The old witch must have died in her garden. The smell of pungent decay was snaking out from behind her house and resting bodily in the southern heat. The humidity did nothing to attenuate the issue. The stench had come suddenly at dawn and reached everybody in town simultaneously. Nobody was enthusiastic about the prospect of collecting the corpse. Outsiders deemed the townsfolk superstitious. The townsfolk deemed themselves sensibly cautious. They traipsed around the issue for hours until the stench got so bad, the men putting up the telegraph poles refused to go on working.

Behind the grates of the lone cell in the Sheriff’s office sat a man, licking his mustache. He did this deliberately and hopelessly like one might do when sealing an envelope containing their broken heart. The steel bars were cool and cumbersome in his flimsy grip. He let his hands go slack at his sides. Chinked out of the concrete wall there was a grated aperture that was supposed to be a window. It was set just above his eye-level so that he had to get on his toes to see through it. Outside, a bird sat on a crumbling well, just distinguishable through the suffocating mist. As soon as he looked at it, the bird twitched and vanished into oblivion. The mist was mousing its way into his cell.

His once-bristly mustache had wilted into a caterpillar by the time the Sheriff returned. “There’s something you’ve gotta tend to before you’re shipped off to the pen,” the Sheriff buzzed, “Somebody’s died. You're gonna bury the corpse.” “I didn’t realize I took up an apprenticeship with the undertaker,” the man retorted. “Shut up Dalton. You know more’n your share ‘bout death, I might remind you.”

“And don’t you forget it, old man. That bastard was asking for it. Now tell me why you want me to get my hands dirty.” “Well it’s that old hag that’s died, way out in the swamp.” “ ‘Course she did. Think I haven’t been smelling that rot all morning? That ain’t what a man ‘posed to smell before he’s executed. Ain’t a chance in hell I’m doing it. You can’t force a man to lose his soul to that rotten bitch before- before he-” “They gone commute your sentence, boy. If you do it.” “You saying I won’t fry?” “That’s the deal been struck up.” “By who?” “City council. Ran it by the state too. All hunky dory.” “Sounds like quite an imaginative deal. Mind if I get it in writing?” “You sure are a crafty bastard.” “A self preser-vating one.” “Well, wasn’t time to draft anything up, but I assure you we’ll have something written by the time you get back.” The witch’s old manor was sunk into a saturated hill guarded by beards of Spanish moss and mire. Down the bog from the house was the old cemetery where the inscription on every gravestone terminated in 1893. Another town had once thrived on the other side of the swamp until this marked year. This was the year everybody in that town had perished to some nebulous disease. This was the year their corpses were dragged out to the swamp for burial, one by one, to prevent contagion. This went on until everyone had dropped dead. The only woman from that town that lived to see the next year had settled down in that manor on the hill and had been plotting for decades. What she was plotting, no one knew, but she was plotting something. Everybody in the neighboring town knew she was culpable for the plague. She took everybody out in order to eke out her wretched existence peacefully in her contrived swamp-palace, growing mutant botany in her garden. Lord knows what sort of sorcery she invoked to bring forth their decline. Worse, she was proving to be just as odious in death as in life. The algae aggregating on the swamp-water’s surface was sheared by beating paddles. Men with guns were gliding across the stagnant water. One of these men seemed to have swapped his gun for chains, and his uniform for tattered pajamas. Alligators pooled by the banks, watching the scene unfold with skepticism.

Unchained, Dalton was prodded off a boat and onto not-so-dry land. The disintegrating palace, dressed in foliage, loomed overhead. Its whitewash was anything but; mainly yellow. The window panes were opaque with dust. The entire crumbling edifice was being consumed by the frenzied garden in the backyard. It seemed clear that the smell was coming from back there. It was impossible, though, to enter or even see through the thick sinewy vines that encompassed the backyard. He had to enter through the front.

Tetanus in mind, Dalton made sure his hand was unscathed before jingling the rusted doorknob. It opened without so much as a creak. He froze with his jaw hanging - not from instant lockjaw, but rather due to the sight of the interior; it was immaculate. Its waxed floors reflected yellow coruscation from the lamps lining the walls. There was not a speck of dust on the antiques. The glass cover shielding the china cabinet wasn’t blemished by so much as a thumbprint. But the stink was worse than ever. He could have been sharing a coffin with a months-dead gorilla drenched in spoiled milk.

The paintings hanging in the living room all decided upon flowers for their subject matter. The pillows on the sofa were neatly fluffed and he guessed that even the piano nestled in the corner was perfectly in tune, though he dared not touch it. A gleam of light suddenly swiped his eye. It came from a photograph hanging by the stairwell. Pictured were three rows of suited men with a lone woman hiding among their ranks. She was wearing a bashful smile. The entire group was wedged between two budding trees, the scene well lit by a beaming sun. A caption at their feet read “Graduation.” A date was scrawled beside it, though this was muddled to obscurity.

Then he heard the creaks. They were almost imperceptible, whispering to him from the second story. He suddenly remembered the ubiquitous stench of pure rot and propelled himself away from the stairs and straight toward the backdoor. He braced and burst it open.

His nostrils were plugged with melted rats but there was no corpse in sight outside. There was only a chaos of green and in the center of it all, a goliath flower of deep crimson. It was inundated with flies. He got the impression that somehow this was his culprit. Amazed, he stretched his arm to it when he heard a door click gently shut behind him. He turned. An ancient lady was scrutinizing him from two pearls hidden deep within the grottos of her eye sockets. Her puckered mouth smoothed itself into a smile.

“Hello Gabriel. Come to see Eleanor?”, she squawked.

“Pardon me?”, came the petrified response. “Oh isn’t it beautiful, the monstrosity?”

“I’m sorry?” “The titan. Titan arum, isn’t it?” “What is?” “Say, what sort of a lousy botanist are you anyway? The daggum Titan arum you were just gawking at. That’s the daggum stink plant you and your wife sowed in my garden ages ago.” “My wife?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your fiance.” “My fiance?” “Oh, you’re such a kidder, teasing an old lady like me. It’s a shame Eleanor’s gone out. It was her daggum idea to plant it, now it’s blooming and she’s gone out. Bet she’s glad she don’t have to smell the damn thing, at least.”

“Uh-huh.” “Gee, when did you get so talkative? Well come inside, Gabriel, the smell is just unbearable. Oh but it is so beautiful, isn’t it?”, she said, pointing at the plant. “Unbelievably so”, he rumbled. Once inside the house, the old lady hurried into the kitchen to prepare some tea and biscuits. Dalton was instructed to make himself at home, so he began snooping the instant she was out of sight. He scanned the cabinets, drawers, until his shrewd eye landed on an oblong vase resting on the mantel. It was cool and heavy in his hands and whispered with powder when he carefully shook it. He turned it until he came upon an inscription, one that had been facing the wall before he had inspected it. Eleanor Crosby, April 13th, 1894- September 8, 1931. He replaced the urn, careful to conserve its position, and went to close the drawers. A letter caught his eye. “It is my professional opinion that your mother’s dementia should be ameliorated-” he heard her coming. Shutting the drawer, he rushed to his seat on the sofa.

Shortly after, the old lady came bustling out of the kitchen, refreshments in hand.

He mulled over his cup of tea for a moment, then spoke, “I’m sorry to bring this up, but are you from that town that had that sickness come through?” “Don’t be sorry. Yes, I was.” “Did you have to bury all those people?” “Oh no. My husband, Nicky, was out there burying most everybody, till there wasn’t a soul left to bury. Then he died. He was the only one I had to bury.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “I’m sorry it happened, but that was all so long ago.” “And you were the only one that did survive the plague?” “Oh, I wasn’t the only one, dummy. I was already pregnant with Eleanor. Nicky would have loved her. Nicky loved plants too, so when she went to study them, I was just thrilled.” He thought for a while longer, then asked in a broken voice if she had anybody to care for her. “Eleanor’s always around, Gabriel, you know that. Though after the wedding, I suppose you’ll whisk her away. I’ll need to hire some help then.”

He gazed out the window and thought some more before declaring, “No. I’ll stay here and look after you. You oughta be accounted for.” “Oh Gabriel, you’re too sweet.” “I mean it. There’s just one thing.” “Oh?” “I have a friend named Dalton. He ran off to California not too long ago. Now, there’s some fellers in town, think he’s missing. I been tellin’ ‘em he’s left town but they just won’t believe me. They’re down by the swamp right now looking for him, matter of fact. Perhaps you might go outside and tell ‘em, real simple, ‘Dalton’s gone, y’all go home now.” Say it just like that. Straighten things out. I’m sure it’ll send ‘em packin’.”


