What’s going on?!” Elliot shouted, rubbing his ears.

“Lexi!” Terri and Elliot both said, shaking Lexi’s shoulders. They followed her gaze and saw it. A cloud of black smoke plumed into the sky and at its tail, a building wreathed in orange and yellow flame. Half of it was gone, scattered across the street and setting some of the nearby foliage ablaze. Another blow came from inside, windows left unbroken now shattered, shards of glass clattering onto the sidewalk below. Terri’s ears popped, heard the hundred car alarms screeching in disharmony. People were screaming, dashing to their cars, all away from the building. Terri grabbed Lexi and Elliot, turned them away as, one by one, survivors from the explosion came sprinting out of the building, arms flailing and engulfed in fins of tangerine. Some jumped through the windows up high, screaming as they collided with the concrete. The rest ran down the streets, crying for help, rolling on the ground. “Come on,” said Terri, turning away. The three of them ran back to the blanket. She gathered what she could of their stuff and then her children’s attention. “You stay right here! I have to find your father and brother! Lexi, you watch Elliot! Do you understand?” Lexi gave a shaky nod, her gaze returning to the flaming people running in the streets. Elliot was crying. “Don’t look, sweetie. Don’t look. I’ll be back.” By the time she got to the structure, the flames had started to spread. Sirens were wailing somewhere across the city. The trees separating the burning building and the park were starting to catch flame, bark popping as the fire licked up their trunks. The grass curled into charred spirals like black licorice whips. The fire crept along, inching closer to the playground. “Patrick!” Terri screamed, jumping onto the play structure. The wood chips surrounding it started to smolder. “Patrick!” “Here!” shouted Patrick. He came barreling toward her from under the structure, crying Ezra in his arms. “Oh, thank God,” Terri said. She hopped down and took his hand. “Let’s go!” They ran, watched the flames start to climb the play structure, singe the pine handrails and melt the plastic tunnels. Lexi and Elliot were still there. They all collapsed onto the ground, huddled like football players. “Are you okay, Dad?” Lexi asked, patting him down. “Is Ezra okay too?!” “He’s fine,” said Patrick. “We have to get out of here. The fire isn’t going to stop spreading. Let’s get to the car.” They picked each other up and slogged to the car with what energy they had left. Ezra’s face was red with tears again. Terri kissed his forehead and strapped him in.

“Hospital?” Terri asked as she buckled into the passenger’s seat. “Good idea to get there now than later,” said Patrick. They sped off, taking a sideroad and breaching the parkway to avoid the congested avenues. Ridgeville Hospital North, and South for that matter, was always busy, but the fallout from the recent explosions had them pushing the limits of their capacity. The limit would certainly be toppled after this one. With Patrick leading, they stepped into the emergency wing. Patrick told the nurses the situation and they were seated to wait for the next available examination. The lobby was practically empty save for an old couple and another family with a crying newborn. They sat and whilst waiting, watched a stream of folk in dirty clothing come barging into reception, distressed and screaming at the nurses for help. Despite the catastrophe, this happened only a few times before the room fell quiet. Patrick had made the smart move to travel farther to the south hospital. He’s always been good like that . They settled in. Another family that happened to be at the park came into the lobby, met, and talked to help ease the tension, but otherwise kept to themselves. Patrick drank himself a cup of coffee, Terri holding Ezra in her arms. He was fast asleep, eyes swollen from the crying. Lexi and Elliot sat together on Terri’s right. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw them holding hands.

“Your gum scared me,” said Elliot. Lexi looked over, eyes bloodshot. “What do you mean?” she asked. “The bubble popped when the building exploded. Thought that’s what made the noise.” “Well, sorry… not gonna chew gum for a while.” “Yeah, you’d better not if it makes buildings explode,” said Elliot. Patrick chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah, Lex,” said Patrick. “How about you switch to something else for a while? You’re gonna get caught if you keep doing that.” “Oh, to hell with you both,” said Lex, smiling. “How do we know it wasn’t your monster stomps that brought it down, Dad? When chasing Ezra?” “She’s got a point,” said Terri, smiling with a bit lip. “Oh yeah?” Patrick asked with a stunned look painted across his cheeks. “Peanut butter makes me fart. It could have been your sandwiches that did the job.” “Sounds more genetic than anything. I shouldn’t be blamed for that at all.” Terri laughed as she spoke. They poked fun for a while before the hysteria brought them back down. It started to rain, drops pecking at the glass windows of the waiting room. Smoke danced on the horizon, painting the sky gray. Terri dug through the bag at her feet, picked the radio out, and caressed it, going over the lines and buttons with her fingertips before turning it on. Click .


