I walked through the heavy wooden doors of the dimly lit tavern, the cool night air giving way to the warmth and scent of ale and roasting meats. The walls were adorned with familiar faded tapestries that depicted mythical beasts and heroic battles, a fire gently crackled in the centre of the large room, and the rough-hewn planks of the floor creaked loudly underfoot. Arlen, the Elvish barman, nodded to me from behind the bar, and I gave him a small wave. The sound of dice landing on a table filled the room for a moment. Momentarily distracted by the Dragonborn bard on the small stage set up in the corner, I scanned the room for any sign of the others. She continued to strum her lute, the notes of her mournful ballad filling the room with a spellbinding tone that seemed to cast a spell on the place. The crowd was sparse, made up of a few locals nursing their drinks and food. I spotted a group of rough-looking adventurers huddled together in a corner and approached their table, the three figures still huddled, deep in conversation. "Howdy all," I said as I pulled up a chair, "I guess we’re still waiting for our contact?" The others looked up at me and smiled, their faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight on the wall above the table. There was Nia, the elven rogue, her features sharp, and piercing green eyes taking in everything in a glance; Drog, the hulking dwarf barbarian, his beard long, and muscular frame intimidating; and lastly Fiona, the human druid, her flowing brown hair entwined with braids of flowers, her expression serene. “We are waiting on the merchant himself,” Drog explained loudly into his ale, “Wanted to meet us all together.” The Orc server approached us with a friendly smile, and I ordered drinks and food to tide us over until the merchant arrived. And we waited. We discussed our previous adventures and expressed our curiosity for the quest ahead. Nia recounted the time she had infiltrated a heavily guarded castle and stolen the Crown of Shadows. “Where is it now?” I asked, as chicken juices dripped down my chin. She let out a long sigh, but Drog was quick to jump in. “She lost it in a bet! Could you believe? Such a powerful item, and she loses it to the likes of a dwarf! HA!” Nia rolled her eyes, “I’ll get it back, you mark my words.” “Wanna bet on it? Ha!” Drog laughed into his ale as he held up an ornate headpiece, made of a dark, shimmering metal. It was studded with black diamonds, the edges adorned with intricate and delicate carvings. Nia just continued to glare at the dwarf. Drog then regaled us with the tale of how he had single-handedly defeated a small army of goblins. Again, the sound of dice could be heard rattling on a table. After he had waffled for a time, Nia said, “It wasn’t a small army. I heard it was only ten.” Drog nearly choked on what would be his fourth ale, “Whhaaaa?” Nia smirked, “I know when you’re talking trash old friend. Besides, Berrand was with you and he said that you were lucky you tripped as the chieftain overcommitted to swinging his axe. Apparently he made a pretty mess at the bottom of the cliff.” “Alright, you got me this time, but you saw me take out that Bearowl single-handedly! Don’t you forget!” Drog scowled into his ale. Fiona said serenely, “You mean Owlbear, and yes, you always remind us.” Drog shifted his glance to her, “Thank you Fiona, nice to know we are such good friends.” The dice rattled. Fiona absolutely beamed, “We are good friends aren’t we!” The rest of us rolled our eyes, and Fiona, saturated with mind-numbing enthusiasm, went on to tell of her encounters with mystical beasts and the secrets of the natural world. We patiently listened to this secret. “… so fascinated by the pattern and spent several hours studying it, trying to decipher the meaning. I eventually discovered that the pattern is actually caused by lightning hitting the tree! The phenomenon is now called Lichtenberg figures. They’re amazing! So intricate, and it seems the branching patterns are created when high voltage electricity travels through an insulating material, such as wood. That’s what the artificer said when we recreated the effect. He paid me two hundred gold for helping him name it after himself. He was such a nice little Gnome.” We all blinked awkwardly at her words. The last bit of information caught us off guard, but where Fiona was concerned we weren’t surprised that such a random event would work out so favourably for her, even if at her own expense. She was known as the lucky one of the group, although, not always in a useful way. The bard was finished for the night and most other patrons had left, when finally, the tavern door creaked open, and a worried-looking man entered. We immediately recognized him as the merchant we were waiting for. He approached our table, introduced himself, and explained that he had been expecting a caravan with a shipment of beer for some days now. He feared that misfortune had befallen them. He gave us details of where the caravan was travelling and begged us to find out what had happened, and to bring the shipment back to him if possible. The offered reward was quite generous. We listened intently and agreed to take on the job. Everyone was sitting up straighter and eyes keen. The idea of a new adventure, combined with the possibility of a lifetime stirring our adrenaline. Free beer. Free beer for the rest of our lives. It was an enough to make Drog shed a tear of joy. The merchant left, and we gathered our gear to set out into the night. Not wanting to waste any time, we left immediately through the town gates, the road quiet as we headed for the hills. The path was long and winding, and after an hour, we found ourselves deep in the dark heart of the forest, on the path where the merchant expected the caravan to travel. The trees towered over us, their gnarled branches creaking in the wind, as we trudged up the slightly overgrown road. No tracks had been found. "I have a bad feeling." Fiona whispered, her staff in hand as she guided a soft glowing ball of light slightly ahead of us. "Who knows what is lurking in this part of the woods." I held back my tongue from reminding her that she spends more time here than anyone else. Nia nodded in agreement, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows around us. "I'll take point," she said, unsheathing her blades. "Keep close behind me." Drog mumbled under his breath in a whiney voice, “kEeP CLosE BeHiND MmEe… What?” Nia paused. If looks could kill, even in the darkness of the forest, Drog would be six feet under. We moved deeper into the forest, and not before long found a scene of carnage. No wonder the caravan hadn’t arrived. Bodies were everywhere, the evidence of an ambush obvious from the amount damage done to the caravan with little sign of who had attacked. The sound of dice bouncing filled my head. Looking closely at the road, I noticed large footprints and multiple wagon tracks that led off into the bush. It became clear that we were dealing with something larger than goblins. Unsure of what they were, I called Fiona over. “Ogres,” She says without hesitation, “Definitely ogre tracks. I’d say two or three of them. They went that way! Drog, Nia, stop looting the bodies, we know roughly where the wagons went.” Drog and Nia stopped filling their pockets and came over as Fiona cast a spell. Her eyes glowed briefly as she chanted softly, and suddenly, the leaves and twigs seemed to part before us, allowing us to move through the forest with ease. But our stealthy approach was cut short when we suddenly heard a loud roar in the distance. We froze, our hearts pounding in our chests as we listened intently to the sound. "What was that?" Drog whispered, his grip tightening on his axe. "WhAT wAs tHaT?" Nia mocked, pointing to the east where the tracks led. Drog glowered and made shooing motions. Slowly, we approached the source of the sound, the twigs and leaves crunching silently under our feet with every step. The forest grew darker as we drew closer to the source of the disturbance. Our hearts raced with anticipation and fear as we moved closer. Finally, we stumbled upon the scene of the commotion. Three massive ogres, their eyes glassy and unfocused, were swigging from the barrels of beer around a fire where one of the horses was roasting. They were laughing and grunting, and their voices boomed in the clearing. Clearly inebriated, the ogres were stumbling around, their movements slow and clumsy. They belched loudly and laughed boisterously as they drank, seemingly unaware of our presence. But as we drew our weapons and prepared to attack, they suddenly turned to face us, their eyes glinting with malice and hunger, their inebriation making them no less dangerous. The sound of dice was stronger than ever. Barrel of beer came careening towards us but smashed into a tree nearby. Beer sprayed all over us. "Looks like we found our beer," Drog said, grinning wickedly. Without a further word, Drog let out a bloodcurdling roar as he charged straight at the ogres, his axe raised high. "Let's show these bumbling beasts who's boss!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the forest. "I'll take care of them from behind," Nia whispered to the rest of the group. Someone snickered, which made the rest of us giggle. She quickly darted around to the other side of the clearing behind the ogres, her sharp blades glinting in the moonlight as she silently made her way towards their backs. Meanwhile, Fiona closed her eyes and chanted softly. "Mother Nature, lend us your strength," she murmured, her hands outstretched as she focused her energy on the ground beneath her. Vines and thorns suddenly erupted from the earth, ensnaring two of the ogres and holding them at bay. The beasts roared in fury, struggling against the thorny restraints that held them down. As I realised I hadn’t armed my crossbow and began to crank the handle, a phone rang. Time went still. Now sitting at the game table, we’re all exhausted yet excited. Having been fuelled by beers and half eaten packets of chips, we stare at the map and models covering the table. The Dungeon Master, Brett answers the phone and has a brief discussion before hanging up. “I’ve got to get the door.” Brett says as he gets up and leaves. We continue to sit there wondering who would be interrupting us at eleven pm on a Sunday night. Brett returns and announces that it’s time to wrap up for the night. We all groan and protest, not wanting to leave the game so soon. "Can't we just keep playing for a little longer?" asks Carly, who plays Nia, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Yeah, let's see where this goes," Drog, who is played by Josh, chimes in, his voice tired but still keen. But Brett shakes his head. "We'll come back next week," he says, "and pick up where we left off." Suddenly an older man walks into the room from behind Brett. “What the hell is this? Looks like I’ve walked into some medieval fan group convention, or um, what’s it called… a cult.” Brett sighs, “Everyone, this is my uncle Greg, and no, we’re playing Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a role-playing game.” “I thought that was a video game.” Greg asks, “Why you all dressed up?”  Alex, who plays Fiona, pipes up, “For fun! It gets us into character. We also went to a D&D convention earlier today.” “D&D?” Greg asks, scratching his beard. Brett clarifies, “It’s short for Dungeons and Dragons. Anyway, now that you’re here we’ll be wrapping up. I’ll take you up to the spare room.” “Wait, so you’re telling me you dressed up and went to this convention today,” Greg says puzzled, “to then come back and play it. How long have you been playing?” I look at my watch before answering, “seven hours now. It was just getting good too.” Greg stands there and looks around at us all, perplexed. “Maybe you should finish the game then. It clearly means a lot to you. No, I’ll watch. I’m curious now. Go on Brett, I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes.” We all smile at Greg. Greg smirks at the rest of us. The sound of dice and vivid descriptions fill the air. The forest clearing came into focus again and Nia, being the fastest of us, managed to hamstring one ogre, dealing critical damage with a sneak attack. It fell to its hands and knees but was it able to lash out a kick that landed right in Nia’s stomach, which caused a rib to crack and wind her badly. One ogre broke free from being ensnared by the vines, only to have Drog stumble into it, causing them both to fall over with the ogre landing on top. From a table in another world, a group of people laughed at the unfortunate turn. Another ogre got its arms free and threw it’s barrel of beer, hitting Fiona and dealing a significant amount of damage. She let go of the entanglement spell and transformed into an owl. She then flew up into the trees out of sight. I got the crossbow loaded and aim at the ogre that kicked Nia. I let it loose and score a hit solidly in the ogre’s chest, only for it to be enraged. It stood up, getting ready to attack while I looked across to see Drog still stuck under the other ogre. With him incapacitated, Nia badly injured and Fiona gone, it was up to me. “Three on one baby. Let’s do this!” I yelled as I dropped my crossbow and drew my sword. I charged towards the nearest ogre when suddenly, bright shimmering orbs of light crackled through the air past me to hit all three ogres with unerring accuracy and an explosion of sparks. The ogre with the crossbow bolt in him fell to the ground dead. The one before me roared in pain as it clutched it’s face, and I impaled it with my sword, dispatching it with a fantastic spray of intestines. The last ogre had got off of Drog, only to burst into flames, but unfortunately they also happened to engulf Drog. An owl screeched and water appeared from above him to douse the flames, leaving him smoking and charred but alive. We all gathered in the middle of the clearing and surveyed the damage. We turned from the direction we came to see an old man with a beard in a grey robe. He waved a staff at us, “Hello adventurers, I am Greg! No? Why can’t I be Greg? Fine. Gandalf. It’s Gand… What do you mean?” We all look at each other from across the table and smile as Brett discusses with Greg the finer details of character development and that although there’s no copyright for using a well known name, it’s not very original. “I can’t believe I did nothing! I just got smooshed by the damn thing.” Drog, or Josh, laughs and throws his hands up in the air. We all jeer and make fun of him as we start to pack up for the evening. It’s past midnight. “We’ll discuss levels and loot next session, just keep tabs on who did what,” says Brett. “Next week, we’ll roll into the actual campaign.” Greg startles at this, “What? That wasn’t the actual campaign? I thought I must have defeated a big boss or something!” “No, that was just a side quest for fun.” Alex says. Josh jumps in saying, “But now that you’ve got a taste, you should join us from the start. We don’t mind helping you as we play. One of us, one of us!” The chant dies quicker than it started. Greg looks around at all the others expectant faces in the room. “You don’t mind? I wouldn’t have to dress up though would I?” “We could use a mage actually. Sounds like a new member has joined the party!” I exclaim. Brett says, “I don’t mind, we can easily work you in. Besides, this might be a good distraction while you figure out your life. I imagine you’ll be living here now for a bit anyway so we can fine tune everything before the next session.” Greg looks around the room and a variety of emotions pass over his bearded face. He smiles and nods. “Alright. I’m in. But no dressing up.” “Yet!” half of us say together laughing. Brett laughs, “We’ll make a hardcore fan of you yet.” Greg rolls his eyes and laughs, “I’ve always wanted to join a cult! Ha!”