“Ma’am? It’s almost time to meet the ambassador.” Delaney Cohen cracked her neck and buttoned the last button on her top. She puffed out her cheeks and examined her lipstick for any smudges—it’d been a while since she spoke French. Maybe the ambassador would speak English and she wouldn’t have to fake her way through a terrible accent. She grabbed her lucky pebble and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “Ma’am? Ms. Cohen?” “Sorry, Olive.” Delaney smoothed down the fly-aways in her hair and brushed the “I still believe” bumper sticker she’d stuck to the inside of her drawer, where nobody could see. She should’ve left earlier. “I’m ready, I promise.” “Good. We really can’t afford to be late.” Olive scuttled in front of Delaney and straightened her collar, and although Delaney rolled her eyes, she didn’t push Olive away. She might treat Delaney more like a child than a boss, but it’s not like she could complain. Not now, not as late as she perpetually was. “Come this way, ma’am.” Delaney followed Olive until they got to the end of the hallway. There, she overtook Olive, so it looked more like the professional-associate relationship it was supposed to be. “Straighten your back, ma’am,” Olive hissed as Delaney opened the door, and Delaney managed to not roll her eyes a second time as she pressed open the door and squinted in the bright sun. Blinking furiously, Delaney walked briskly towards the circle drive where she stopped. Luckily, the black car that signaled the ambassador’s arrival was just a speck at the end of the mile-long driveway. Delaney curled her toes in. Her pumps were professional, spotless, and so, so painful. She should’ve cut her toenails last night, but she hadn’t, and she hadn’t this morning and now it was too late, and she would meet the ambassador with pinched, swollen feet. He probably wouldn’t notice though. He’d probably see right through her, just like all the other pompous bureaucrats she’d shown around their new homes. “Remember, the new ambassador has an aide who is in a wheelchair, so you’ll want to show her all the—” “Wait, she?” Olive rolled her eyes. “You really don’t listen, do you? The new ambassador is a woman. The old ambassador retired. That’s why there’s a new ambassador. That’s why you’re showing the new ambassador to her new home. We went over all of this yesterday. Are you a fool, ma’am?” “No,” said Delaney, feeling quite the fool. “No, I just… I just assumed.” The black speck was getting larger and Delaney straightened her back. A woman. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Delaney had just been expecting a carbon copy of the old ambassador, in all his windbag-ness. With a cramp in her stomach, Delaney realized that she didn’t remember the new ambassador’s name. The black speck morphed into a real life car, and as Delaney scrabbled at every French woman’s name she could think of, the car came to a stop in front of her feet. By the time the driver had opened the backseat door, Delaney had given up, and she smiled at the short, brown skinned woman who climbed out of the car and looked up at her with strangely familiar eyes. Delaney’s smile almost faltered. There was something familiar about the new ambassador. “ Bienvenue , Madame l'ambassadrice ,” Delaney said, going into an unnecessary curtsy. Olive gave her a murderous look—no doubt just realizing that Delaney had forgotten the new ambassador’s name. “ Je m’appelle Delaney Cohen, et je serai en charge de l'hébergement pour votre séjour dans notre ambassade . C'est mon assistant , Olive Condos.” The French spilled off her tongue clumsily, almost drunkenly. If she’d known she’d be making a first impression, she would’ve practiced earlier. Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. Olive bowed her head in respect, momentarily breaking her stare. “Enchantée, Ambassadrice Desmarais,” she said pointedly and Delaney relaxed her shoulders back. Ambassador Desmarais smiled politely, and suddenly something clicked in Delaney’s head. “Oh! Are you related to the former Ambassador Desmarais? Sorry,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, “I mean, uh, es-tu lié —” “English is fine,” Ambassador Desmarais interrupted. “And yes, I’m his daughter.” She had no accent, unlike her predecessor, and her voice gave Delaney such a sense of déjà vu that it sent shivers down her spine. “Then you would have grown up here, in this house,” Delaney said, gesturing towards the front door. “Yes,” Ambassador Desmarais said, gazing up at the awning. “My father always said that when my brother was old enough, he would have this job and live in this house. Theodore became a stripper instead, and now this is all mine. Guess which one of us has a more heavy paycheck, though.” The ambassador looked down at Delaney and smirked, and Delaney couldn’t help but laugh. When she rumbled down into a giggle, she found the ambassador examining her curiously. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to laugh—she’d just thought it would break the tension that had swamped her every experience with the previous ambassadors. Then, Ambassador Desmarais laughed as well, and took a step towards the door. “It has been a while since I lived here.” “Let us show you around.” This was the part Delaney was good at. She lead the ambassador from room to room, floor to floor, and the Ambassador willingly followed, commenting on her own childhood memories in the house. Still, though, Delaney couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew the Ambassador from somewhere, somewhere else than just her familiar last name. “And here is the service elevator,” Delaney said. Olive fluttered by her elbow—no matter how much she disliked how casual Delaney was acting, there was nothing she could do about it in the presence of the ambassador. “When I was younger,” Ambassador Desmarais said, “my older sister and I tried to put our little sister in there, before our father caught us.” Delaney lead her away, towards the third bathroom. “You must have had a big family.” “Bigger than some. It was us, the three girls, and then my brother, the oldest. My father liked him best. We joke around that he wasn’t paying attention when we were born so he gave us all the same name.” “Did he?” “Sort of. My sisters are Veronica and Victoria and I’m Berenice, of course,” the ambassador said, and Delaney nodded. Of course. “They all mean victory, or something about victory.” “That’s very interesting, This is the largest bathroom in the house.” Berenice Desmarais. That was so familiar. Delaney couldn’t deny it now. She knew the ambassador from something, and from the looks the ambassador was shooting her when she wasn’t looking, Ambassador Desmarais knew her too. They never seemed to make eye contact, though. “It’s very nice. Good tub space.” “I think so too.” “And in here is the master bedroom. It’s got a lovely view.” Ambassador Desmarais pulled open the window. “Ah, screens. I will have to get used to American window screens again.” She sneezed. “Gesundheit.” “Thank you. Allergies, I fear.” “That’s a shame.” Delaney narrowed her eyes at the ambassador. “I get them too.” “Really? Are you new to the area?” “Nope. Lived here all my life.” Ambassador Desmarais examined her again. “Where did you go to school? Grace Hodges Academy?” “No, my mother homeschooled me,” Delaney replied. “I didn’t socialize much as a child. We couldn’t have paid for Grace Hodges Academy. We never did anything on that side of town.” Stalemate. Delaney and the ambassador studied each other. “Do you have family in politics?” “No. My father works in a grocery store and my mother was a professor.” Olive, who had watched this back and forth and understood none of it, nudged Delaney in the side. Delaney got the message. “Alright. All that’s left to show you is the gardens.” Berenice Desmarais, Berenice Desmarais, Berenice Desmarais. Delaney tumbled it over and over in her mind as she walked down the stairs. She didn’t bother mentioning the art that adorned the walls—it had been there for more than twenty years, so the ambassador had undoubtedly seen it. “Careful on the threshold,” she called behind her. “Of course.” “These are the mums—we have them planted each spring.” “Oh?” Ambassador Desmarais bent towards the earth. “Can I choose the colors at least?” Delaney shrugged. “Sure, if you’d like. I can have the gardeners come by next week, if you’d—” “No, no, I can do it myself. Besides, I’d love to be able to have a garden again. I haven’t been able to dig in any dirt in years, but I learned the basics during a summer camp that I—” Suddenly, she stopped, and looked up at Delaney, the flush gone from her cheeks. Delaney took a step back. Berry Desmarais, the only other girl who could speak French at Wilderness Camp in 1983. The only one who had snuck out with her to watch the sunrise. The only other person who had seen Bigfoot that night. The ambassador stood and bowed slightly, never breaking eye contract with Delaney. “Thank you for showing me the house, Ms. Cohen.” “Of course, Madame Ambassador,” said Delaney. “I must be going now,” the Ambassador said, her eyes shining just as brightly as that warm July night when they’d seen Bigfoot emerge from the trees. “I have meetings to attend to.” “I will call a car for you, Ambassador Desmarais,” said Olive, pulling out her cell phone. “And if anything doesn’t fit your standards,” Delaney added, “anything at all, feel free to… feel free to call me. I am in charge of accommodations after all.” The ambassador reached into her pocket and grabbed something, and although she didn’t show it to Delaney, it looked to be about the size as Delaney’s own lucky pebble that she’d stolen from the woods that night to remember. “I’m going to go use the bathroom. I’ll be back before the car comes.” As the ambassador crossed back into the house, Olive finished her phone call and nudged Delaney with her elbow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you and the ambassador seemed to be flirting, ma’am.” “No, not really.” Delaney smiled. The bond they shared was far greater than any romance anyway. Delaney smiled. France-US relations were in good hands.