The new subdivisions had been assigned different individual colours.  There was the blue, green, red, yellow, orange, purple, pink and violet neighbourhoods.  It was a very interesting idea. They were dubbed a certain colour because they featured the many shades of that individual tint. For example, the Blue Neighbourhood boasted houses that were cyan, steel, sky, electric, teal, pigeon and azure. The streets were painted blue and all of the buildings that weren’t house dwellings were painted a blue hue. This made organization very easy for all of the authorities. Every person that had been allowed in one of the newer subdivisions were associated with the colour of the area they lived in. For example, there was Blue Wilson, or Green Jones or Yellow Taylor. But, there was more than that. The people were herded in a manner that was consistent with race, religion, and sexual orientation. Each colour featured a different slant on society. It was thought that by doing this it would cut down on racism and discrimination.  So someone that was black didn’t live in a white neighbourhood and vice versa.

The Red Hardings lived in the red subdivision.  The family consisted of Joan and Mary Hardings, and their respective children, Andrea, Larry, Robert, Theresa and Madeleine.  Joan and Mary were legally married and raised the five children in a blended family atmosphere. Despite the interesting idea of giving each neighbourhood a different colour, there were the same basic social problems. Some people just didn’t have the tolerance for different. The Hardings because of their varied parental makeup became a target, a lightning rod for homophobic abuse. It started when a message was written in red paint on their garage door. Joan was off to work as she started very early in the morning.  It stated: ‘Lesbians should not be allowed to have children.’ Joan had backed the vehicle out of the garage and was closing the door when the message appeared. She was at first shocked, but, it wasn’t the first time that a homophobic slur had been directed at her and/or Mary. There had been one the first time they moved in. But, that was the only one. She stopped the vehicle and went back inside to tell her wife. The garage door was quickly painted over later that day, but it shook them. “It must be someone from one of the other neighbourhoods,” said Joan. “You would think so,” said Mary. “After all, why would someone in the red neighbourhood target us? We are all in the same boat.” It was a week later when their lawn had been painted a blood red. It was a skull and crossbones and was incredibly disturbing. They quickly put a tarp over it and contacted the authorities in charge of the Red Neighbourhood. The authorities didn’t know what to do.

A Mr. Todd Doak came to the house. He was tall and looked like a praying mantis.  He carried a briefcase and appeared to be very sophisticated, very organized, very controlled. He knocked on the door. One of the kids opened it. “Hello, I am Mr. Todd Doak, is your mother home?” Little Madeline who was four and cuter than any child had the right to be, shook her head. “I have two mommies.” The little precious one turned around and bellowed: “Mommies! There is someone at the door.” Joan arrived and scooped up the child in her arms. “Hello, you must be from the office?” “Yes, I am. I am Mr. Doak, I run the department that is responsible for looking into hate crimes.” “Come on in.” Mr. Doak walked inside and the place was nicely and tastefully decorated. It was a family home with pictures that were the talented art work of the five children. There was a homy, comfortable feeling and he smiled. “I really like your decorations.” “This one is mine,” blurted Madeline. “I see and it is very amazing.” “I knew that.” She smiled and Joan rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you go and play?” “But, I want to talk to the man.” “I have to talk to the man.” “Why don’t we both talk to the man?” Mr. Doak laughed. “How about if everyone talks to the man?” So they made their way to the kitchen table and all of the kids took a seat.