Three of the Carlson siblings were standing in the afternoon sunshine in their mother's backyard.

 "It's hard to believe that Mom is going to move." Chloe, the oldest, was talking to her two brothers.            "Mom's been talking about it ever since Dad died. She said the winters in Ohio are too cold," Cooper replied. Cooper was just one year younger than Chloe.  "I thought she was just talking about moving, that she would live here forever." Caleb was looking around the oversized yard. "Houses built today come with yards the size of postage stamps. You could never play baseball in my backyard as we did here. I'm going to miss this place." Caleb was two years younger than Cooper.            Bang! The back door slammed shut; Chloris, the youngest, came outside. She had a can of soda pop for each sibling. "Let's go up to the treehouse, one last time." Chloris was one year younger than Caleb.            "I haven't been there in years; it might not be safe." Chloe protested. She was always overly cautious.            The treehouse was a shed built on stilts. At that time, the oak tree next to it provided shade. The children would look out the windows and try to grab the branches. The tree was too far for them to reach. Now the oak tree embraced the structure.            "The steps look good; I'll go first." Caleb had always been fearless. The wooden steps were sturdy as he climbed to the top.            Caleb saw a few dried and sticks covering the wooden floor, but otherwise, the treehouse was just as he remembered it. He took a few cautious steps to discover the wooden floor was just as safe as the steps.            "It's safe!" Caleb stuck his head out the window by the door. "Come on up." "We spent many fine hours here," Chloe said as she entered the treehouse. "Chloris, I'm glad you talked us into coming up here."  "We won't have another chance to relive these memories after Mom moves," Chloris told her siblings. "Look! There's my doll." She seized a dust lump that was tucked away in a corner. "I wondered what happened to it." Dust covered plastic face. The once beautiful lavender dress was moth-eaten and covered in dirt. "I spent a lot of time with my dolls up here."            "We planned many adventures when we up here." Caleb was surveying the neighborhood from the east window.

 Cooper joined Caleb to take in the view. "We couldn't see the whole world as we thought, but we had a pretty good view of the neighborhood. Do you remember watching Mrs. Rollins sunbath?"  "She thought no one could see her behind that privacy fence." Caleb laughed.  "Both of you claimed to have a clubhouse meeting every day that summer," Chloe told her brothers.            "Mrs. Rollins just happened to sunbath at the same time as our meetings," Cooper explained.            Chloris took a drink of her soda pop before sharing another memory.  "I used to come up here to write. I think the higher altitude helped my imagination."  "Higher altitude! This treehouse is on stilts, not the top of Mount Everest!" Caleb scoffed at his younger sister.            "Even if the altitude isn't that much different, I still did some of my best work up here. I was sitting right here when I wrote a story for my sophomore English class. I won an award for that story." Chloris said.  "Yes, we all know you won an award. Your ability to make things up is legendary." Cooper teased his sister.  "That's the reason I became a full-time writer," Chloris explained.            "I decided to study architecture because of this treehouse," Chloe added. "I thought it would be advantageous to have a house on stilts if you lived in a floodplain."            "I liked it up here so much that I studied aviation. I love to fly," Cooper said.            "I became an assistant football coach; I don't think the treehouse had anything to do with that career choice." Caleb grew thoughtful before adding, "it's a wonder that none of us went into law enforcement . . . after that night." Caleb brought a memory they all shared.            "I thought we agreed to never talk about it," Chloe chastised.  "Caleb's right to bring it up," Cooper argued. "Mom will be safe when she moves away, so it's finally time to talk about Bernard Jenkins and his mother."            "I guess you're right," Chloe reluctantly agreed. "It's time to stop being afraid."            "I think we can all agree that Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman," Cooper stated.  "Remember when she gave us apples for Halloween? We threw them away as soon as we were out of sight," Caleb said.            "I was too afraid to even a small bite because I didn't want to end up like Sleeping Beauty.

Chloe remembered.            "The fairy tale with the poisoned apples is Snow White , not Sleeping Beauty ." Chloris corrected.  "Whatever. the point is that I didn't want to eat a poisoned apple, and I didn't want any of my siblings to eat a poisoned apple." Chloe replied.            "Why did we even stop at that house?" Caleb asked.            "Mom thought we should be friendly neighbors. She said Mrs. Jenkins spent her entire day in that house with her abnormal son. She didn't know what was wrong with Bernard, but Mrs. Jenkins wouldn't let him leave the house," Chloe remembered. "I think Bernard is a couple of years older than me, that is if he is still alive."  "I don't know if he's alive, but we know that his mother is dead," Caleb spoke their secret out loud.            Cooper got very serious and started telling the story. "It was supposed to be the perfect night to see Mars. All my friends said Mars was closer to Earth than it would be for the next fifty years. I brought my telescope to the treehouse so I could get a good view. I remember looking at all the stars, thinking about how bright they were. I was getting bored with that when Caleb entered the treehouse."  "I started looking around the neighborhood." Caleb picked up the narrative. "First, I looked to see if Mrs. Rollins was in her sunbathing spot; naturally, she wasn't there."            "I came into the treehouse and asked you to check Mrs. Jenkins' apple tree,"  Chloe told her part of the story. "I was sure it would look bizarre because it produced poisonous apples."            "I followed you to the treehouse and saw everyone standing by the window. I pushed Chloe out of the way so I could look." Chloris continued the story. "I saw Bernard carrying his mother outside."