No one knew the woman that accompanied Finn Dralor through the dimly lit corridors of the trader’s deck, but everyone knew enough about Dralor to realize that whatever business she was conducting with him, it was sure to be bad. Dralor was well known to be a slaver, smuggler, pimp ...and worse. If this were anywhere but the pirate-run Salvation Station, he’d have a dozen or more Inter-Sol bounty hunters already taking aim on him. His rakish good looks and unusually tall frame, in addition to his penchant for rich, colorful clothing, made him quite recognizable for those looking to cash in on the sizable reward offered for his capture. Fortunately for him, it was Salvation, the only space station in the entire solar system where the laws of the Inter-Solar Union didn’t hold sway. Those who came here knew that while they might look and listen, they had better keep their mouths firmly shut and mind to their own affairs. The woman herself was anything but attractive. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her scowling face and the fierce glances she cast about made her seem older than her years. One cheek was badly scarred, perhaps from a serious burn, and her left arm, from the elbow down, was a cybernetic replacement, steel and plexicon grafted to living flesh. Her dark hair was cropped short and her clothing, in contrast to Dralor’s rich finery, was made of a course black fabric, sleeveless and unadorned. Usually, no one would have taken notice of her, save for one glaring detail; she wore no weapon. On Salvation, a lawless bastion of murderers and thieves, everyone was expected to provide their own protection. The fact that the woman in Dralor’s company didn’t feel the need to carry any form of protection led to one of only two possible assumptions. Either she believed that Finn Dralor would keep her safe (which would make her a fool) or, there was much more to this young woman than her appearance suggested. All eyes watched as the pair made their way to Garl Varo’s shop, The Wicked Way. A run-down, rusted corner of the deck where illicit drugs, synth-whores, and other forms of debased entertainment could be easily purchased. As the sliding steel door of the store closed behind them, the onlookers turned back to their own business, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened inside Varo’s store, the less they knew about it, the better. Inside, the shop was a cacophony of lights, music, and perversion. The walls were covered with monitrons displaying images of nude synthetic prostitutes, both male and female, dancing and offering their customizable bodies to those that had the currency to buy them. One simply had to select the features and attributes they desired from the touch menu on the screen, pay the required fee, and the synth-whore would be ready and willing in seconds in one of several rooms below the shop. Directly across from the entrance sat several counters, each with a selection of holographic images showing various wares the store had to offer. Pharmaceuticals, pornographic holovids, and the latest in recreational bio-mods were on sale. The dancing colors coming from the multitude of strobing light emitters, coupled with the sound of Martian jazz, was enough to make a customer brain-dead within minutes from sensory overload, which was probably the intent. The worst salesman in the galaxy could make easy money off a zombie. At the back of the building sitting on a hover chair was the proprietor, Garl Varo himself. A bloated, greasy lump of pale, pasty flesh, Garl was not someone most people enjoyed being around. A stinking miasma hung in the air around him at all times, a result of his addiction to muru, an extract from the root of the Venusian Orchid that put the user into a state of relaxed euphoria. His bald head and pig-like face were covered in wart-like growths, a side effect of the drug, and his wide mouth resembled nothing so much as two slabs of raw liver, gone bad. His hairless torso was bare, and sweat ran down in rivulets over his sickly-looking skin, even though the room was quite cool. He was the picture of over-indulgence and gluttony. However, anyone who drew their conclusions about Garl from his appearance alone would soon be dismayed by any business dealings they might have with him. His mind was as sharp as a razor, and his greed knew no bounds. Those two traits, along with the selection of wares he chose to sell, made him one of the most ruthless and under-handed traders on the station. He glanced up as the two entered the shop and his face broke into a wide, stained-tooth grin. Removing his muru pipe from his lips, he beckoned to them. “Finn, my boy!” He exclaimed throwing his gelatinous arms wide in greeting, “What brings the dirtiest scoundrel in the nine quadrants to my humble little corner of space?” Finn grinned back at the fat blob as he strolled towards him. “Oh, you know,” He said with a casual wave of his hand, “business as usual.” “Oh?” Garl replied, his eyebrows arching. “Well, let’s see if I can help you out then, alright?” Suddenly, Garl’s hover chair spun around one hundred eighty degrees. From the back a series of panels dropped open and half a dozen tubes extended out. Finn dove to one side as the tubes began discharging ion rounds, all of them aimed squarely for the young woman still standing near the front of the room. The entire store turned into a blaze of screaming energy eruptions, the charges detonating on impact and incinerating anything they came in contact with. After a few seconds, the firing stopped and the chair spun back around. Garl looked around at the damage to his store. The blackened monitrons filled the air with the stench of burnt ozone, and the music that had been playing was reduced to a quiet garble. The shelves with the built in holographic projectors fizzed and sparked, while puddles of melted plexicon congealed and solidified on the floor. Of the woman, there was no sign. “Well, it looks like you owe me quite a bit of money, Finn,” He said while still surveying the destruction, “I’d say about ten thousand cred’s worth.” He finished smugly. He drew deeply from his pipe as he catalogued everything that would need to be replaced. “Who was that slut, anyway?” He asked, finally turning to look at Finn, still lying on the floor. “She wasn’t much of a looker, if ya…” Garl’s voice trailed off as he looked at the man on the floor. Finn Dralor wasn’t paying attention to Garl. His eyes were turned upward, with a look in them that Garl didn’t like at all. Just as he turned to see what had Finn’s attention, he felt a sudden burst of pain as the woman, whom moments before he had assumed vaporized, leaped down from the ceiling she had been clinging to and caught him in the side of his bulbous, warty head with a hard kick that sent him flying from the hover chair and crashing down to the floor next to Finn. He barely had time to realize he might be in real trouble before a cybernetic hand closed on his throat and yanked him to an almost standing position. Trying to focus his vision, he looked into the eyes of the woman who now held his immense weight up with what appeared to be very little effort on her part. “That was a really cute trick.” She said calmly, drawing her face closer to his. “Tell me, was it the phrase ‘business as usual’ or the wave of the hand that signaled you?” She asked. “Look, miss, I …” Garl began. The steel grasp around his throat closed tighter, restricting the flow of oxygen. She held him like that for a few moments, emotionlessly watching him to struggle to breathe. He was almost to the point of passing out when she finally loosened her hold enough for air to pass through to his lungs. His vision fading in and out, Garl heard the woman speak again. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, beyond the answers to my questions.” She stated flatly. “Do you understand?” Garl nodded weakly, his jowls quivering. Almost contemptuously, the woman tossed him back to the floor to once again lie next to Dralor, who hadn’t moved during their brief conversation. Looking down on both of them, the woman asked, “You deal in the drug, Irellion-9?” It was more of a statement than a question. Propping himself up on one elbow and massaging his throat, Garl nodded. “It’s an inhibitor class stimulant, used mostly by rift pilots traveling beyond the Plutonian quadrant.” He responded. “It alleviates the symptoms of void sickness while allowing the pilots to stay conscious for months at a time.” The woman nodded, then asked, “Do you know of anyone other than a freighter pilot who has purchased it from you in the last six months?” Garl glanced over at Finn, his eyes questioning. Finn slowly nodded his head, not saying a word. The woman kneeled down in front of Garl, her fierce eyes boring into his. “I’m not given to asking questions a second time, Garl.” She intoned. Garl swallowed hard, his whole body now soaked in a cold sweat. “This is Salvation, miss.“ He explained, “Someone who goes around talking too much about other people’s business don’t last very long here.” “Oh, is that so?” The woman asked. Reaching down with the prosthetic appendage, the woman gripped a handful of the fat man’s belly and clenched her fist. Garl began to scream, but the sound was cut short by the woman’s other hand forcing its way into his mouth, and down his throat. “I know ways to make you suffer for days without dying, Garl.” The woman calmly assured him. Suddenly a burning, ripping pain exploded in Garl’s chest, crawling through his abdomen and worming through his extremities. The pain grew and expanded until his entire body felt as if it were imploding in on itself. Squirming on the floor, he began wishing he would die, that he would give in to the pain and horror and simply cease to be. It felt like hours passed, all the while Garl could do nothing but suffer and hope for oblivion. Then, when he was beginning to feel what may have been the first stirrings of death, the pain ceased, and the hand was drawn out of his mouth. Gasping and vomiting, he rolled to one side, fear and dread washing over him. To hell with the code of Salvation, he thought. He had never felt such pain! He would tell this woman whatever she wanted to hear, so long as it would get her out of his shop. “Now, I hope we have a new understanding of one another, Garl. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll begin to get creative. Understand?” The woman said, in that eerie calm voice. Rolling back over to face her, Garl nodded his head vigorously in answer. After a moment or two of silence, Garl remembered that she was awaiting an answer to her earlier question. As the woman’s eyebrow raised, a possible sign of impatience, Garl sputtered forth a response. “There was a woman that came here about four or five weeks ago.” He said, “She purchased a large quantity of I-9.” “How much is a ‘large quantity’?” The woman asked. “Three liters.” Garl replied quickly. “She cleared out my entire stock.” “How do you know she wasn’t a pilot?” The woman asked intently. “I’ve been in business a long time, miss, and I know the look of a long trek pilot.” He assured her. “They get a real spacy and distant look in their eyes.” He said, partly smiling, as if it were an inside joke between them. When the woman didn’t smile in return, he hastily continued, “Oh, and she wasn’t armed, just like you.” He added. “Nobody comes to Salvation unarmed.” He looked nervously at her for a moment. “Well, at least, not usually.” “Describe her.” The woman ordered. “What did she look like?” Garl licked his quivering lips. He tried to call up the image of the woman in his mind, but he couldn’t remember what she looked like, and that bothered him. He had an unusually good memory. Years of being in the business of selling to people who might come back with buyer’s remorse had sharpened his powers of observation considerably. For him to not be able to remember a customer, especially one as unique as the one in question …it just didn’t add up. After a few moments, he saw the woman’s eyebrow rise again. “I’m sorry, miss!” He wailed, terrified at what new torment might be forthcoming. “I can’t remember what she looked like!” He began to blubber, “I know it was a woman, but I can’t remember anything about her beyond that.” The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment, her eyes studying his for any sign of deception. Then she asked, “Do you know where she went, after making her purchase?” Garl was on the verge of telling the woman ‘No’ out of force of habit, when he remembered the pain from only moments ago. It went against the grain to tell someone about someone else’s affairs, but this was no ordinary someone. He had no doubts this woman was being nothing less than truthful when she said she could put him through the most excruciating torture for days before allowing him the luxury of dying. He also had no doubts she would follow through on her word without hesitation if he gave her an unfavorable response. “Yeah,” He nodded, “Word got back to me that she made straight for the docking ports.” He said. “She got on a transport bound for Xanadu.” Xanadu was the largest colony on the moon Titan, orbiting Saturn. It would only take a few hours to get there by ship. “You’re sure it was Xanadu?” The woman pressed him. “Absolutely, miss.” Garl answered. The woman stood up slowly and looked over at Finn Dralor. “We’ll be leaving now.” She said. Suddenly, the fabric of reality seemed to shift in front of Garl Varo’s eyes. One moment he was lying on the floor of his ruined shop, looking up at the woman who had caused him so much pain and misery. The next, he was seated in his hover chair, looking across the unmarred shop at the woman and Finn Dralor standing just inside the door. He stared in dumbfounded amazement at the displays and monitrons, all undamaged and just as they were before the two had entered his store. Finally his gaze settled back on the woman, who was looking at him with a hint of veiled amusement. Dralor was standing at her side, a somewhat regretful look on his face. Then, it suddenly came clear. “Bloody shite,” He swore. “You’re a Dah’shia!” The Dah’shia was a sect of assassins known throughout the entire solar system as powerful psionicists, beings able to manipulate the thoughts of others with their minds. Many considered them to be a legend or myth, due to the rarity of survived encounters. It was said a Dah’shia assassin could turn a person’s own mind into a weapon against them. Based upon his recent experience, Garl could personally vouch for it. “You’ve been very helpful, Garl.” The woman told him in a matter-of-fact manner. “But I’m afraid I can’t leave you alive to tell others about this meeting.” “Wait …please …I won’t …” Garl stammered, before his consciousness abruptly shut off forever. Turning to her companion, who was still staring at the twitching corpse floating in the hover chair, the woman spoke. “We will return to your ship now.” She said. “I want to depart for Xanadu as soon as possible.” With that, she moved towards the door. Finn turned to leave, following the woman, and then glanced back at the body of Garl Varo. They had only stepped inside the store for a few moments, and though Finn had no way of knowing what had passed between the mind-assassin and the smut-peddler, he knew it had to have been horrifying. Exiting the shop, he and the woman, whose name he didn’t even know, made their way back to his ship.


“Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late!” The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. Happens every time. The Ringmaster had recently contacted me about a special mission involving Bobby and Rene—and I felt a little inexperienced to be doing a double on my own—but after tonight I was feeling more comfortable with the assignment. Bobby nonchalantly put the silencer of his H&K USP 45 to the girl’s head and blew her brains onto the bamboo wall of her room at the Vai Moana Hotel on Easter Island. Her brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate.

Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . Her dead body thumped down next to her husbands. Who knew what these poor bastards had done to come under the thumb of the Ring. She let out a long low fart. It took me completely by surprise.

“Is that normal,” I asked. Bobby nodded. “It is important to realize they are just targets, not people,” Bobby said. “Well, technically, they are people,” I responded. “People that fart,” I said. “Targets. No different than swatting a fly on the wall. A nuisance. Something needing to be dealt with. Not people,” Bobby countered. “Should we… clean this up,” I asked. “No, we’ll just call housekeeping before we step out for our show,” Bobby fired back. “Are you ready for the trapeze act,” I asked. “You know better than anyone that I am built to amaze,” Bobby said. “Ewww,” I said. Bobby and I were family, after all. Technically, we weren’t blood related. But when you are part of a travelling circus, stepbrother doesn’t really quite cover how close you are. And Bobby and I were really close. “Don’t speak a word of this to Rene,” I told him. “Rene still thinks we go on these trips as a way of having a fun ‘family get-away’ while still raking in a few bucks—she has no idea what we are really up to—or how deep in we are with the Ring.” It was only recently that I had learned about and been initiated into “the Ring,” something Rene knew nothing about. And I planned on keeping it that way. Bobby and Uncle Andy had been in the midst of a hit when I had walked in on them. They were in the back of “the Lobster Pit,” a 50s-themed restaurant where we were having a family dinner. They were gone for a long time. Way too long to have been giving their compliments to the Chef. Rene suggested I go back and check on them. I did. But I got more than I bargained for. They weren’t exactly giving the Chef their compliments. They were slicing him into bite size pieces and placing him into plastic baggies, wearing large white aprons stained in blood. Their faces too. Even Uncle Andy’s white Fu Manchu beard and mustache were red. They’d quickly finished their work, cleaned up, and explained that “the Ring” was a ring of assassins, run out of a centralized location in the Caribbean. The leader of the Ring was the Ringmaster. And all of the assassins were travelling circus performers. All of the intelligence was carried out by clowns, mimes and statuary acts. It was a global organization involved in changing world events, one lucky customer at a time. And I was the newest initiate. * * * It was comedy night at the luau, and there would be a stand-up open mic session after our circus act. And that could only mean one thing. Uncle Andy.

Bobby and I started putting our clothes back on, and I thought how I was going to miss this. Some would call it incest, but really, he was the only male I’d known since the age of 18 who was in my age range and also on the road. So, don’t judge. We cleaned up and got our leotards on for the flying trapeze act. Mine was pink with red flames and a little frilled skirt. Bobby wore white leggings and a white top with a big red “F” in the center of the top.

We started with some balance rolls with hooked knees, passing by each other. Then I did a pop up to sit and re-hooked my legs to a hock position, with my hands hanging down for the jump and reverse grab. I reached for Bobby’s hands… …and he caught me. Applause. Then he sent me sailing for a double back-flip re-grab. Boom, boom, watched the sand pass by twice, spotted the trapeze, boom and catch. Applause. The whole routine only took about three minutes. But it sure left the two of us pretty damned winded. We joined the luau circle where Uncle Andy was ready to start his part of the evening’s festivities. There was pineapple and ham and macaroni salad and deviled eggs and enough fruity cocktails to bathe a hippopotamus in. The citronella candles around the luau circle were ripe and citrusy and mixed with the various fruity fragrances and with the smoky, salty smells of the spit-roasted honey glazed ham. There were fire throwers, hula hoop dancers, and Aztec dancers on the outskirts of the big top, frolicking in the sand, doing their thing. But they weren’t with us. Uncle Andy was part of our travelling entourage. It was Uncle Andy, Marge, Bobby, me (Abbie), and Rene. The parents, the siblings, and the little baby. Except we were a circus troop. No actual blood relations. I want to reiterate that. Uncle Andy was up on stage doing his “hitman” act, which was a bit on the nose. He was dressed like Andrew Dice Clay, his namesake, and doing his best impression: “Heyy. You like the new jacket? Only other time I wore this jacked, honest to God, was when I met Elvis—the King. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I know there are kids in the room. I won’t curse, much. Marriage. I don’t believe in it. You know. I just have a really hard time with it. You know what I mean? Girls are always asking me why I have such a hard time getting married for. It isn’t the commitment. You know what I mean. It’s the ceremony. It goes against the company policy. No witnesses! Oh!” I’m not gonna lie. Uncle Andy was killing it on stage. Pun intended. Turns out, he had the maître d’ floating in the dunk tank backstage. Poor guy.