“My wife isn’t here right now. She should be home any moment now.” “There is someone that is trying to hurt us, mister and I don’t like it.” Andrea smiled. She was fourteen, a pretty girl, and as the oldest she fussed over the others. “That is why I am here.” “I don’t want any of my brothers or sisters to get hurt. We are a family and we love each other even though there are times when we drive each other crazy.” The others laughed. “Yeah, real crazy,” said Theresa with an angelic face and long dark hair. She was a beautiful child.  Her smile lit up the room. “Someone doesn’t like us because we have two moms. Maybe they are jealous because they don’t have any?”  Robert looked at Mr. Doak. “If anyone touches any of us then I am going to really punch them out.” Larry, who was all of eight years old and of average height and weight didn’t intimidate anyone. “Okay, tough guy,” said Joan. Mary walked through the door. “Mommy is home.” Madeline jumped off Mr. Doak’s lap and ran for the door. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon enough,” warned Joan. He smiled back at her. Theresa occupied his other lap. “I am sure that she will.” “See, mom, I told you that there was a man here from the autotories.” “That is authorities,” said Andrea. “That’s what I said,” replied Madeline giving her big sister a dirty look. “This is my wife, Mary. This is Mr. Doak.” They shook hands. “I am afraid for the children’s safety,” said Mary. “Yes, so am I, and they are darling children.” Madeline was back on his lap. She smiled at him and he returned the smile. “So what can you do about it?” “I am going to assign a special police officer that will be around your home for the duration of this until we catch the person or people responsible for the cowardly actions.” “Thank you, that’s wonderful.” “Would you like to stay for supper?” “Tonight, we are having wieners and beans.” Madeline looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“I will have to clear it with my superior. Since, my wife is out of town, it is better than eating a TV diner.” He stayed and it was a fun time. Mr. Doak went to the office the next morning and closed the door. He pulled out the red phone and pressed a few buttons.

“Yeah, the house at 535 Crimson Street is the one. Find out what is going on.” He put the red phone back in the locked drawer. A solid week went by and nothing happened. Then one night, it was almost two in the morning when all craziness broke loose.  The perpetrator with the cans of spray paint wasn’t ready for what was waiting for him at 535 Crimson Street. The shadowy figure produced a taser and brought the criminal down on his knees.

“I knew I would catch you sooner or later.” The scream of pain echoed throughout the neighbourhood and the neighbours were aware of what was going on. The specially assigned police officer came running. When she arrived, the cretin responsible for all of the graffiti and offensive messages was tied in a knot like a pretzel. There was a note attached to him. The police woman read it and laughed. The one with the massive and crippling grip that had stopped the vandal had slipped away in the night to someday return when someone else was doing someone wrong in the red neighbourhood. The figure stood in the dark and saw the angelic face of little Madeline starring out the second story window at all of the action going on.

He waved at her and of course she didn’t see him, but that was okay. “Sweet dreams, my little Madeline,” he whispered in the dark before he slipped away.  After all, tomorrow was a work day and he had a department to run.


Slowly, stiffly, a bird passing through a cloud, reality grabbed at his unfettering mind. The wind from the open window wafted over him sweetly, its tender touch a lover’s gentle caress. His eyes were closed tight like sealed tombs, and he felt the dream begin to leak out. He saw green eyes, red hair, flames shimmering on the waves. A smile spread itself across his diffused face as the spring air carried him away. She slipped away in shades until the scene was black and cold. Slowly, stiffly, his eyes began to open. He was alone. The flames were now dull phosphorescent lights; green eyes, a pale tiled floor; red hair, plastic prescriptions. He looked down at his limp hands laying useless in his lap. The armrests of his wheelchair, peeled and discolored, pressed against his sides. In the distance, a mountain behind fog, his feet scraped the ground placidly. Between the gentle gusts, the stale smell of the care facility clogged his throat. How many times had he awoken here? He slid his hand into the pond but found no fish. It felt an age and then some. It felt a second or third day; not quite new, not yet old. A hundred years or a handful of days, the smell was always new. He could taste it. It was a demon ‘round his throat. He wanted to spit, drink deep, wash it away, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Oh, you’re awake,” the voice pulled him from his disgust. “I opened the window. Hope that’s okay.” He tried to speak, but only a small grunt left his lips. The nurse was young, her hair gold in the sunlight… running beneath the setting sun, windblown cheeks, a laugh waiting to escape... Her eyes touched him softly, and he shrank beneath her gaze. Was it pity he saw? Disgust? Is there a difference? He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. But he did none of that. Couldn't or wouldn’t, he pretended not to know. Instead, his head dropped to the side towards the window in a half nod. “You want me to close it?” Her voice was soft, almost imperceptible. He moved his head a fraction of an inch in the other direction to tell her no. He looked down at his hands and screamed at them silently to move. They sat frozen like an old dog lying in the sun. Finally, a finger twitched in the direction of the window. “You want to look out the window?” She said with a small smile. “Blink twice if you do!” Her voice was playful now. He blinked twice in quick succession, surprising even himself. A quivering smile followed it, and the nurse beamed with delight. She pushed him softly towards the window. “It’s so good to see you like this. It’s been a while since I saw you smile.” He tried to grunt. “All right, here we are!” She