           "I remember you said it was strange for Bernard to come outside in the middle of the night, carrying his mother. I took the telescope from you so I could look for myself. I'll never forget watching Bernard dump his mother into that hole." Cooper shivered at the memory.  "We all watched as Bernard shoveled dirt into that hole," Cooper said. "None of us said it out loud, but I knew she was dead."  Chloe added to the story. "Over the years, I've tried to think of a reasonable explanation. I thought, maybe she died of a heart attack, and Bernard didn't know what to do, so he just buried her. He might have seen someone bury a dead bird or rabbit, so he did the same thing to his mother. I think that might be possible."            "There's a huge problem with that theory." Caleb reminded his siblings.            "Yeah, that note we found nailed to the oak tree is a problem!" Cooper reminded them.            "I'll kill your mother if you tell," Chloris recited. All the siblings remembered the note.            "That's when we vowed never to talk about that night." Chloe said, "We just couldn't take the chance."  "Now, there is a perfectly healthy apple tree growing over Mrs. Jenkins." Cooper was looking out the window towards Bernard Jenkins' backyard.  "Do you think it's safe to tell the authorities what we know? After all, it's been thirty years," Chloe asked.  "I think we should wait for another thirty years," Cooper said.  Caleb pushed Cooper out of the way so he could look, "We should wait. After all, Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman, and I don't think anyone misses her."            Chloe came to the window to look at the Jenkins' yard. "It's been a secret for thirty years; a few more won't hurt."  Chloris finally took her turn at the window. She saw a big sign by the apple tree. "I can find your Mom."            That was all the Carlson children needed to read.


Doing My Best - Ramblings From A Conflicted Mind “Did anyone ever tell you, you have a hyperactive sense of responsibility?” - Probably not an exact qoute, but one of my favorites from the Jesse Stone movies. It struck me.

I don’t want to be a mind reader. In fact, I try very hard not to be, but -

It’s all my fault. This is all my fault. Everything is all my fault. At least, that’s how I felt about everything and anything that ever happened. It’s not like anyone ran around, pointing fingers and saying, ”It’s all your fault!” I just knew.

I shouldn’t have been such a good girl. I shouldn’t have always been so quiet. I shouldn’t have told the truth. I shouldn’t have wanted things. I never should have listened. I never really did want to be a mountain climber, anyway. I never did like baked beans, or chicken on the grill cooked with gasoline … That’s why everything is my fault. Not because I didn’t like baked beans, but because I believed everything you told me. It’s always been my fault. Everything will always be my fault - I’ve grown comfortably in that role - and now I always have an opinion to go along with my self-flogging. The audacity is usually unwelcome, but I want to discuss more than the rain. Why do you take it so personally? This wise woman constantly reassures the naive’ little girl that it wasn’t her fault; that she did the right thing, but those feelings of responsibility remain forever crushing. A hug and words of wisdom are never quite enough anymore. It’s too late for that. The soul is soothed only for a moment by me. In my childhood logic, the only reason I could imagine no one ever hugged me, that little girl, and told me it wasn’t my fault is because it was my fault. It was all my fault. It still is. It’s my fault that the family fell apart. It’s my fault that my parents grieve parents. And I grieve Grandparents who never really existed. It’s my fault the dog died. It’s my fault I’ve been exiled - I carry too many opinions. And truths. Apparently, I talk too much. I’m too much of a lot. So go ahead, pile it on - the blame with which you don’t want to burden yourself. I’ll take it. I’ve learned how to carry it well. Silently, with no tears, because I’m tough. Don’t worry, you’ll never see my bruises or scars anymore. It is not my intent to see you uncomfortable. I’ll keep my opinions and truths with me, away from you. I will never blame you.

It’s my fault my dreams remain distant; my nightmares chronic. It’s my fault I think too much. It’s my fault Hallmark movies make me cry. Why do Hallmark movies make me cry? Maybe because was born under the Birth Sign Aquarius and the stars were aligned for craving the ideal. My attempts to burst your delusional bubble of safety were, of course, unwelcome. I refuse to live there, though, because history has proven it’s not safe for me. I guess that’s my fault for making you feel insecure. I didn’t mean to do that.

Don’t worry. These words are as close as you’ll get to unraveling this mysterious mind. And it’s your choice to read them. Or not. It’s always been your choice. It’s my fault you didn’t love me deeply as I started to grow from “silent, smiley good girl” into “independent, mature woman.” My opinions and truths made(make) me unlovable to those who are only comfortable within silent smiles. Twisted words, tone and inaction told me so. Patterns tell me so now. Because of my silence, more were hurt, that was my fault. Because of my declaration, many were hurt. That was my fault, too. The results were unpredictable and unexpected. I should have known better. In the aftermath, I have developed self-reliance. That’s also my fault. I know it’s not your fault - you only coped, still cope - the best way you knew how. It’s my fault for not drowning in your damage, no matter how many times your silent waves tried to crash me into the surf. (Maybe that’s why I’m apprehensive of the water.) It’s my fault I can’t swim. I know you tried to make me learn one summer for a week, but it was cold. The thought of splashing in the water was not inviting. I still hate splashing water. And butterflies. Although, I love butterflies, I can’t stand it when they touch me.

I do love animals, though. Animals are much more reliable than people. And honest. I limited myself with the belief that I wasn’t smart enough, or wealthy enough. That’s my fault.

It’s my fault for coping the way I do, with expression through words, with beverage, with opinions and truths, with the need to do what’s right - according to me, not you. Doing what’s right it not often easy. Or convenient. It’s my fault you no longer see my smile. You also won’t see my tears. It’s my fault you don’t find me funny anymore (I’m still funny) …  Or maybe some of that is your fault. Or no one’s fault. Maybe it was the bloodletting. I know this rambling sounds confused. I’m sure it’s obscure to readers. This is just my way of trying to make sense of the thoughts in my head vs the actions of my world. This chaotic mind is my fault, too. Sometimes, I lose my way. That’s my fault. I have always found my way back. That’s my fault, too. No one is helping me. I fall down on my own. I rise on my own. I often wonder what would happen if I could just do what I’m told. You know - let it go, hide it, forget about it, never speak of it, let it all carry on down the line. Would I then be blameless? Don’t worry - you can sleep well in the knowledge it’s all my fault.


In wake of the overturning of Bill Cosby's case where a confessed sexual predator walks free, I've found myself yet again playing the objective role in how I felt about it. The Cosby Show was a highlight of my childhood - I remember us, my family of African immigrants, owning a boxed-set copy of all the seasons of the show. My family was one of little means and limited time for entertainment, yet we owned every single season of the Cosby Show. The Cosby Show's legacy is unrivaled, it appealed to many people and was a needed positive representation of the black family, especially at that time. So when sixty women - seemingly out of the woodworks all recounted their different experiences of being assaulted by Cosby, it was a shock to many. Some advocated for the women, in solidarity with their stories, but many victim-blamed and even worse, labeled the whole thing as some huge conspiracy theory. I've seen it all, and in the comforts of my cognitive dissonance continued to live my life, unaffected, and refusing to engage in any type of heated debate about it. The thing is - and I know many can relate, we live in a world with so much pain and despair on a global level. Each and every day we are inundated with sad and tragic stories even in our own backyards. A lot of us have to detach emotionally and even mentally to a degree to maintain our own sanity it seems - myself included. It's so very hard to empathize with our own deep pain and sadness, the sadness of our friends and family, and all the sadness that exists in this realm on this planet called Earth. So when Bill Cosby was convicted and arrested I chose to feel nothing. I am ashamed to admit this, because I am too, a woman. Although I don't

feel  like a victim of sexual assault or rape, since my experiences weren't like the ones depicted in movies or news stories where a woman is violently violated or attacked - I, in fact, have been a victim many times over in the sense consent has been very blurry in the past, and I've felt coerced into situations especially in my youth that my heart and mind was not in. As well as instances where I was too inebriated to consent and was taken advantage of. Life as a woman, though it comes with its advantages, is hard as you're constantly in defense mode. I recently moved into an apartment complex where I am constantly stale-faced and unapproachable with my male neighbors not because I am unfriendly, that's far from the case - I just don't want anyone to get any "ideas" especially since they all know where I live and that I am a single woman living alone. Time after time, I find myself having to explain to my boyfriend these things, but life as a man is completely different, it's hard for him to understand that as a woman I am more likely to be victimized than he is. The unfortunate reality is although he may have to worry about being the victim of theft and robbery of material things, I have to worry about being a victim of something I could never buy back or reclaim. I am the furthest thing from a prude, considering myself to be sexually very liberal. But even women like me deserve respect. Even women in the industry I work in, as an exotic dancer have a right to not be sexually harassed, assaulted or forced to engage in any type of sexual activity without clear consent. Men will violate you even on the job in a room full of people because you aren't looked at as worthy of basic respect. This is the same ideology of the people who insist certain women deserve to be assaulted or harassed based on how they dress, this is the same ideology that forces knee-length skirts and shorts as a dress code all the while enforcing no dress codes for men, and no shaming of the men who assault or harass ANY woman - not just the ones deemed "appropriately" dressed. And this is also the same ideology of the people who despite the testimony of sixty women unrelated to each other, still regard in deep reverence Mr. Bill Cosby and support him undyingly. Paradigm shifts happen often throughout our lifetimes. This morning I woke up in a cold sweat of a nightmare, something that doesn't happen often with me. In my dream I was at a party where a lot of people were present - it was a pool party. I wandered off to be alone in the rowdiness of it and was cornered by a man I had not spoken even a single word to. He forced himself on me, kissing me repeatedly while I yelled at him to stop tears streaming down my face. I fought and fought but I was overpowered by the bulky man on top of me all the while screaming, hoping I would be heard over the blasting music around us. Then he unbuckled his pants, and my adrenaline kicked in. Suddenly I spotted an opportunity to rescue myself in an empty beer bottle right below us. I grabbed the bottle by the top, broke it against the ground weaponizing it, and held it to his face, and threatened to stab him if he didn't get off of me immediately. He obliged, with no choice but to stop in his assault of me. This wasn't the worst part of the dream, however. The worst part of the dream was upon returning to the party (for whatever reason dream me decides to go back to the party instead of leaving and calling the police) to find that my assailant had spoken to others about in his mind, his "seduction" of me. Much to my absolute disgust and shame, the WOMEN at the party completely disregarded my assault, and told me "it wasn't that serious." This is when I woke up. Emotions of fear, sadness, embarrassment flooded my brain. Women, we have to stand in solidarity with each other when it comes to matters like these. You don't need to be a victim to show support. There shouldn't be a woman alive who stands with Bill Cosby, and I am ashamed to even admit that I rode the fence on the topic previously.