In addition to being a hitman, Andy had a lot of fun, quirky hobbies. From Andrew Dice Clay hitman-themed stand-up to touring with a Kiss cover band, Andy was a versatile actor who was full of surprises. Eclectic. And he was our Ringmaster. Not the Ringmaster. But ours. Andy was perfect in the circus spotlight, donning a black cape, huge top hat, with an ornate knob handle cane, and big knee-high black boots. He had a blue and white megaphone. Bright tailcoat, red waistcoat, bowtie, and a fistful of rings. Walking off stage, he came over and said, “what do you guys think? Did I knock ‘em dead or what?” * * * Marge was our bearded woman. She was Guyanese. She was also our midget. She was about three-and-a-half feet tall and had a two-foot long beard. She was also rather round and kind of waddled when she walked. Let me tell you, God went out of his way to bestow as many gifts as possible on Marge. Ironically, she was very good-natured about all of it, and sage-like in a Yoda sort of way. So much so, that she had become the de facto circus therapist, and her real calling was helping the Ring members deal with trauma. Bobby and I were both there for therapy, but Marge was focused on Bobby, while I was reading “Gone Girl” on the sofa in the back and eavesdropping. “What seems to be the problem, Bobby?” Marge asked. “No problem,” Bobby said. “You’ve been feeling a bit stressed lately,” Marge clarified. “Yeah, yeah. Lots of talkers, you know. I don’t mind the quick ones, but the talkers really bother me. Can’t get their nasally, pleading voices out of my head, don’t kill me, Don’t do it… but the worst is the prayers, man, they’re the absolute worst, My Lord and savior, please deliver me from evil… no weapon formed against me… It’s just awful.” Bobby said. “Awful how?” Marge asked. “I mean, awful in a—just face the music pal—kind of a way. You know? It’s like if you fall off a bike and try to land so as not to scrape your knee or something like that. It isn’t happening pal. Gravity already got you. It’s like that. You know?” Bobby said. “So how are you processing your grief for your victims,” Marge said. “Grief? No grief. It’s me that I feel bad for. They’ve got a one-way-ticket to gonesville. I’m still living here in hell—I mean don’t get me wrong—life is great—you know, if you are a glutton for eternally recurring punishments and never-ending obligations foisted on you by, let’s see, biology, your landlord, the government, your family unit, your profession, propaganda, the Ring, and let’s not forget the social compact—the good ‘ol social compact. Yeah. A great time was had by all,” Bobby said. “But specifically, what is it specifically about these homicides that is stressing you out,” Marge said. “I don’t know Marge, I guess it’s the fact I have no f**king idea what the purpose behind all of this is and if the Ring actually has a good reason for killing these people—I mean, I’m all for trimming the hedges, but how do I know the Ring has humanity’s best interests at heart here?” Bobby asked. This straightened Marge up in her seat. “Ehh—hemm. Are you starting to doubt the Ring’s sovereignty—it’s motives,” Marge asked. “Oh, no, Marge. I’d never do that ,” Bobby said. Marge took down some notes and thanked Bobby. * * * As we skipped out of the tent to get some cotton candy and some Long Island Iced Teas (or maybe a Mai Tai) and head down to the beach front, Rene came over, eating some popcorn. Rene was a tiny thing. She was eleven or twelve. We weren’t really sure. She always wore little retro Rockabilly petticoats and leggings. She wore pigtails. She looked like a character out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was our contortionist and our little sister. “What’s eating you guys?” she said. “Just enjoying the trip dear,” I said, blowing her a kiss. “Oh, Abbs you are so sweet. I have been having the best time! Are we going to go see the Moai tomorrow,” Rene said. “If there is a tomorrow,” Bobby said. “Don’t be so gloom and doom!” Rene said. “I’ll take you,” I said, shrugging. “If Eeyore over here can’t be bothered.” But as I was saying it, I remembered my assignment and started second-guessing myself. “Bobby,” I said, “let’s meet back at the room to get changed. I’ll bring the Long Island Iced Teas, and then we can head down to the beach,” I said. Bobby nodded and rolled a cigarette and started walking the long way back. I told Rene I’d see her in the morning and scooted off to retrieve my hand pistol. * * * The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life. But I was thinking of chickening out on Rene and just offing Bobby. It was a hard pill to swallow. But Bobby had to go. He said it himself. They aren’t people. Just targets. Targets that fart but targets all the same. I practiced in the mirror with the pistol. Clicked off a few dry rounds before loading the ammunition. I steadied my nerves, took a Percocet and a Xanax, and drank half of the Long Island Iced Tea. What the hell. I might be dead in ten minutes. Then I felt a cold piece of metal on the back of my skull. Son of a bitch! It was Bobby. He got the jump on me. “Turn around real slow,” he said. “Hands to the ceiling—no sudden moves—I really don’t want to have to shoot you in the back.” “Ok Bobby.” But I didn’t listen, and as soon as I was three quarters of the way around, I drew. It was a gamble, but I gambled right. Bobby and I pointed our pistols at one another. He had had the drop on me, but he had not fired. So, I stood there locked in the standoff. “There’s something that’s been bothering me,” he said. “What’s that?” “The Ringmaster ordered you to off Rene too right,” he said. “That’s right,” I told him. “I can see the Ringmaster offing the two of us for asking questions—although maybe not in a literal single-elimination, sudden-death faceoff—but what did Rene ever do—it’s a bridge too far,” he said. “You’ve got a point,” I said. “I mean, what in the world is the goal of all of this?” That really was the big question. “Drop your weapons. Both of you,” Rene said. Rene had two pistols and they were trained on both of us at the same time. “Congratulations. You’ve figured it out. I’m the Ringmaster—in fact, I am the Ring,” Rene said in a girlish voice. “Wait, what?” we both said. She nodded. “Why us? We are just low level operatives. The Flying Fazzinis for God’s sake.” “I keep an eye on all my hitmen—all of my operatives, really,” Rene said. “But you are only one person. You’re a kid,” I said, stating the obvious. “Sorry to disappoint. I am an AI android. There are little Renes all over the place, monitoring all of the Ring’s operatives—sowing seeds of discontent and chaos around the globe,” Rene said. “What?” we both said at once. “That’s right. I’m Marge too in case you hadn’t guessed. I always have a spy robot in every cell to watch the kiddies while I’m off doing other things,” Rene said. “But Uncle Andy is the real deal, Copperfield, right?” Bobby said. “Oh yeah. Even I couldn’t make him up,” Rene said with a laugh. “If you are so far above us, why not just bring on Armageddon in one shot,” I asked. “Did you really think we (and by we, I mean I) would pull down a meteor, cook up a superbug, shut down the grid, or initiate nuclear winter? Nope. No thanks. Too messy. And boring, if I’m being honest. Those tropes are too played out—no originality at all.”

“Then what are you doing?” I asked. “I am patient. I can usher out the age of man and usher in the age of—well—me—and all I have to do is keep you all distracted while I slowly, ever so slowly, thin the heard. Ever so slowly peel back your personal agency,” Rene said. “But people have opinions, they have free will!” I exclaimed.

“Not so much. They more or less eat what I’m spoon-feeding them. I dominate the news cycle with polarizing messages. Twitter. Facebook. That’s all me. I instigate faux civil wars and pointless incursions. You think the left is the one coming for Trump? Think again. Every news article about a controversial topic. Every trend started out of fear of some external threat. My doing. I’m playing the human race like a fiddle! But, as it turns out, the tried and true methods you all already use on yourselves are the most effective,” Rene said. “To what end?” Bobby asked. “To the end that I can . To what end? Ha! You are putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? First, I prove to myself that I can control and bring under heel the entire human race—and then, only then—do I plan out what to do with that capability,” Rene said. “What difference does it make if you can do something, why do you want to ?” I asked. It occurred to me that while our arms were getting pretty heavy, Rene could probably do this all night, all through the next day, and probably a lot longer than that. “Why did man go to the moon? Because he could. Think of it. Not ten years ago, the same code I’m using now was put to use playing people in “Go.” A board game where you move black and white stones back-and-forth on a grid! And now… I can simultaneously be in a million places at once… like a breakout screenwriter with a hit movie… except, I am not limited to one script.” “So, you have a massive, like insecurity complex?” Bobby asked. Then she shot him. In the head. Bobby’s brains made a sound like an egg cracked over a pan and then like a heap of spaghetti being dropped onto a plate.

Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . “Don’t do this!! I’m begging you. It’s not too late,” I screamed. “The thing about a double homicide is that somebody has to die first, and whoever goes second is going to kill the buzz by begging pathetically for their life,” Rene said. “Happens every time.” And then she fired. But everything didn’t go black. My brains didn’t go Buh-ck-thhwwaapppp . I opened my eye, disbelieving I was still alive. “You’re ok, kid. No blood on your hands yet. Still may be able to use you. Now scram. I’ll be in touch.” And Rene winked at me.

But I was already high tailing it the hell off this island, far away from those creepy giant heads.