positioned him in front of the window and locked the chair with a dull click. She bent over next to him, her hand on his shoulder. She looked into his eyes and he could smell the sea, felt the soft sand on his feet. “I’ll be back to check on you. It’s so beautiful out today. Enjoy it for me.” Her voice echoed out, ripples on water, and he felt sick. He watched her stand and walk away, his eyes begging her to stay as he watched her go. He pulled himself from her and brought his eyes to the window. The sun shone brightly in the sky, bathing the grass in splendid light; a field of emeralds shivering in the crisp spring air. Flowers, yellow, blue, violet, lined the sidewalk that passed his window. Their sweet scent surrounded him, and he wondered if he’d ever smelled something so wonderful. Small bees darted around the flowers like children on a playground. The trees stretched their limbs, which creaked and groaned in the breeze. The leaves shuffled like laughter in the wind. There, far off, a black dot marred the azure sky. Suddenly, the trees froze. The bees stopped mid-flight, the flowers stiff. The wind ceased, and he could no longer hear the groaning. Everything stopped for only a moment. Then, the bees flew backwards. The trees shifted unnaturally, their groans strained and creaks turned cracking. The flowers jumped backwards, and their scent began to fade. His stomach turned and he shut his eyes tight. After a few moments, the tomb unlocked and he could see again. The window, trees, bees, flowers, were all gone. Now, the sea pulsed in front of him. The sun was lower now, straddling the water’s edge. All the world was gold. He breathed in the briny air, tasted the salt. He looked down and realized he was standing, sand beneath his bare feet. Ahead, a pier jutted out of the coastline. The lights along the edge shimmered in the twilight, and he could see crowds of people walking the length. He turned his head and his heart seized. She was there, her hand entwined with his. Her long red hair flowed behind her, caught and fluttering in the wind. She had a slight smile on her face as she watched the waves. Her lilac dress turned about her, the long ends dancing around rhythmically. She turned her head towards him, her green eyes glistening mischievously at him, her smile fuller now. “I’ll race you there,” she shouted before breaking from him. She ran quickly, and he followed dutifully, the laugh easily passing from his lips. She always won their races. She stopped near the pier and turned around, her hair like fire as it blew around her. She was laughing, her sweet voice drifting towards him with the wind’s gentle push. Her cheeks were red, her eyes piercing. Had there ever been such a magnificent sight? Behind her, behind the pier, the black dot grew larger than the sun. The ground beneath cracked open, and he fell down, a scream caught in his throat. Deeper, deeper. The world shifted and he began to rise, the stars in the sky speeding towards him. Higher, higher. A shift, and he was falling, then rising, falling, rising. The world stopped and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. His knees drop downwards, and the sand beneath his hands collected into a soft white sheet. He was standing, leaning on a bed. The room was cold and sterile. The window was shut, and he couldn’t see the sun. All was gray. He turned his head in despair, and there she was. She lay with her eyes open, lost in some distant sea. He grabbed her hand and she broke from her stupor. She turned her face towards him, and her eyes burned anew. Her hand was cold and weak, but her fingers snaked their way between his. Not long , he heard from some corner. It’s time. We tried. The whispers chattered around him, drowning out everything else. “I always win our races,” she said softly, her voice warm. The whispers died at the sound of her voice, and everything was her. Despite himself, he smiled meekly. “It’s been a while since I saw you smile. But, my love, please, I wanted it this way. Me before you. I don’t think I could live with the grief.” She smiled sweetly. He tried to respond, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Promise me…” She looked tired and weak, as if the wind alone could snuff her out. “Everything is so beautiful in the setting sun… They say tomorrow will be a beautiful day…” Her voice trailed off, and he looked away so she didn’t see his tears. In the sky, the black dot grew and grew. He begged it to go, begged for another moment. He turned back towards her, and she was looking back at him. Her emerald eyes glimmered, and tears wet her cheeks. “Enjoy it for me,” she said, her voice a whisper. And he watched her go. The black dot grew around him, and drowned out the hospital room. He fell and rose. Light shifted around him, and he groped for a hand to hold. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be seen. He watched himself walking along the shore, alone. He watched himself walking along the pier. He watched him beneath the dying sun. The world blinked, and he watched himself walking backwards along the shore. He jumped forward, backward. It spun over him. The whole sky flickered; the wind gulped and struggled like a crying child. He looked down and the wheelchair was there. Red hair left on a pillow. He looked up and saw the half-set sun. A field of emerald. He looked down and saw starched sheets. Lilacs on the window sill. He looked up and saw the morning sun glowing red like her cheeks, a laugh caught in the wind. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. He dashed through the sky, swam with the stars. He passed by massive torii gates. He jumped through the aurora, the pale green light waving him on his way. He walked over the great bridge, dazzling towers dotting the path. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. Then he was back on that beach. He watched her run, heard her laugh. He laughed and laughed. Then the colors began to fade, green, red, purple... His dream had sprung a leak. He watched her smile at him. He could taste the stale air. Dimmer and dimmer she grew, fading in shades. He reached for her, tried to call for her. She remained smiling, tears wetting her cheeks, as the darkness overpowered her. … and he watched her go.