Heavy bodies dance to the booming bass, reeking of alcohol and pushing against me. I navigate the crowd, rubbing against more skin than clothes, and reach the kitchen. It's unrecognizable as our house now. The white-marbled counter is littered with plastic cups and dirty plates, and I start grabbing stuff and shoving it into an overflowing trash bin, with which the party guests must've made a game of to see how tall it could go without falling. I see my sister Cecil dancing a couple feet away, blonde locks and white smile bouncing above a sea of heads. Her arms wrap around a pretty stranger. I shake my head. I can't understand her for the life of me. I toss the bag to the floor and don't bother to replace the trash bin. "Her party, her mess," I tell myself, already knowing I'll be cleaning this tomorrow. Still, in a mix of rebellion and procrastination, I leave the trash and march upstairs (holding my breath as I pass some guys smoking on the steps). There's a couple e-books on my phone I have queued up, and I find it pleasant to think I'll be spending New Year's Eve reading while her friends are throwing up beer. I walk to my room when I see the lights on under the bathroom door. My gut burns. I told Cecil a billion times that upstairs was off-limits. I glare at the door and my back tingles at the thought of puke clogging up the toilet I'll have to use tomorrow. And the bathroom was just one thing—drunk couples tumbling into my bedroom, into Mom's bedroom? Jaw clenched, I slam my hand on the doorknob and yank the door open. I scream. A skinny brown-haired boy, sitting fully-clothed on my toilet, stares at me with a book in his hands. "What-" I start. His long hair brushes against his black glasses and reveal his eyes, green and glinting. "I'm.." "What are you doing here?" I blurt. It comes out all hard and cold and I don't mean it. Thankfully, he laughs softly and scratches his head. "I... I've been asking myself the same thing." I blink at him. I don't know what to do. "Upstairs are off-limits." He looks at me and there's a shift in his eyes. He grabs his book. "Sorry- yes, I'm leaving." He stands and glances about the bathroom apologetically. I watch, hating myself for feeling like the rude one. I feel guilty nonetheless—I would've done the same as him, at a party I didn't belong in. "Are you a friend of Cecil's?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Nah, my brother's a friend of hers. He dragged me along." I nod, but he's looking at the book in his hands. "He fancies her, I think. I honestly don't know why. No offense! You're her older sister, right?" "Yeah." We stand in the bathroom for a fat minute. My hands are itching to pull out that e-book and my bedroom is just behind me. The boy purses his lips and I catch a glimpse of his eyes. There's anxiety there—dread. I remember the crowds and the stench of alcohol downstairs and almost physically shudder. Which is terrifying, because I kind of have to pee now. "I'm gonna just be in my room," I say. He looks at me, eyes big. "So you can hang here, I guess.. if you want." He beams at me and I can tell he's trying to hide it. He must think I'm like Cecil, think I'm judging him. "Oh, wait, I have to use the bathroom!" I say. He nods vigorously and comes towards me and I step aside for him to pass before entering and closing the door. I relieve myself, shaking my head. After flushing and washing my hands, I call out, "It's all yours!" With a laugh, I open the door. The hallway is empty. I hear cheers from downstairs and glance at a clock on the wall: 11:59pm. Hah, of course. I consider going down to join the countdown, but instead smile and go into my room, slipping into the cool covers. I pull out my phone and search through my e-book list. I had caught a glimpse of the book he was reading, and I type it into the search bar. I settle in with a grin, and read.