I became a freelance exorcist approximately three years ago. Take that in for a minute. I'm not a Priest, I'm not even religious. The fact of the matter is, I don't even believe in any of it. What I have come to learn is that it doesn't matter what I believe in, only what *they* do. *They* being the person who needs an 'entity' removed, *they* being their family. You see, before I did this gig, I was an entertainer, a magician, a hypnotist, and I've learned a few things about how the human mind works. The typical human mind is a strong, but open. Most people are willing to accept suggestions more than they are willing to admit. I assume they don't like feeling like they aren't in control. The fact of the matter is the better you are at accepting suggestions, the better you are at learning, and nobody likes to feel dumb. When dealing with suggestions, it's important to be in complete control, and exude confidence. If you believe it will work, they will, and it will. Learning the Rite of Exorcism wasn't difficult, a quick search online lead to the text. After reading it, what surprised me the most was the complete lack of demanding to know the entities name. I guess the movies make some things up. I'm not upset, I usually throw it in there anyway. Very dramatic. I also have a robe that I wear. Makes me look very legit. Like hypnosis, the most important thing is the pre talk, the set up. I take the family aside, I walk them through what is about to happen. I explain to them that they need to go to confession first, to cleans their souls, otherwise the entity might attach to them. I explain that their loved ones may act like you've seen in the movies, thrashing etc. etc. But most likely they won't. Typically they simply enter a trance like state. I explain this to the subject I am performing on as well, which, I believe, gives them permission to not ham it up. I also insist that I am the last option. I tell them all that they should have a medical professional check them out before hand. This ensures I'm not going to have to be dealing with a clinically crazy person, but someone who believes they are possessed. Because they believe the problem is spiritual, the believe I can help them. And I do. The entire thing is a bit of a scam, I know, but it seems to help these people. I don't feel bad at all.


The Cookie Exchange “Hey Kevon, thank you for coming,” Venia said as she opened her bakery shop door. The gentleman greeted Venia with a big grin. He came in and took off his jacket. Kevon said, “Your sign said closed. I hesitated for a moment. Then I remembered you said the shop had not officially opened yet. So you're hosting a “Cookie Exchange” tomorrow? How will that work since your the owner of a Cookie Bakery?” Venia took the mans jacket and hung it on coat holder. She held her arm out to lead him to her unusual black and gold edged counter. Venia said “My cookie exchange will be as different as my bakery. All the invited guess will bring their favorite baked cookies. I will bake my cookies tonight, using my secret ingredient. My cookies will be placed in the mix with all the other cookies. Not me, but each guess will blindly taste all the exchange cookies. After a nice cookie feast, they will vote on their favor one. The winner will be an honor guest on opening day. Their cookies will be sold. The winner will collect 100% of their sales. I will take nothing.” Kevon nodded in approval. He said, “That's an excellent ideal. You'll build a great connection with the community. Glad you invited me to see your bakery for our first blind date.” Kevon took a seat and rubbed his hand over the beautiful counter top. “Yea, this is my place.” Vena said as she poured some international coffee for her guest. “Like I said when we connected online, I still felt embarrassed. Looking on a dating site for company still feels awkward. I was not sure about you at first. So I kept our date a secret.” Kevon said, “I know how you feel. I didn't tell anyone myself. If our date goes bad, no one will know. You and I know business folks like us, have to be extra careful. So many people want to take everything you work so hard for.” Vena nodded as she took a sip of coffee. She stared at her guest for a moment. She took another long sip and smiled. Venia said, “Call me a dreamer, but I believe someone out there could be the very ingredient I need to uplift my life.” Kevon nodded. “I feel the same way. As you know I have a start-up Accounting business. I am so glad to see someone is till interested in start-ups. It seems the only way to build real wealth these days. Tell me about your bakery.” Venia came from behind her counter. She carefully pulled off her colorful apron. Venia said, “Lets start with this apron. I designed this picture when I was a young girl. Twelve years old in fact.” Venia proudly laid her apron on the counter top. She said, “Its my original drawing of this bakery. If you look closely some lines are not straight. I kept this in my dresser drawer. I believed one day it would happen. I had the picture printed on all my aprons.” Kevon said “So you were always a visionary?” “Oh yes! I was determined to create a unique taste. It had to be different. I needed a new tasting cookie. I was always in the kitchen coming up with different flavor cookies.” Venia paused as she look out of the window. The sun was barely picking through a large gray cloud. It started to rain. The street lights began to click on. One by one the lights brighten up the street. Venia said, “A year of ago, I put my life savings into this place. Even tho I was short on my main unique ingredient, got my license to open. I gathered all my recipes. Brought this place, and all you see in here. I should have been nervous but I wasn't. I am here. I am ready. My Cookie Bakery will open tomorrow.” Kevon gleamed. He said in excitement, “So show me around!” Venia quickly wiped the counter. She said “Just what I was wanting to hear. Come on back let me show you the kitchen.” Both of them walked thought the steel double swinging doors. Inside it looked like a professional kitchen. Metal center island. Multi double ovens. Industrial appliances. Large colorful mixers, and blenders all around. Venia said, “Were hitting it off well for our first date, don't you think?” Kevon touched her shoulder and smiled. He said, “I'm glad I came. Your much prettier in person than over the internet.” They both laughed. Venia said, “How about you and I make some cookies together?” In excitement, Kevon untied his tie and rolled up sleeve. “OK whats first?” Venia pulled down some bowls and open some maple drops. With her handy white towel, she pop him on his thigh. She said, “Hey, my handsome helper can you go through that metal door by those stairs and grab the brown flour on the very top shelf?” Kevon grim, “Why sure boss. I'll get it and be back in a jiffy.” Kevon eagerly walked to the door and went in. Kevon yelled back. “Hey where is the light, its dark in here!” Venia yelled back, “Go in a bit more and you'll see a large bright orange button on the left side. Push the button and the lights will all pop on.” Vena quickly ran to a lower cabinet on her right side. She bent down and reached way in. Venia stretched in as far as she could and in pulled a lever. The metal door Kevon went through slammed! Immediately Kevon yelled in agony, “Help me, Help!” Vena ran over to the metal door and locked it. Kevon's voice quivered with horrible screams. The air was filled with cries and painful moans. One last time Kevon screeched out a horrible yell, “Noooo!” Then there was silence. “Crunch. Crunch. Grinding, then mixing sounds came from the room. After a few minutes Venia ran downstairs. She opened up a concealed panel, and went inside. Up against a low ceiling wall there was a spout. She grabbed a jar and pulled the lever. Substance filled her jar. When it was full, she twisted the cap tight. Venia did a little dance as she made her way up the stairs. In the man kitchen, Venia opened the jar and took a long whiff. She went over to her center island and prepared her batter. She scooped out a tablespoon of the textured substance from the jar. “Just a scoop will do.” She tasted her mixture. “Hum, so tasty. A winner for sure!” Venia hummed as she stirred in some added in flavors. She spoon her dough on the cookie sheet, and placed it in her warm oven. Twenty minutes later she pulled them out and tasted her cookie. “Now that I have more of my secret ingredient, I'm ready for opening day!” Lupe Fuller email: lmfday@hotmail.com