It was dark, wet, and stormy. Christian sat down at his Grandma’s ancient computer. He hit it to turn it on and waited for it to load. After twenty minutes of frustration, he finally booted it up. Christian sighed, cracked his knuckles, and blew the dust off of the keys. Christian’s grandmother had passed away years ago, and her things had gone to Christian. Christian had been owning the abandoned house, but He was selling it now. He had to get rid of a ton of stuff. Unfortunately, his grandma was a hoarder, so he had a lot to do. Once Christian had seen an outdated, white computer, he thought it would be a cool break to sit down and try it out. As soon as he had turned it on, a “senior” website pulled up from a long time ago. The computer had belonged to his grandfather, and grandma, but Christian couldn’t imagine his grandma using it. It had to have belonged to his grandfather who had passed away thirty-five years before. His grandpa had been a strange man. He used to always have a strange grin before he passed away, the man always wore zebra-striped aviator glasses. Christian read what the site said. It read: *Free Object if You Put in Your Address.” What the heck is an “object”* Christian thought, as he clicked the *I want it* button. It took him to another old site that read, *Type in your information with the questions.* Christian Typed all of it in and waited. The computer shut off and didn’t turn on after that. Christian soon forgot all about the computer, he donated, threw away, and sold everything in the house. One week later a small box appeared in his mailbox. Christian picked it up and threw it onto the kitchen table. It was heavy. Christian ran upstairs to grab some scissors, he ran back down and started to cut open the tape that sealed the box. The box was very vintage. It looked as if it was from the 1970s or 80s. Christian finished cutting the tape, and he was about to open it when he thought. *What is in here? This was what grandpa was doing before he died. Could this be what caused him to die?* He shook the feeling and peeled open the box. When he opened the cardboard flaps and peeled away some crackling yellowed tissue paper, he saw what was in the box. A cold hand shot out and grabbed him. His face shot into an expression of pure horror. His jaw dropped, and he let out a scream that shook his neighborhood. Christian struggled as the cold pale hand tried to pull him into a cold, ice world. Throughout the interior of the box was a desert of snow. Christian cried as he helplessly flailed his arms and screamed. The arctic wind was blowing into his face. The cold, mummified hand dug its sharp fingernails into Christian’s flesh. He let out one last cry for help before he was sucked into a world of pain, despair, and absolutely no joy at all. The police arrived at the house after a smiling old man had called. He said he had heard screaming, from the old house. The police thanked the kind-hearted man and headed in. They found nothing. The old man, who had reported the incident, grinned a strange grin, as he peeked through the crack in the fence. He adjusted his zebra aviator glasses and took a sip from a mug of coffee. The old man had his cold, pale hand stuck inside an old open box, with tissue paper. Flaking away from the hands of time.