Father Thomas lowered his eyes to the velvet cushion on which he was seated. He traced his fingertip along its embroidery, following every intricate cross and curve. Much like the rest of the confessional, the cushion was well-worn, with broken threads that poked out from its stitching, inviting a destructive tug from the absentminded. The priest’s actions were more deliberate than that. He was stalling, passing time in the awkward silence that often followed his pointed questions. Passing time, until — “It was Alexis, Father. Alexis Mackey,” said the voice beyond the partition. Ah. The man on the other side was Frank Altezza. The two of them had their early fifties in common, but little else. Frank was a loud man who drove a loud Mustang and who refused to admit that he’d aged past his prime. He was also crying. This was not uncommon in the confessional, but Father Thomas had not outgrown his distaste for it. “I didn’t want to,” said Frank. “I just —“ “Of course you did,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “There was no one holding a gun to your head. There was no fortune to be made in the deed. What, other than a deep desire of the flesh, could have made you do such a thing?” “I just — you know, I never meant for it to go this far.” “Yes you did, Frank. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you expect to be honest with Michelle?” “Father —“ Frank’s face became clouded. “You can’t make me tell her.” “Reconciliation and repentance go hand-in-hand.” “It’ll crush her.” “And the pain you both experience will make you less likely to sin again.” “She’ll leave.” “She won’t. But even if she does, far better that than to live with a lie. That’s your penance, Frank. You need to tell her and apologize. And you also need to apologize to Alexis.” “Alexis should apologize to me!” That was loud. Too loud. Others waiting outside might have heard it. “Enough. She’s half your age and you indulged in your in your brokenness together. Own your sin and apologize.” Frank took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, Father.” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.” “Amen. Thank you, Father.” Frank crossed himself and stood. He pushed aside the scarlet curtain and Father Thomas watched as he stepped out of the confessional, taking the chip on his shoulder with him. Frank was what the priest had come to think of as an identity Catholic. He’d come to know many of them in his six years at Our Lady of Virtue Parish. These were members of the Church who, though excellent at ritual, were lacking in faith. They prayed the Rosary. They attended Mass. He presided over their Catholic weddings and their children’s baptisms. When he presided over their Catholic funerals, however, he found himself wondering at their fates. And on that note, he often wondered if he was doing the Franks of the world a disservice, providing absolution when they’d just be screwing the Alexis’s of the world by the weekend and asking for forgiveness before the month was out. He wondered if he ought to care more. He remembered caring a lot more, back when he was an associate priest in New Hampshire. Now, leading a church in Brooklyn, those memories seemed faded and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Well, it had been a few minutes. Perhaps that was the rest of it for the afternoon and he would finally be able to return home and shut off for a while. Father Thomas rose from his velvet cushion and pushed through the curtain before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the sanctuary. The priest no longer saw the beauty of the place, the majesty that struck most people when they visited. It was the cracked panes of stained glass that drew his attention now, as did the water-damaged ceiling plaster, the chipped baptismal font, and the ever-growing rows of empty pews at Mass, which meant repairs were unlikely to come anytime soon. The pews were all empty today, of course. All except one. The priest shifted his attention to a lone figure seated a few rows back from where he stood. The man was younger, early thirties. His head was lowered, his shoulders drawn in, and he was clothed in a worn, gray sweater that hung from his body like a shroud. Without looking up, the man spoke, “Father, you think maybe you’ve got time for me?” Jesus would have taken pity on the man. Father Thomas felt only a slight irritation. But he had a duty and he had an obligation, and so he gestured with palms wide open and said, “Of course, come on in.” The priest turned and stepped back into the confessional, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He sat on the velvet cushion and rolled his shoulders back, preparing his mind for what would hopefully be his last session of the day. Light filtered into the other side of the booth as a bandaged hand pulled open the curtain — the priest hadn’t noticed it behind the pew. The younger man stepped inside, the floor groaning under his weight. Even through the partition, it was clear he had a more powerful build than his clothing had let on. He knelt before the screen, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” “God is with us and will hear you,” said the priest. “How long has it been since your last confession?” “It’s been, uh…” The man trailed off. “It’s okay — there’s no need to be ashamed.” “Father, I honestly don’t know how to answer your question.” That was a strange thing to say, but strange things were often said inside the confessional. “Well, have you had confession before?” “I’m, uh — I’m sorry, Father. I have memories of confession, you know. But I…” He trailed off again. “What’s your name?” asked Father Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” “Daniel Walsh. And no, I’ve never attended Mass in New York.” “But you are baptized within the Church?” “I’m sorry — I’m sure this frustrating —“ “Daniel, I’m happy to meet with you, but the sacrament of confession is for those who have received a Catholic baptism.” “Look, I remember Mass, my Confirmation — all of it.” “So you were baptized, then.” “I just don’t know if it was real.” The priest shifted in his seat. It was becoming clear how this was going to go and it would be best to simply get on with it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you,” said Father Thomas. Daniel gave a meek nod, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I killed someone, Father.” The priest gave a slow, solemn nod. He’d heard more than one grave sin confessed during his time in the city and it was best not to react too strongly. After allowing a moment of silence to pass, he said, “The Lord Jesus Christ died for all of our sins, Daniel. When did this happen?” “Today. A couple hours ago, maybe.” “Tell me more.” “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d really prefer not to.” Father Thomas did his best to disguise his impatience. “The nature of Christ’s forgiveness is that it requires repentance. Repentance requires remorse. If you’re unable to speak —“ “I feel remorse, Father,” his voice was at a near-whisper. “I’m not a killer, you know? I’m… a janitor.” “Where do you work?” “The, uh — the U.N.,” said Daniel. He was caught off-guard by the priest’s shift in conversation, which had been exactly the point of it. “Wow,” said Father Thomas. “They put you through a background check for a job like that?” Daniel nodded. “Yeah, I got fingerprinted and stuff…” “And you said you’d never attended Mass in New York before. Where are you from?” “South Dakota. Outside Aberdeen. You know, flyover country.” “That’s got to be a culture shock.” “Yeah. For sure.” Daniel gave a slight, sad smile. “What brought you out here?” “A girl. I think. Maybe. I don’t know — we’re not together now.” That was a misstep. Time to steer the conversation back. “So you’re a midwestern guy with a spotless record.” Daniel nodded. “Until now, I guess.” “Tell me what happened, Daniel.” “Father, I —“ “It’s okay.” Daniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m scared of what I might do.” “Give your fear over to God and tell me what’s on your heart.” Daniel swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. Father Thomas turned his attention away from his confessant and instead focused on the familiar feel of the pad of his middle finger against velvet. He let it glide along the raised, golden stitching, following the trance of its pattern until — “It was a kid,” started Daniel. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “He was on one of those one-wheel skateboard things - you know what I’m talking about?” Father Thomas nodded, but said nothing. “I was walking back home from the station and I didn’t hear him ‘cause I had my ear buds in. He was going at a pretty good clip and I guess I must have crossed in front of him — I don’t know — and his backpack caught on my pinky finger. Ripped all the skin clean off.” Daniel raised his bandaged hand for show. It seemed remarkably clean for such a recent and serious wound. He continued, becoming emotional, “Something came over me — I can’t describe it. I had no control. I pulled him off the sidewalk, into an alley — there was this brick on the ground nearby and I just grabbed it and —“ Daniel let out a sob. Father Thomas gave him a moment, then quietly said, “Go on.” “I smashed it into his face over and over and over again, until there was nothing left but flaps of skin and teeth and bits of bone and — oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “There was so much blood. I’m sorry, Father.” “Christ is here with us, Daniel,” said the priest, keeping the steadiest tone he could muster. “Do you think anyone saw you?” “I don’t know — I didn’t see anyone.” “What did you do with the body?” “I got scared. I just left him there. God, I don’t even know who he was! He was just a kid and —” “Daniel,” said Father Thomas, cutting him off. “I’m going to slide open the partition.” “Okay…” Daniel wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Father Thomas slid the screen aside. He glanced over Daniel’s body, then locked eyes with him. “You mentioned a couple times not being sure of what’s real. I don’t see a drop of blood on you.” “I told you, I was close to home. I went back to clean up and take care of my hand.” “Did you go to the hospital?” “No — I was scared.” “There’s no blood on that bandage of yours.” The look on Daniel’s face was one of terror. “You don’t believe me.” “I’m just trying to help you find the truth.” “Father, please - I must have forgiveness.” “Then show me your hand.” “I can’t do that.” “Wouldn’t it be better if there were nothing to be forgiven?” “I killed a kid, Father. Please.” “Then unwrap that bandage and show me a finger missing its skin.” Daniel stared back at the priest, the emotions in his eyes at once frightening and indecipherable. Father Thomas remained steadfast. Daniel sighed. He picked at the end of the medical tape that was wrapped around his bandage. “Up until this afternoon,” he said, “I thought I was just another guy.” He unwound the tape and continued, “Not a whole lot to me, but at least I knew who I was.” He pulled off the last of the tape and dropped it in a coil to the floor. “Now…” and he trailed off as he removed the gauze. Beneath the bandage was a hand with a pinky finger missing its skin. In place of bone and tissue and tendon, however, was a polished, metallic skeleton. Daniel curled the finger and regarded it as if it belonged to someone else. “Can a robot go to Heaven, Father?” “I can only hope so,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Daniel’s eyes lost their focus. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump, his killswitch activated by the same coded message that every other dutiful android had encountered inside the confessional. Androids who’d been discovered, who’d killed those that had discovered them, and who’d been driven by their faith to seek forgiveness for their deeds. Father Thomas rose from his seat and stepped out into the cavernous sanctuary. He scanned the pews and the altar and the balconies. All were empty and all was silent, save the soft scratching of the door mice behind the organ pipes. The priest walked the short distance to the door that led to the back hallway. He turned its ancient glass knob and opened it slowly, minimizing the creak it made. Leaving the door open, he returned to the confessional and pushed back the curtain on Daniel’s side. The android’s body lay there, crumpled and lifeless, as it would be until its memory had been wiped and replaced. The priest stooped down and picked it up, throwing the four-hundred-pound hulk over his shoulder as he might a couple choir robes. He wondered at what this one’s role had been as he carried it into the back hallway, toward the stairs to the basement, where he would zip it into a black duffle-bag that would be picked up by morning. Maybe it had been a spy, unknowingly recording video feed to be used at some other time. Maybe it was would-be assassin, foiled by a child on a too-powerful skateboard. Questions that would remain unanswered, of course, just as so many had been unanswered before them. Questions that were the territory of other men. Or perhaps they were not men. Father Thomas did not know and he did not care. It would be enough for him to go home and shut off for a while.


It’s midnight, and I really need to find my favorite shirt. I fumble my way through all the potential places in my living quarters where my shirt could hide. The drawers full of once neatly-folded clothes? Nope. The pile of clothes thrown on top of my dresser after being worn once? Not there either. The mess of clean clothes on the couch that I hadn’t gotten to folding yet? Sadly no. The stack of seemingly unrelated clothes in my hanging clothes organizer I bought from IKEA? Unsurprisingly no. Oh, I almost forgot - the assortment of clothes that had been living in the dryer for a week now? Nice try, but no. Exasperated, I run my hands through my hair. There’s only one more place to look: the laundry hamper. I dig through the pile of dirty clothes in my laundry hamper, hoping and not hoping to find my favorite shirt. Hoping, because if it’s not in my laundry hamper, then I have no idea where it is and need to conduct another search in the same places just in case I missed it. Not hoping, because then I’ll have to 1) wear another shirt tomorrow or 2) sacrifice some much-needed sleep so I can do laundry right now, neither of which I’m keen to do. After excavating the dirty clothes from the hamper like a dog digging out a bone buried in the sand, I discover my favorite shirt at the bottom of the hamper; I forgot that I wore it to work last week for a presentation and had accidentally gotten tomato sauce on it at the post-presentation dinner.

This isn’t the first time I’ve started planning my outfit for the next day or was getting ready to shower and then realized that something‘s missing. Sometimes it’s underwear, sometimes it’s socks, and sometimes it’s a member of my Favorite Clothes Club. Whatever it is, I couldn’t find it in my closet, or it’s in my laundry hamper, and it’s too late to take it out of the hamper and wear it without smelling weird. Which basically means one thing: time to do laundry! I wouldn’t say I love doing laundry, but I don’t dislike it either. Let’s just say that it’s my favorite household chore. You get to take breaks (while the washer or dryer is running) and when everything’s done, you get clean clothes! The feeling I get when I take my clothes out of the dryer and retrieve my favorite clothes is like that feeling as a kid when you reunite with your stuffed animal best friend after coming home from school.

But back to my search for my favorite shirt and my conclusion that I need to do laundry. One by one, I bring each item of clothing on my dresser to my nose for a sniff. If it passes the sniff test and I deem it acceptable to wear at least one more time, I keep it on the dresser. Otherwise, I put the piece of clothing in the appropriate hamper: lights and underwear in the white hamper, darks and socks in the blue hamper. Then, I transfer the clothes from the white hamper to the washer and pour the detergent. After turning the knob to the correct cycle and selecting the water temperature, I push the start button. Slosh slosh SWOOSH slosh slosh . Growing up, my sister and I did our own laundry every Sunday, and we often helped our busy mom do her laundry too. Ever since we tainted a white shirt by accidentally washing it with a new pair of jeans, we separated the lights from the darks (this was the only form of segregation we condoned), making exceptions for underwear and socks. All underwear went with the lights, and all the socks went with the darks, no matter what color they were. We washed the lights and underwear before the darks and socks so the underwear wouldn’t get contaminated by the socks. BUZZZZZZ ! Hearing the washer buzz, I jump from my seat to go to the laundry room. Back at home, we didn’t have a dryer, so we hung all our clothes on rods that my dad hung outside or in the garage near the washer. No later than 10 minutes after the washer buzzed, we would go into the garage to save the wet clothes from becoming a smelly clothes stew. After taking an article of clothing out of the washer, we would shake it and smooth it out before hanging tops on normal hangers, bottoms on pant hangers, and underwear and socks on a foldable clip and dry hanger. Sometimes we would have to spend three minutes just shaking out the clip and dry hangers because all the clips had gotten tangled together. And if someone accidentally left a receipt or tissue in a pocket, there would be laughter, followed by a lecture on emptying your pockets before throwing things in the laundry hamper, followed by the perpetrator having to pick out all the tiny white slivers of paper or tissue from the clothes.