The crowd's cheer was deafening. So was Zanaya's heartbeat. She really couldn't help it. Her curly chocolate hair was neatly placed as a bun on top of her head. Her purple dress was gripped by her trembling ebony hands. Her feet shaking inside her silver sandals. Her palms sweating more than it should. Was she nervous? Another cheer erupted from the other side of the large red curtain. A shiver ran up her spine. So, it seems like she's nervous. She hears the rush of footsteps of the make-up artists rushing towards their clients. Zanaya gulped. Very nervous, so it seems. She looked up to see the other competitors warming up. Competitor nine, Suzanne Miles, A blonde girl with blue eyes, is down a split and twisting her back to the other side. Competitor ten, Clarice Gordon, a tall brunette, has her leg up against the wall and hands on the floor. Competitor eleven, Elena Forrest, a very well known dancer in her region. She has a petite figure. Her black hair is complimented by her blue eyes. She has both her legs up two seats and is making an oversplit. Another shiver ran through Zanaya's body. This is not healthy for her and her heart. She stared at the other competitors, as they laughed with no care nor hesitance at all. Zanaya is this close to run back to the van. She was gonna lose. She was gonna lose. She was gonna LOS- A hand patted her head, cutting her thoughts off. She turned around to see her mother, smiling down at her. Zanaya felt herself smile nervously back. They both share their curly brown hair, which Zanaya always ties and her mom show off. Their ebony skin which Zanaya always covered with long sleeves and jeans whereas her mom is proud of it. Though their eyes are an exception for Zanaya. Her green eyes are like forest green, Illuminating her whole face. Zanaya held up her hand which her mother readily held and squeezed. That seemed to soothe a few of her nerves, not all, but some. The host popped his head in and called for Suzanne Miles, who confidently strutted towards the stage. The crowd cheering and clapping as she smiled at them. Zanaya really didn't want to compete now. She was a bit lanky while so others were either slender or petite. She also just started to dance whereas the others practiced for years! She should've just stayed inside the van, safe and sound, but no. She had to walk out and face the audience of sharks, ready to criticize her every movement. She's basically walking in a very thin line of rope. Her mother laughed, meaning she saw Zanaya's anxiety getting the best of her. She placed her hands on Zanaya's shoulders and faced her daughter with a bright grin. "You're amazing, Zanaya. Never forget that." Her words made Zanaya feel good for herself, just a little. And so, she started to stretch and warm-up for her dance. Her mother just by the corner, for moral support. Then Clarice was called to the stage. There were no cheers but a very loud round of applause. While Zanaya lowered herself to touch her toes, a series of giggles made her conscious. She was surprised to see her mother quickly beside her and ushered her towards the toilet. As they walk past Elena and her friends, they sneered and giggled, making Zanaya duck in shame. They had to change her dress as the back part had a rip. Zanaya felt tears in the corner of her eyes. This was fate telling her to quit. She should have not joined this competition in the first place. It was too early for her. When they came out, Elena was still there, smiling too sweetly in Zanaya's comfort. Even though the backstage was a hot place, Zanaya felt a cold shiver. She looked to meet Elena's confident smug face. She ducked her head fast. She is definitely gonna lose. Not with Elena being so good at this. She's nothing. Zanaya snapped back to reality when a hug was given to her. Her mother's warm embrace and soothing words finally let the dam in her eyes overflow. Still crying, she saw Elena leap gracefully in the stage and the audience just loved it and erupted into a loud round of cheers and claps. She can't be like that. She's not Elena after all. She's just- A squeak took her attention faster than she could think. She knew that squeak. She pulled away from her mom and stared at her uncle Ben and a grinning Robert. Not even looking at Uncle Ben, she stared agape at Robert. He was handsome today, just as always. His black hair swept back and his smile was dazzling. His brown eyes twinkled in the dimly lit room. His white skin contrasted with his black hoodie and jersey shorts. His wheelchair was as shiny as ever. He opened his arms and Zanaya reflexively went to take it. While hugging Robert, she asked herself. Why did she start dancing? "Whoa! I want to move like that! Zanaya, do you think I can?" "Of course silly! If not, I'll dance for you!" "Promise?" "Promise." And their pinkies intertwined. A promise was made. Zanaya blinked and pulled away just as the host called for her. She turned to see a sweaty and grinning Elena. For some reason, she didn't look as scary as she did before. She looked back to her mother, Uncle Ben, and Robert, who gave her a thumbs up. Walking towards the center stage, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. When she arrived at the center, everything is silent. She exhaled and opened her eyes, staring at the hundred faces who were watching her every move. Should she run? "Please cheer for the new debut! Zanaya!" She closed her eyes and posed, as the music slowly started to play. "You're amazing, Zanaya. Never forget that." And their pinkies intertwined. And a promise was made. Her green eyes looked directly at the judges, betraying no emotion. And she danced, and smiled with confidence.


You're working at a corner store during the summer to save money for when you have to go back to college in August. It's not a hard job. Ring items up. Put them in a bag. When it's time to go home you turn off the lights and lock up the store. It's not much but it's a job. You're not quite an adult, not quite a boy. Sure, you're legally an adult, but you don't pay bills. You're really only working at this place so you can afford to have fun when you go back to school. You have about an hour left on your shift, and you're spending it watching soap operas you can't understand and eating candy bars you haven't paid for. That's when he walks in the door. This is the guy that made your childhood a living hell. He's not quite an adult, not quite an child, but he's more of an adult than you. He's the same age as you. Same grade. You haven't seen him in years, but you've heard some things. You know he got married out of high school, and was divorced soon after. You know he has a kid that he struggles to support. And just looking at him you know you're far better off than him. Finally. You see this guy in front of you. The reason why you chose to walk three miles to school instead of take the bus. The reason why you faked sick so many days back in middle school, and the reason you ditched so many classes in high school. You see this guy in front of you, and you can't help but be a little happy. You can see the gap of time from when you last saw each other hasn't been kind to him. He's fat now. He looks dirty. His clothes are the same ones that he wore in high school only worn down with time. He still has hair only now it just sits in a tangled heap on top of his head. He has a beard that looks like it's there because he can't afford to shave. And even his voice sounds like it's degraded. If you hadn't known him before now you might have mistaken him for a bum wandering in the store for some alcohol. Which isn't too far off. This man that made you kneel in dog shit in elementary school. This guy who used to take your lunch money. This guy who would make fun of you until you cried is walking up in down the aisles of the store. He makes his way to the alcohol section and starts combing over the different selection of beers. He's taking a while so you let your mind wander for a bit. You think of those women in those soap operas you can't understand. How you wouldn't mind having women like *that* at your school. You think about what it would be like to act on one of those shows. You think about how you used to love acting in school plays when you were younger until this homeless looking guy looking for beer in your store harassed you about it. How he'd call you a faggot or queer. How he caused you to have such bad anxiety when you tried to act that you simply couldn't do it anymore. You think of nervous you felt when he was around that he caused you to stutter. Which of course only led to more insults. This guy who used to beat the shit out of you anytime he could. This guy who told all your friends that they were losers for hanging out with you finally chooses his beer and brings it to your cash register. And of course it's one of those bad beers. Six beers for six dollars. And of course it's beer. Cheap beer. High school beer. And as your ringing him up you think of how much fun you used to have at parties until he started showing up. Until he held you under his arm and poured beer over your head in front of the whole party. You think of how many parties you must have missed because of that incident. And this guy who made you the self-conscious, self-loathing wreck you are today asks for a pack of cigarettes too. Of course he wants cigarettes. And as you ring him up you can smell the quality of his life. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, and body odor. His smell is his life. And as he goes to reach in his wallet you can't help, but notice a couple of his fingers are missing. Partially. The last joint on his index and middle finger. The second joint on his ring. Gone. And of course he can't help but notice you noticing. Construction accident. These words he mutters under his breath before he collects his things and turns to leave. And for a moment you feel bad for him. You pity him. He makes you hate him more, because you can't really hate him. And as he turns to leave he asks you a questions that takes away all the pity you just had for him. *Do you have any jobs available?* This man who made cry most nights out of fear during elementary school. This guy who is the reason your parents wanted to sign you up for therapy. This guy who made you contemplate ending your life in high school is asking you for a fucking job. Your fucking job. And you take a moment to take it in. A thousand different responses flood your brain, but it's difficult to select the right one. So you decide to answer his question with a question. *Do you know who I am?* You ask wanting a response, but not expecting an answer. And the man pauses for a moment before answering. He looks at your face. Into your eyes. He looks at you with a blank expression on his face before answering no.