The axe head glinted in the afternoon sunlight as Theophilus swung it in a wide arc. In front of him, the cord of wood split down the center with a neat thunk. He placed another log on the stump and swung again, his arms moving with the well-practiced rhythm of one who has done the same task a thousand times. As his body worked, thoughts crawled petulantly through his head. *She’s always harping on about the importance of books and learning.* Swish. Thunk. *But Father Hedden might be the most boring man alive. How does he even stay upright? He’s so thin that the next breeze might carry him off.* Swish. Thunk. He paused to swipe the sweat from his forehead. *And all we ever read are the dusty boring old histories of the country. Weren’t my ancestors warriors? Why aren't any of the stories about them actually interesting?* He stepped to the woodpile, grabbed another log. Swish. Thunk. *But no. Instead I’m stuck trying to read about how King Abelard, in the second day of the third month of the Year of the Stallion, brokered a deal with the Duke of Wherever, blah blah blah, established a treaty with so-and-so…* Swish. Thunk. One callused hand shoved thick black curls out of his face. *At least I only have to see the old fart once a week. And if I stay late cleaning the kennels, he only has me until fifth bell, which is less than two hours, I think. Plus, the more extra chores I pick up, the more Alden will take me on hunts.* Swish. Thunk. *If only I could spend all my time training instead of wasting it on reading and cutting wood-* Theophilus froze mid-thought, mid-swing, at the distant sound of metal hammering on wood. He spun to face the house, and the shine of light on armor was visible even from across the field. From here, he could tell that a squadron of the king’s men were pounding on his mother’s door. He knew these men - saw them often at the castle. Every day when Theophilus entered the gates, he looked up to see them posted high on the ramparts, keeping a watchful eye out for danger. Off-duty, they could be found lounging casually against the guardhouse walls, betting on card and dice games, flirting with the washerwomen, feeding the hounds surreptitiously with table scraps. As Theophilus watched, his mother opened the door and nine of them filtered into the house, leaving the last man to hold the horses. The squadron captain nodded respectfully as he entered, but something felt off. *Why are they wearing full mail? And they never carry both swords and spears unless they’re practicing for battle, or on parade.* The thought hit him like an axe cleaving through a log. *Oh blessed Aurum please no oh Lord please I beg of you please by Your Glorious Sword I pray please please please* Theophilus started running. It felt like his body was moving in slow motion as he fumbled briefly with the latch on the gate and sprinted the length of the field, dodging the uneven ruts the sheep left in the grass. When he was halfway across, he heard the first scream from the house, and his speed doubled. *Dear Lord if I have ever been a worthy servant to Thee I pray that you keep her safe oh Aurum please I can’t do this without my mother I beg you please by all the life in my body please* Breaths came ragged through his throat as he vaulted the fence and stumbled in the mud around the trough. As Theophilus picked himself up, he glanced in through the window and stopped dead in his tracks. The shutters were half open. Inside, two soldiers were holding his mother’s arms, and others were opening cupboards and tearing the mattresses off the beds. Theophilus locked eyes with her, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, cheeks streaked with tears. *Please Aurum I have not asked for much in my life and I will never again ask You for a single thing if You would just keep her safe and please oh please let us get away and let them not know and let us escape please please Lord* A soldier stepped in front of her, and Theophilus recognized him as the captain of the squadron - Mit. "Where. Is. He?" Mit spat, uncharacteristic anger in his voice. Theophilus' mother only shook her head, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. Then Mit cut her throat. As his head filled with a wordless scream, some animal instinct forced Theophilus to move. He stumbled around the corner of the house, hitting his shoulder hard on the wall in his haste. At the sound, the soldier watching the horses turned to look at him. Theophilus knew him; Dunstan, a red-haired, friendly man, married to the baker’s daughter. If Dunstan stopped Theophilus long enough for the rest of the squadron to finish tearing up the floorboards in search of him and come out of the house- Theophilus’ mind’s eye could only replay the way his mother’s body fell, lifeless, like a dropped sack of grain. Dunstan raised a hand and opened his mouth - to explain or cry for help, Theophilus would never know. Before he could make a sound, Theophilus was upon him. The axe, still in his hand despite his desperate race across the field, was raised high into the air a final time. The sunlight sparkled brilliantly on the blade. With the practice of a thousand repetitions, the muscles in his arms and back tightened. Swish. Thunk. He had hunted alongside the King’s guards, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them in the face of a charging boar, each man secretly hoping the animal chose another’s place in line to die. He’d set the hounds loose to drive pheasants out of the brush into their waiting arrows. He’d led them down trails in the forest that few knew of, and even fewer could follow. He’d watched longingly as they stalked the King’s deer, had curried their horses in exchange for spear lessons, asked their advice, looked jealously at their swords. He’d watched Dunstan flirt, court, and marry Ellie, the baker’s daughter. He knew these men. Hell, he’d wanted to *be* them. Riding west on Dunstan’s horse, pushing the animal the fastest it would go, Theophilus could not-- would not -- think. He would not think. Not of what he had seen, not of what he had done. Clenched tightly on the reins, his bloody hands began to shake.