My sister and I developed a system in which we would hang all the pants first, then the shirts, and finally the underwear and socks. Then we took turns carrying the wet clothes and hanging them on the rods and then coming back to the washing machine. If it was sunny, we would hang the clothes outside, and if it was raining, we would hang them in the garage. By the end, we got a good arm and leg workout from squatting to retrieve the clothes from the washer, carrying the clothes from the washer to the rods, and lifting the clothes to hang on the rods. And as we retreated to our rooms, we prayed that our clothes would be safe from wind and bugs.

Now that I have a dryer, things are much easier. There are still some clothes that need to be hung to dry though. Take bras for instance. And my athletic jerseys. And all the other clothes that say “Hang Dry.” First, I hang all the clothes that can’t be put in the dryer before transferring the rest of the clothes in the washer to the dryer. Then I repeat the whole process with the batch of clothes in the blue hamper. Toss the clothes into the washer, pour detergent, select the correct settings, press the start button. Chug a chug a chug a chug a . The clothes hung on the rods outside probably got at least 300% of the daily Vitamin D recommendation by the time they were dry. Before the sunset, my sister and I would carry the laundry basket downstairs. Each time, it was a matter of detaching the clothes from their hangers and dropping the clothes into the basket as fast as we could before we were engulfed by darkness and attacked by insects. Sometimes, we would see a lonely piece of clothing lying outside in the dirt a few feet away from the drying rods, and we would frantically snatch it away from the dirt, curse the wind, and pat the poor item of clothing down. If it was still dirty, we would throw it back in the hamper. And if we had time before the sunset, we would fold the clothes before placing them in the basket so we wouldn’t have to fold them later.

After all the clothes were safely in the basket, we would carry the basket back upstairs. One of us (usually the one most scared of the dark) led the way, reaching behind to hold the front of the basket while the other helmed the back and made sure the garage door was locked. We kept our hands steady to keep the basket balanced, pretending that we were transporting an important official in a litter, except the litter was plastic instead of wooden. Once we reached the top of the stairs and set the heavy basket down on the carpet, we would slide it down the hallway - stopping by our parents room, then my room, and then my sister’s room to deposit each person’s clothes carefully on their beds like we were mailwomen or Santa Claus’s elves delivering fragile presents. Sometimes, mail got delivered to the wrong address, and a few days later, there would be a shriek of laughter when one of us realized that we accidentally took our mom’s underwear. Since my sister and I had a lot of the same clothes, sometimes there would also be arguments over whose clothes were whose, or incidents of someone accidentally taking someone else’s shirt thinking it was theirs, even though they didn’t even put their own shirt in the laundry. But now that my sister got married and moved across the country, I’m living by myself and doing my own laundry. BUZZZZZZ ! Once again, I jump in my seat at the intrusive noise and rush to hang all the high-maintenance clothing before placing the rest of the newly washed clothes into the dryer. Then, I clean the lint, adjust the dryer settings, and press the start button. Finally, I’m free from having to worry about smelly clothes stew. Since I’m doing my own laundry, I’ve gotten a little lazier about folding my clothes right after taking them out of the dryer. The folding stage typically happens in the following order: members of my Favorite Clothes Club, athletic jerseys, tops, bottoms, underwear, socks. As boring as it may sound, folding clothes is stress-relieving and a wonderful way to recount what happened in the past week or so. I already know that the last time I wore my favorite shirt was for good luck when I gave a presentation at work, but the other articles of clothing also have stories and memories weaved into them. Here are some of the memories from the past week, as told by the newly washed clothes: a PJ T-shirt from a popcorn-filled movie night; a pair of underwear that carried blood stains from when my period leaked; a jersey that used to be covered in grass stains, providing evidence that I tried my best as a goalkeeper at last week’s soccer tournament; and a pink lace bra that makes me blush when I remember last week’s date night. When I was little, the recounting would happen while hanging the clothes and removing them from the hangers, since each piece of clothing got at least 30 seconds of one-on-one time. BUZZZZZZ ! Now that’s the buzz I want to hear! I open the dryer and look through the batch of warm, clean clothes for my favorite shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Sleepy and finally at peace, I fold just the clothes I need for tomorrow and set them neatly on the top of my dresser before snuggling into my blanket. 10 hours later, I’m in my favorite shirt and pair of blue jeans, ringing the doorbell to Ms. Red’s house. I wait outside for about 30 seconds before an old lady cracks open the door. She smiles, a faint dimple appearing on her left cheek. “My laundry lady is here!” she says excitedly. I smile and walk into her house.

A few weeks after Ms. Red was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I’ve been going to her house every week to help her do laundry. She’s forgotten how to use the washer and started doing her laundry by hand, but that was causing arthritis in her hands. Since she has trouble operating machines, I’m the one who places the clothes in the washing machine, adds detergent, turns the knob to the correct cycle, selects the water temperature, and then pushes the start button. While her clothes are twirling and dancing in the washer, I sit with Ms. Red and tell her the adventures I encountered in the past week: my work presentation, my fancy date night (minus the night shenanigans), my soccer tournament... Then when the washer buzzes, I move everything to the dryer. For the next hour, Ms. Red and I organize and clean her house. Finally, the dryer stops, and I bring all the clothes to her room. Then together, we fold. For Ms. Red, folding clothes is relaxing and makes her feel productive. She doesn’t say much these days, but when we simultaneously pick up the same item of clothing to fold, her eyes twinkle and she yanks it out of my hands so she can fold it. Every now and then after I finish folding an item of clothing, I’ll look over to check her progress and see her slowly but surely folding in her own special way. An expert at packing clothes into suitcases that seem too small to fit everything, my mom often taught me various methods of folding clothes that I still use to this day. Now, every week, Ms. Red shows me different folding techniques that she claims to have invented. Last week, she “folded” a pair of socks by rolling one sock and putting it in the other sock. Today, she’s folding pants by first rolling up the legs and then folding along the inseam. Sometimes we race to see who can fold the most clothes, and other times we focus on organizing the folded clothes by color or type.

Spending four hours each week doing Ms. Red’s laundry has made me contemplate how much the ordinary task of doing laundry entails. Everyone needs to do laundry, but not everyone can do it. No matter their size, shape, color, or age, different items of clothing all go through some part of the laundry process. Doing laundry can happen early in the morning or late at night. Wet clothes can be tossed into the dryer or hung outside to dry. Laundry can be done by hand or by a machine. A successful laundry session involves separating light from dark clothing to prevent unwanted color transfer, removing wet clothes from the washer promptly to prevent an onslaught of mildew smell, and depending on preference, having a system for folding clothes. But why do people really do laundry? Sure, dirty and smelly clothes are unsanitary and unpleasant, but what causes someone to actively take on this mundane task? Maybe it’s their love for a member of their Favorite Clothes Club. Or maybe it’s a different kind of love. When my sister and I were in high school, sometimes we were too busy to do our own laundry, and our parents would quietly do our laundry for us. And when we were in college and returned home for the holidays, we would find that our parents had already washed our bedsheets for us. Doing laundry was one of the many ways our parents showed us their love.

Even though Ms. Red keeps calling me her laundry lady and insists that I call her "Ms. Red" , I’m just happy that I get to do laundry with her. I hope Ms. Red knows that w henever I visit her and help her do laundry, I’m really saying, “I love you too, Mom.”


I can confidently say that I know something that you don’t. The world, our planet, our civilization, is coming to an end later this week. Well I guess you probably do know if you are reading this now. I understand that this may seem candid, but I’ve already come to grips with my end, and I would hope you never have to deal with your own. My name is Dr. Elias Reed Malick and I want to tell you about the things that I have discovered this past week. This information may not be news to you, but I can tell you, it was news to me. I work and conduct research in the field of anomalous volcanic and seismic activity on our planet, which we call Earth. There are many of these events that happen across the globe, none of which have ever exhibited the curiosities of the site I and my wife are currently working on. We had discovered the first signs of this development in the last year here in the Midwest. Small seismic activities were taking place in various seemingly random parts of the central parts of the North American Continent. As more of these occurrences began to appear and the data from them collected and reviewed, some seemingly sinister discoveries were made. Each of these events were small in terms of an affected area, but large in terms of their actual magnitude of vibrations. Each one was tracked and seeming to get more and more violent. What was also strange was their locations. Each of these anomalies were causing severe damage to our cities’ and government’s infrastructure. It started with trains derailing, then on to power and information transfer infrastructure. Every time these irregularities happened, the damage done to our human and social ecosystem increased. These events have gotten worse, but we wanted to investigate further. Hindsight being what it is, I wish we would have let someone else take this one. All of these events seemed to occur within a particular radius, the center of which culminated to a location just northeast of a place that we call Kansas City (I’m pretty confident that there wont be much left of it after this week). We began and set up our research headquarters there and began an excavation near the intersection of the two major rivers nearby. We wanted more information on the sedimentary layers of the earth here to assess the signs of seismic activity in the area. What we found there after a few weeks of digging was something we cannot explain. We found… well a stone. A massive smooth stone, nearly spherical in nature. It had to be nearly 50 meters in diameter according to our surveying technology. Bright sea foam in color and translucent like a brilliant gem, but it was like no stone or element we had ever seen before. Unfortunately, we have not had enough time to have samples of the stone inspected and researched, and we sure don’t have that time now. That night after our initial discovery, the things that have led to my revelation began to occur. The gem showed signs of luminescence as the day began to shift to night, leaving an eerie glow from within our excavation site. After our discovery we had decided it best to keep our HQ trailers on the site itself, and thus began our first night overseeing the stone. As the first few days went by, some things went unnoticed. My wife and I’s sleep began to become erratic and restless, with anxiety as the only descriptor I could find for our troubles. Soon after, the dreams began. Both of us began to discuss each morning what we had experienced in our sleep the night before. We’ve both described in vivid memorable detail scenes of life and decay. Animal corpses slowly decomposing, flowers and trees wilting and rotting over time, buildings and monuments experiencing erosion and crumbling beneath the heel of time’s boot. These dreams continued as the days went on, and each scene remained as vivid in our minds as if we had just seen it. Approximately 8 days after discovery, there was a slight change to the dreams. They began to become more graphic, and a voice began to speak during them. The voice vaguely feminine, deep and stern in tone, seemed to being to narrate or preach during these moments of gore and deterioration; all in a language that we had never heard or recognized, though it seemed familiar. Every dream the same but different, as each night the voice would become louder and more aggressive, and the imagery would follow suit. After day 13 we came upon our first “revelation”, if you want to call it that. We began to understand. We began to understand the disembodied voice and its message. I know now its too late to convey the message to the rest of our world, but seeing how you’ve already found this, I feel it justified to share it with you. *“You will crumble. You will fall. You will break. You will submit to the pressure of time. You will perish to my endevors. You will decay upon this rock as I dictate. Your existence has been deemed unnecessary. You will be consumed. You will be preyed upon. And your being will cease. I am Pthegrymat. I was before. I was after. But I am now, and soon you will not.”* I’m sorry, but it is coming, and we have no time left.