The tv in the common room was playing a seemingly unending marathon of HGTV and Myrtle Atkins was beginning to feel depressed. Myrtle had been at the Cleese home for the elderly for going on ten years and in her opinion it was ten years too long. The home had about eighty residents and they ranged from those that needed round the clock care to those like Myrtle who simply had been living alone and whose family deemed her a risk to herself after a minor fall. Most of the residents at the moment had some stage of dementia and that made it hard for Myrtle to make friends. Can you imagine the stress of always having to make a great first impression? Myrtle sat in the arm chair wearing her usual peach bathrobe and soft fluffy matching pink slippers and she was thinking about reading a magazine. The room itself was populated by several of the residents that had the later stages of dementia, the nurses would usually herd them into the room after dinner in an attempt to get them to socialize but the tv proved to be a better attention grabber than trying to remember how to hold a conversation and so every single night they would sit there grunting, moaning, or crying as Myrtle sat and thought about all the things she wished would happen. Myrtle did have a friend in the home though, Agnes Wooster, a spry if not chipper woman two years younger than Myrtle. Agnes was one of the lucky ones, her family came to visit her often and would always show up with some home cooked food for the holidays, Myrtle was always invited and glad to attend these dinners. A lot of her family had moved out of state or were simply not the close knit family types. Agnes did not hold it against them, though she wished they would come at least a few times a year and break up the monotony that had taken hold of her life in the not so golden years. A familiar sound broke Myrtle out of her trance and she recognized the sound of the squeaky wheeled pill trolley. Myrtle had long held the belief that they tried to keep most of the inmates…sorry, residents in the common room because it made it easier to hand out the evening cups of various pills, blood thinners, vasodilators, anti depressants, and of course the high fiber medication that kept everyone regular. The nurse pushed the cart into the room and smiled at Myrtle handing her two small paper cups, one with the pills and one with water. The nurse quickly took the one with the pills back and gave her a different one. Myrtle noticed that each pill cup was numbered. "What's with the numbers?" Myrtle really didn't care but it was nice to talk to someone who wasn't engrossed in house flipping. "Different cups have different drugs, helps us not mix them up, the side effects could be really weird if you took the wrong ones." As punctuation to that explanation the nurse pushed the cart past Myrtle and started handing them out to the rest of the people in the room. Myrtle thought about that for the next hour and a half. Myrtle didn't really have any vices and always had kept a clean body figuring she'd live a nice long life and die in her sleep in her own damn home. That plan did not work out. Myrtle watched as the cart was wheeled away and then left at the check in counter. The nurse walked out the front door with a cigarette in his mouth. Myrtle stood and walked at a fast shuffle towards the cart, after checking that no one was around she reached into the containers of pills at the bottom of the cart and shoved a few random handfuls into her bathrobe pockets and then shuffled off down the hallway with a smile on her face. Myrtle knocked on the door to room 314 several times before Agnes woke up and answered the door. "What do you want Myrtle, do you have any idea what time it is?" "Just after seven thirty." "That late?" There was no hint of irony in Agnes' response. "May I come in?" Agnes sighed and obliged, opening the door wide and stepping aside and beckoning her friend to enter, even though Agnes would have much rather have gone back to sleep. Agnes had one of the bigger rooms with her own furniture and it was on an antique had carved redwood table that Myrtle emptied the stolen contents of her pockets. "What the hell have you done Myrtle Atkins?!" Myrtle smiled. "Doesn't it seem like a bit of naughty fun? I never did drugs when I was younger, did you?" Agnes huffed at the very idea and sat down in her olive green velvet evening chair and drew her robe tighter around herself as if to make a point about being closed off to the idea. "What are they going to do? Arrest us? What's the worst that could happen?" With that Myrtle used the side of her palm to divide the pile of pills in half and went off to get two glasses of water and noticed a tea kettle on the stove. "How long has this been here?" "Since about six. It's Irish breakfast blend." Myrtle poured two cups of tea and put two sugar cubes and a splash of milk in each and walked back to the coffee table and handed Agnes her tea. Agnes begrudgingly took her tea and watched with stern derision as Myrtle sat down across from her on an orange floral print love seat. Myrtle blew on her tea and let her friend stew for a few minutes. The tea cooled off and Myrtle could take more than tiny sips of it. To her this seemed as good a time as any to take a few pills and see what happens. Agnes watched as Myrtle took her handful and took them in three portions with a hearty gulp of Irish breakfast tea to wash it down. Agnes wanted to be livid, she did not want to condone this sort of thing from her best friend, but in spite of all of that she was curious, besides if Agnes was going to be here all night in another dimension, why not join her. It did seem like a good bit of naughty fun. Agnes took about half of her pile and took each pill separately initially trying to read each one but giving up when the print proved to be too small. The pair sat and finished their tea and waited for the next ten minutes and nothing happened. Agnes sighed and stood with great effort and walked over to her record player. "I think we just have to wait a bit, drugs take some time to kick in, don't they?" Myrtle said this more to the room itself than to Agnes specifically. "Well I'm not going to sit in silence and stare at your face waiting. I'm going to put a record on." Myrtle sat and poured herself another cup of tea and began to wonder if anything was going to happen at all. Soon enough the sounds of Sonny Rollin's saxophone was filling the room with righteous vigor and Agnes took her seat again, pulling a cross stitch project from the pocket on the side of her recliner. After the record had been flipped Agnes was the first one to notice that things had gone a bit weird. She couldn't properly say it because she couldn't find the words but one look at Myrtle confirmed that Myrtle's drugs had kicked in too. The empty space that filled the room between physical entities, the air in layman's terms had turned a slightly pinkish purple and time was rapidly slowing down. Myrtle felt as if it had taken her about twelve minutes to turn her head but wondered if that could possibly be correct. "The damn saxophone is knocking the walls down. Crap! Did I say that out loud?" Agnes covered her mouth after the outburst and looked down at the cross stitching project, the threads started wobbling on their own accord and she decided it was best to just put it away and work on it tomorrow. The roof melted away before Myrtle's eyes and she got a good look at the stars above and the vast cosmic openness of it all. Myrtle sighed contentedly and leaned back in the recliner and shot through space on a vintage 70's olive green La-Z-Boy. Agnes restarted the record, cranked the volume and polished off the last of the tea, dropping two sugar cubes into it and stirring for the entirety of side one of Saxophone Colossus. Myrtle shot past planets, constellations and comets at rapid speed and saw for once in her life the meaninglessness of it all. Myrtle Atkins, age seventy six finally felt free. Agnes was having a whale of a time as well, though her thoughts were much more down to earth and tied to the simpler pleasures of life. "Tea is really fucking good" was all she thought. As the saxophone reached it's height of frantic tempo the door was opened and three very annoyed nurses stood in the doorway of Agnes' room and they were not pleased with what they found. Apparently some of the residents in neighboring rooms had lodged some complaints of incoherent babbling, loud music and general delinquency. The Nurses confiscated the drugs and took Agnes and Myrtle to the office and reached an agreement, that they wouldn't do what they'd done again, and that the care home would not have to admit how terrible they were at storing narcotics. All in all this was not a terrible Tuesday for Myrtle Atkins. A couple of days later the woman across the hallway, Yukio Omada passed away just after lunch while having her afternoon nap and Myrtle watched from her room as her family came later that night to empty out all of Yukio's possessions. Myrtle had had a handful of conversations with Yukio, she was an interesting woman who came to the States as a young girl and lived through some hard times but made the most of it. Most of her possessions were thrown away, a few books were added to the communal book pile but would go unread like all the others due to the print being too small. Among the items tossed in the trash can down the hallway was a small figurine of a boy fishing in a pond and Myrtle had always liked it. After the family of Yukio Omada had left Myrtle walked as fast as she could down to the trash can and fished out the figurine, returning to her room and placing it neatly on her bed side table. For a while she sat there looking at it and studying it as if it held some secret to life that she desperately wanted to pry out of it. It gave up no secrets but the boy's serene smile at the enjoyment of such a simple activity gave Myrtle an idea. Myrtle put on her old peach bathrobe and made her way down to Agnes' room and knocked four times before Agnes answered. Agnes was a bit upset at Myrtle still, though she would never say it. Agnes was the kind of woman who had lived her life without ever having the authorities give her much notice, so being chewed out by the nursing staff for having a drug party stuck in her craw a bit. Still, ever the gracious host Agnes invited Myrtle into her room with a slight wave of her hand, Myrtle walked in and Agnes shut the door behind her.