Not so long ago there lived a president who loved to build things. He loved it so much that he spent all of his money (and often the money of others) on building things and putting his name on them. Apart from this, his biggest interests were in going on television or hearing himself talked about in the news. He had a different building for every occasion and a different answer for every reporter. Many loved him. Many did not. One day, two business men came to see the president. They claimed to be patriots, suggesting that they knew how to make the finest walls imaginable. “We weave them out of a special material which only we have the technology for.” Not only were their walls extraordinarily “large” and “strong”, but they were impressive in that they were “practically invisible” to those without a keen eye or intellect, yet “impossible to miss” for those who understood the “art of the wall.” The president was impressed. What a HUGE opportunity this presented! “With a wall such as this” he thought, “I could truly tell which of my advisors are worthy of their positions, and which are lame.” “Also, I could use such a thing to keep people who look different than me out of the country.” So, he immediately promised the two patriots a great sum of money to build a wall for him. “No need,” said the two “we will simply make the Southern Kingdom pay for it.” “Even better!” thought the president. The business men brought in their contractors and set up cranes and big trucks with coils of “high tech nanocarbon” (which were really just empty spools) to create their incredible wall. The contractors slowly wove their way through the air across miles of border, using great care to create the most convincing pantomime. Many miles away in his palace, the president found himself pondering. "I wonder how they are coming with my wall!" He became uncertain when he remembered that only those of keen eye or intellect would be able to see the wall. Certainly, the president, with his brilliant mind and vision, had no cause for concern with such a matter. However, he decided to send one of his “best people” to see how the project was progressing. "I'll dispense my most trusted lawyer to the border," thought the president. “He's very smart and has been of great help with many of my building projects. He also understands the importance of keeping out people who are different from me.” So the trusted lawyer went to the construction site where the two patriots sat supervising their crew as they pretended to knit across the skyline. "Crap!" thought the attorney, staring blankly at the open space before him. "I don’t see it!" But he kept this thought to himself. The business men encouraged him to look closely at their creation. “Isn’t it a thing of beauty?” they asked while struggling to maintain expressions of seriousness. “Won’t the president be pleased?” The two went on discussing the quality of their material and the unparalleled craftmanship of their work. The stymied lawyer stared and nodded in response. Try as he might, he simply could not see the wall (which wasn’t really there in the first place.) "Double crap!" he thought. "Could it be that I am lacking in vision and intellect? Am I unfit for my position? It would not do for the president to think so! I must keep this to myself in order to protect my position!” "Is everything okay?” asked one of the businessmen. “You haven’t been saying much.” "Oh…right.” Said the president’s trusted counsel. “I was just…overwhelmed with the brilliance of it all. What a wonderful thing you have created!” he continued. “I’ll be sure to let the president know what an incredible and patriotic service you have been providing.” "Great!" said the two tricksters, and they discussed the many “technicalities” involved in bringing such a marvel to fruition. The lawyer paid close attention so that he might be able to convey the many wonders of the wall when he shared his report with the president. “One last thing” said the pair. “It seems our neighbors to the South are having some difficulty with cashflow. We all know what an unreliable lot they are.” The lawyer nodded in agreement with the last statement. “Unfortunately,” the devious duo continued, “we will not be able to complete construction without immediate funding. What a shame it would be for the president to be denied the glory of such a magnificent achievement!” To the president’s delight, his attorney returned to the palace and gushed about the “amazing” sights he had encountered. “We must make sure this important work continues” cried the president while fantasizing of the fanfare he was sure to receive. “We shall have the people pay for it. After all, it is for their own benefit.” Over time, the president sent other officials to check in on the project and test the aptitude of those in his cabinet. Each of them became unnerved to discover that they were unable to see anything at all. Fearful for their careers, each shared ecstatic reviews with the president in effort to avoid being exposed as inept. Soon the palace twittered with excitement for the massive erection occurring in the South. Then the entire land followed suit. The president, feeling empowered, took to the media boasting incessantly about his wall and extolling its (and his) incredible virtues. In truth, nobody was able to see the wall (because there wasn’t one.) However, many commoners who were loyal to the president started claiming that they could see it. So strong was this phenomenon that some even convinced themselves that they actually could see a wall. Amongst this population, any view to the contrary was considered treasonous. Citizens voicing concern over this mass delusion were chastised with labels like “fake” and deemed as unpatriotic. At long last, the businessmen announced the completion of their project. A grand celebration was planned. “You won’t believe your eyes!” Stated an excited president who was eager to further capitalize on his wall. On the morning of the celebration, the president arrived at the planned sight. He had been looking forward to this day for what seemed to be an eternity. “Take me to the wall!” the head of state demanded. “We are at the wall, sir” his driver replied, catching his employer by surprise. “Of course,” said the magnate. “The sun was in my eyes.” A sense of horror washed over the president as he realized that he could not see a wall. “Could it be that I am somehow lacking? What would happen to my reelection if this were to be known? How could I recover the image I’ve worked so hard to create?” he queried. Nothing scared the man more than looking like a fool. A conclusion was quickly reached. “Nobody can find out about this!” As the day progressed the president was able to return to form. He took opportunities to demonize those with differing perspectives or complexions. He gloated excessively. He happily accepted praise from supporters who had come to revel in their shared victory over sensibility. When the time came to address the crowd (and the nation) the president proudly took stage in front of an empty background which extended for miles. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he said to rounds of applause. From the crowd a voice called out. “Look out! The wall is falling!!” The president hid in terror from the imaginary fallout. The world, seeing the moment for what it was, laughed. And so it came to pass that the president, heavy with pomposity and light in reason, was crushed by the weight of a wall that never existed.


It all began on a random Tuesday in 1953. Billy Henderson went missing while walking to a friend’s house just a few blocks away. There were no witnesses, no suspects, and no leads. The police of the small town spent weeks, scouring the surrounding forest to no avail. Being a small town, a missing child haunted the town for years, as parents would keep their kids indoors, neighbors would suspect each other, and rumors of who could have done it spread like wildfire. Life had slowly started to return to normal, when a little girl went missing in 1958. Once again, there were no witnesses, or suspects. The police had no reason to suspect the two disappearances were related, since there were few clues and no linking leads. There were no signs of a struggle, no missing clothes or toys. The children were just walking around town normally, when they just vanished. Families began to move out of town as more children disappeared over the years. The dates the children went missing varied. One child would go missing on August 21st, 1961, and another would go missing on March 2, 1963. And then no children would go missing until June 13th, 1967. There was no way to link all the missing children together, so while it was traumatic to the town, there was no way to build a profile of the cases. One day the children were there, the next they were gone. Over time, it became common practice for the kids to always stay together, or better yet, in groups. In the end though, kids would find themselves walking alone, and then disappear every few years. Jimmy rode his bike along with his friends Molly, and Chester. He cranked up his tape player to full volume as they rode to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, enjoying the Summer of 1992. It had been several years since another child had disappeared, but every day the kids wanted to go out to play, their parents would say, “Stay together and come straight home.” This didn’t bother Jimmy, Molly, or Chester, as they spent all their time together anyway. They were celebrating finishing the fifth grade and were excited about being sixth graders, the top of the food chain in elementary. They pulled off into an open field, where they joined another group of kids for some backyard softball. One of the nice things about growing up in a small town was that there was plenty of big yards to play in. “C’mon, Jimmy,” Molly yelled from the sideline. “Knock it out of the park!” Jimmy gave her a brief smile, and readied for the pitch. Charles stared him down from the pitcher’s mound, looked around to all the empty bases out of habit, and then pitched the ball. Jimmy, who had never played on a team, knocked the ball over Charles’ head and into deep left field, being chased by little Dougie Barnes. Dougie wasn’t fast enough though, and the ball hit the ground before he could get to it. Jimmy ran past first, and then second, but stopped at third as Dougie threw the ball back into the infield. All the kids on Jimmy’s team cheered. Molly came out to bat next, and all the boys on the other team moved in closer to the infield. *These boys never learn*, she thought with a smile. Charles pitched the ball, and quickly looked up as the ball flew over his head again, continuing its flight over all of his teammates heads as well. They all scattered to chase the ball, but it was too late. Jimmy ran home, followed not long after by Molly. As the sun went down, the three of them started walking home. “You guys did great!” Chester said pulling his bike up beside them. Chester was a good friend, but a lousy softball player. He normally played deep right field, and tended to punt, so he wouldn’t have to risk having his pop up ball caught. As they walked to Molly’s house to drop her off, the wind picked up, which felt good after playing in the field. “See you tomorrow, Molly!” Jimmy said, Chester waiving beside him. “Later!” she said back. The boys walked away, talking and joking the whole time. They stopped in front of Jimmy’s house. “You want to stay over?” Jimmy asked Chester. “I can’t tonight,” Chester said. “Mom’s new boyfriend is coming over for dinner, and she wants us to get to know him.” Jimmy knew that would suck, so he said, “Sorry, Chester. Say hi to the creep for me.” They laughed a little before Chester walked away to head home a couple of blocks away. “Hi, Mom,” Jimmy said when he walked through the door, laying down his bag. When he laid it down, he noticed he still had Chester’s Velcro wallet with some money in it. “Crap,” he said. He knew his mom would give Chester crap if he didn’t come home with his wallet. “I’ll be right back, Mom!” he said as he ran out the door to catch up with Chester. He ran down the street towards Chester’s house, but didn’t see him. *Wow, he got home fast*, he thought. As he was crossing the street where Chester’s house was, he glanced right, and saw Chester walking down the street away from his house. “Chester!” Jimmy yelled after him. Chester didn’t answer. He just kept walking. Jimmy ran after him, calling out every few seconds, until he caught up to him. He stood in front of Chester blocking his way, but Chester walked right around him. Jimmy got back in front of him. “What are you doing?” Jimmy asked. No response. Chester walked around Jimmy once again. Jimmy got back in front of Chester and put his hands on Chester’s shoulders, stopping him from moving forward. Chester kept marching in place. Jimmy’s mouth fell open as he looked into Chester’s eyes, and only saw a blank stare. The longer Jimmy held Chester in place, the harder Chester walked, eventually knocking Jimmy backwards. Jimmy tripped and fell, Chester once again walking right past him. He wanted to run for help, but he didn’t want to lose track of him. “Help!” Jimmy called out, hoping someone would hear him, but as if on command, the wind picked up, blocking his voice from carrying. He hoped he would see someone outside, but no one came out. If someone had looked outside, they would have seen one boy walking, while another boy tried to stop him, getting knocked to the side, and then moving back in front of the marching boy. Once he even tackled Chester and tried to pin him, but Chester’s feet never stopped moving, and Jimmy was eventually knocked off, allowing Chester to stand back up and keep walking. Chester walked into the town park and appeared to be heading towards the town tree. The town tree was said to be one of the oldest, and when the town was first built, it was the only tree in town not to have been cut down. As time went by and the town grew, the people planted new trees to replace the ones that had been chopped down, but everyone knew that one to be the oldest. As Chester got closer to the tree, the wind began to howl louder. Jimmy looked around and noticed that it was only windy where they were at. Outside the park, it looked calm. Jimmy also noticed that the tree seemed to darken as they approached. Jimmy didn’t know if it was a trick of light, but the tree seemed to now have eyes and a mouth. It seemed angry. Chester was almost to the tree when Jimmy couldn’t take any more. He stood in front of Chester, and punched him as hard as he could. He had never hit someone like that before, and was unsure of what would happen, but right after he caught Chester in the jaw, Chester collapsed, unconscious. As soon as Chester’s body hit the ground, the wind stopped blowing. Jimmy looked at the tree and noticed that though there were lines in the shape of eyes and a mouth, it no longer looked alive. He turned his attention to Chester, who was lying unconscious on the ground. After what seemed like an eternity, Chester woke up, squinting as he dealt with a throbbing headache, trying to figure out where he was. They slowly made their way to Chester’s house, where Jimmy told Chester’s parents what had happened, and begged for them to call the police. They seemed more upset about him admitting to hitting their son, than the ridiculous story of an angry tree. In the end, they sent him home with a stern warning to never hit Chester again, and then trying to cover it up by lying. Jimmy ran home and told his parents the same story, resulting the same warning from them. Accepting that his parents wouldn’t help, he called the police himself the next day, but they seemed insincere when they said they would look into it. Jimmy was unsure of what to do. He could barely sleep that night, but he was determined to do something tomorrow if he could. The next morning, he met up with Molly and Chester, and told them what had happened. Chester didn’t remember anything. He remembered walking home, and then being home with a huge headache. Even the walk home from the park seemed fuzzy. “My mom said you hit me,” Chester said, not wanting it to be true. “I had to,” Jimmy replied. “You were in some kind of trance. I tried over and over to stop you, but you just kept walking. You walked all the way to the park, and I know this sounds crazy, but I think that old tree wanted to eat you.” Jimmy worried that he had lost them with that last statement, but they both knew Jimmy wasn’t prone to making up stories, or lying. Chester rubbed his head. “I don’t remember.” “Trust me, Chester,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t want to hit you, but I had no choice.” Chester looked at Jimmy and said, “I believe you.” Molly said, “I believe you too.” “We have to do something,” Jimmy started. “I think this is the reason all those kids have been going missing. I think that old tree has been taking them like it tried to take Chester.” “But what do we do?” Molly asked. “We chop it down,” Jimmy said sternly. Chester looked up at him. “But we’ll get in trouble.” “I know,” Jimmy replied. “But if we don’t do this, it will take another kid someday.” “Maybe stopping it from taking Chester last night means we’re safe for another couple of years,” Molly said. “Maybe,” Jimmy agreed. “Or maybe it’s still hungry and it’ll try to take someone again tonight, or tomorrow even.” All three thought about it. Chester was the first to speak. “You saved my life last night,” he said. “I know it. I’m with you.” Jimmy nodded. “I can’t have my two best friends facing a monster alone,” Molly said. “I’m in.” The three of them headed out to Jimmy’s garage, and started to look for anything they could use to chop down the tree. They found one Axe, but nothing else that would help. “We have an axe at my house,” Chester stated. “Us too,” Molly said. “But my parents will stop me if they see me try to walk out with an axe,” Chester pointed out. “We’ll have to wait until after dinner and then sneak out,” Jimmy said. Molly and Chester looked nervous. They weren’t expecting to go out when it was dark. In the end, they both looked up and nodded. Jimmy was nervous at dinner, but his parents didn’t notice. He made up an excuse of needing to study for a test tomorrow, and headed up stairs. He knew he had until nine to cut down the tree and get home before his parents would notice. That gave him three and a half hours. He climbed out the window and stealthily made his way to the park. The entire time he walked, he hoped no one would come out and see him walking down the street with an axe. When he made it to the park, he was the only one there. He was worried that Molly and Chester had been caught. He decided he would give them a few more minutes to arrive before he faced the tree himself. He was about to start walking towards the tree, when he saw Molly and Chester making their way up the street together. “Hey,” he greeted them when they arrived. “Hey,” Molly and Chester replied in unison. “You guys ready?” Jimmy asked. They nodded, but Jimmy could tell they were still unsure. They turned and walked in the direction of the tree. As they got closer, something caught their attention out of the corner of their eyes. They all turned to see another boy walking in the direction of the tree. “It’s Charles,” Jimmy pointed out. Jimmy could tell he was walking the same way Chester had been the night before. “Charles!” he called out. “What are you doing?!” No reply. All three of them ran towards him, trying to block his way. Just like with Chester had before, he just kept walking through them, and no matter how much they tried to block his path, he just kept moving. Once again the wind picked up, and Jimmy turned to look at the tree. The angry face had returned. Seeing that they were not going to be able to hold onto Charles, and fight the tree at the same time, Jimmy looked to his friends. “Hold him here!” he yelled over the wind. “I’m going to start chopping the tree down!” They both nodded in understanding. Jimmy ran at the tree and swung as hard as he could. The wind seemed to pick up, and Jimmy could’ve swore that he heard the tree scream. Behind him, Charles collapsed to the ground, released from his trance. Once Molly and Chester realized that Charles had been released, they turned and joined Jimmy at the tree where they both began swinging their axes along with him. The wind seemed to be turning into a tornado with each strike, and a howling began to fill the air, but they kept swinging, hoping with each strike, the tree would die. Black sap began to pour from the tree like blood, and as they struck the tree, some of that sap would splash on them, making them look like they were slaughtering an animal. Their arms were beginning to get tired, and they were all afraid that they wouldn’t be able to finish the job, when there was one final howl, and the wind began to die down. Once the wind was gone, Jimmy could see that the angry face had faded, but he knew they wouldn’t be safe until the tree was cut down. The three of them looked at each other exhausted. “There’s no way we can cut it all the way down,” Molly pointed out. “Maybe I can help,” a man said, coming up behind them holding a chainsaw. He pulled the chord, bringing the chainsaw to life, replacing the wind with its own roar. It didn’t take him long to slice through the tree until it fell over, falling away from the children. Charles joined the other three kids, and none of them could believe what they were seeing. Before the man walked away, he said, “My son went missing years ago, and every day I looked out my window, hoping he would return, or at least I would find out what had happened to him, but I never did. And then tonight, I saw you kids walking down the street with axes, and I had to see what you were up to. When I saw the other boy walking toward the tree in a trance, and I saw how the tree looked alive, I knew what happened to my boy.” The kids watched the man walk off, and then began walking toward their homes. They told Charles what was happening since he had no idea how he had ended up in the park. The tree being cut down was a big deal in the little town, but everyone involved never came forward to tell the story. Over time, the police stopped looking. As the years passed, the town slowly started to come alive again as no more children went missing.