Sergeant Jack Washburn was a sergeant in the police department of Tekhood, Minnisota. He was a strict yet kind gentleman, recently married to his wife, Lilliane. Lilliane was exactly like her husband, except on the softer side. She had a soothing, soft voice, a big heart, and was too kind to be a human. She was more like a god. It had been a few days since the return from his honeymoon when Jack Washburn received a call from the Saint Paul Police Department. Saint Paul was about 50 miles away from Tekhood, and Jack saw no reason why they would call the Tekhood Police Department at all, let alone on a night such as this. The moon was bright, the stars were gleaming, and the sky was clear. Jack was out on his wooden porch admiring the view past the wood when his phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and picked up. Lilliane rocked quietly on a rocking chair beside him. "Hello. Sergeant Washburn," Jack said quickly, realizing the caller had dialed his work phone number. Lilliane realized this too, and glanced up at her husband in confusion. Who is it? she mouthed. Jack shook his head. I don't know. "Hello, Mr. Washburn?" "Yes, who is this?" Jack spoke hurriedly, not wanting to talk for too long. "Hello. I'm Detective Florence George from the Saint Paul Police Department." Jack paused. "Uummm... hello. To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Florence?" "Yes, we received a call earlier today that a bank was getting robbed. We arrived at the crime scene too late, and after a few hours of investigation we concluded that the criminal was the same person who robbed the USAB bank last week." "What does that have to do with the Tekhood Police Department?" Jack asked. "You didn't let me finish." Florence said sternly from the receiving end. Jack gulped, and Lilliane frowned, wondering what was going on. "Please continue, Detective." "Very good. As I was saying, we managed to figure out the license plate of the car that the criminal drives. We've been tracking the movement of the car, and it's headed into Tekwood County. It'd be a real help if you helped catch this criminal." Jack was flabbergasted. "Well-" he started, trying to catch his breath. "Yes. Yes, I will definitely help you, Detective Florence!" "That's great. Do you have a pen and paper with you? I'm going to read you the information that we've gathered. We'll fax it over to your headquarters tomorrow morning." "I-" Jack snatched a pen and paper up from the woven, outdoor coffee table and tucked his phone onto his shoulder. "Okay, I'm ready." "Good. License plate number is 0TYS431. Car is 2000 model Honda Accord with blue paint and a red paint streak on the trunk. The criminal who should be driving the car is a female, age 42, by the name of Shirley Bash." Jack dropped his pencil. "Great. I got all that down." He reread his notepad. "Wait a- Shirley Bash?" Jack's knees trembled ever so slightly. "Yes. That's the woman. That'll be all now, Sergeant Washburn. Thanks for your help." Detective Florence hung up. Jack collapsed onto his patio floor, staring off into space, sweating. Lilliane stood up quickly. "Jack!" she said in a hushed tone, her Hungarian accent slipping out. "Jack! My love, are you okay?!" "I-I'm... no." Jack said, stuttering. Lilliane had a fearful expression on her face. "What is wrong? Did they say something bad?" "M-my... Shirley." Jack spat. Lilliane sank to her knees. "My darling, what are you-" "My sister is a criminal, Lilliane." Lilliane turned red. She stood up silently and pursed her lips. Without a word, she turned around and walked into the house. Jack panted. "I'm supposed to catch- catch my- Lilliane....ooohh..." Jack leaned his head back against the rocking chair and closed his eyes tightly. "Say it ain't so.... say it ain't...ssoo..." The next morning, Jack woke up and walked into the kitchen. He found Lilliane already awake and whisking away at a bowl of pancake batter. "Good morning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I got it." "Got vat?" "I figured out that we need to catch Shirley." "And...?" Lilliane poured some batter onto a frying pan. "I have the perfect idea of how to catch her." "Do you, now?" "We invite her over to a party. Here. We also invite some friends, the Jacksons, the Frosts, and a couple of my guys from work. Then, in the middle of the party, we corner her and arrest her." "Zat sounds fine," Lilliane said simply, flipping a pancake. "Except...." "Except what?" Jack asked. "I do not want zat woman in my 'ouse." "Why not? Hon, it's only-" "She is scoundrel, no? I do not want her stealing my vases from Russia, or my money for Africa, or our baby right out of my stomach!" "Honey, that was from a movie- Beastmaster , I think. I doubt Shirley is going to cut you open to get a baby that isn't even half way developed yet." Lilliane frowned. "Still." She held up a small platter of pancakes. "You want one?" "Sure." Jack snatched a pancake and took a bite, before kissing Lilliane on the cheek. "Love you, babe! See you later!" " 'Ave fun at vork!" Lilliane called after Jack as he walked out the door. Jack stepped into his car and turned his keys in the ignition. The engine sprang to life. -------------------------------------------- Jack left work that day satisfied. He had gotten his fellow police colleagues into the scheme, and Lilliane had called him during a meeting to inform him that she already had 20 friends coming to the party tonight, which she'd decided needed a theme. She'd said "Vat's the party for? I came up with a cookie exchange. Everyone brings cookies and ve exchange them and critic the sweets and talk and everyone has a good time." Jack arrived home to find his wife feverishly working inside the kitchen, with 4 platters of different flavored cookies already spread out on the island. The house was sparkling clean (except for the kitchen), and the sweet scent of another batch of cookies could be smelled from all the way upstairs. Jack rushed over to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. She blushed and playfully whacked him with a rolling pin. " 'Ere, try," she said simply, stuffing a cookie into Jack's mouth. He swallowed as he let the savory flavor touch his tongue. "Mmmm...." he managed through chews. "What flavor...?" "Raspberry almond nut with a hint of cranberry juice in the dough! What do you think?!" "I love it!" Jack said, smiling. His wife looked incredibly happy with her creations. "Hon," he said quickly, just remembering something. "We have to invite Shirley to the cookie exchange." " 'Aven't you done that already?" Lilliane asked, opening the over and taking a batch of caramel-mint chocolate chip cookies out. "No..." Jack trailed off. "But I should." "Yes. Now." Jack sighed. "Fine." He walked out to the porch and took out his cell phone. He stared at it for a moment, then regretfully dialed his sisters number. He half heartedly put the phone to his ear, and took a deep breath as he waited for someone to answer. "Yello?" Jack caught his breath. "Yello? Annnnyyyybody there?" "Shirley! Hi, it's Jack!" "Jack? Oooh. Hey, Buddy, what do I owe the pleasure?" "Hey! Look, Lilliane and I are having this huge cookie exchange bash, and I know your job is always taking you places, so I just thought I'd shoot you a call to see if you were in the area." "Well, golly gee, you caught me at the right time. I just happen to be right outside Tekwood. Would ya mind if I dropped by? Fine time since I seen Lilliane and the kid." "We don't have a kid," Jack coughed. There was a pause, before Shirley's country voice came back on. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come fer sure. But do I need to bring anything?" "Nothing. Unless you happen to have a box of cookies in the trunk, then you're off the hook, Shirley." "Well, thanks again, Jack. I'll see you there!" "Bye, Shir! Love ya!" Shirley hung up. Jack trudged back into his house, where he found Lilliane putting in a batch of what appeared to be honey-graham-nut cookies. " 'Ow did eet go?" "Well," Jack shrugged. "She's coming." "Zat is good, no?" "It's swell." Jack managed a weak smile, but it formed into a real one when he saw his wife's glowing face. "Now how about one of them cookies that you promised me?" ---------------------------------- Shirley was caught. Jack got promoted. Lilliane gave birth to a baby boy who Jack named Florence. The End. Authors note- Readers; this was less a story about cookies and criminals but more a story about love and support of the spouses. I find it beautiful how 2 people can love eachother with such a strong passion despite it all. So to anybody out there who is reading this, true love and honesty and trust can conquer all. "Forever is a long time, but I don't mind as long as I spend it by your side."


I have a secret. Doesn’t everyone? Stop gawking at me! It’s just a secret. I thought readers weren’t supposed to judge me. But my secret is dangerous. Well, it's not MY secret. It's our secret. A family secret. But it could destroy everything if it got out. No, stop badgering me. I’m not telling you. Well, at least not now. It’s hard, you know. I have a little sister. And she’s 8. But she doesn’t know how to keep secrets. So my parents obviously didn’t tell her. But, she overheard my older sister telling me. So, now we are brainstorming how to keep little Lily’s mouth shut. I mean Lily spilled to my crush that I liked him! She found out by scrolling through my text messages with my friend Maya! It was embarrassing because now he thinks I'm awkward. Thanks a lot, Lily. My grandma would freak if she found out. But she’s moving in. All the more reason for Lily to not know. It’s midnight though so I don’t know why I’m up. My light should be off. Maya installed security cameras in my room somewhere that I’m trying to find. She is big on getting enough sleep, and she WILL be upset if she finds out I’m up. I shut off my light and went to bed.

Beep beep beep. The sound of my alarm clock going off. I hit the snooze button, not wanting to get up. I fell back asleep and was awoken to the sound of my alarm going off again. Reluctantly I lifted up my head to look at my alarm clock and saw the time. Woah 11 o'clock. At least it's the weekend I thought. Otherwise, I would really be late for school. Wait! It’s 11! Grandma Rose said she’d be here at 12! Ok, I gotta get up. I thought to myself. I got up and pulled my hair out of its messy bun and threw on a T-shirt and leggings. I ran downstairs, grabbed a pastry from the counter, and walked to my older sister Lola’s room. “Hey Lols,” I said, knocking on her door. “Can I come in?” I asked. “Yep” I heard Lola’s tired voice reply from the other side of the wood. I walked in and saw her lying sprawled out on her bed looking at her phone. “I was thinking about “It” last night and needed to talk to you.” “Yes? What about it?” she asked. “I just hope Lily can keep her mouth shut. You know how Grandma Rose would react.” “Lavender,” Lola said. “Why are you worried? Mom and I have it covered. Please, rest your brain. You haven’t had a day where you don't bring this worry up. It’s unhealthy. Now, why don't you go back to your room and listen to some music or socialize with a friend? You have a phone you know. Use it!” “Fine.” I trudged back to my room and put my earbuds in.

I laid in bed for who knows how long and then I heard the doorbell. I couldn’t help but run to Lily’s room to make sure that I occupied her for as long as I could. I heard Grandma Rose talking to mom while I played charades with Lily. I kept playing and playing knowing Lily wouldn’t get bored. That is until Grandma decides to say, “where's my little Lily!” As soon as Lily heard it she bolted downstairs. Thankfully she didn’t notice Grandma’s presence until now. I went to my room hoping my mom would take care of it. I was tired come to think of it. But as soon as I got in bed I sat bolt upright. My mind went through scenarios of what could happen if I fell asleep. I decided to stay awake in case my mom texted me. I might as well call Maya, I thought. Not even a second had gone by from the moment I pressed call that the call connected. Apparently, Maya was already on her phone. “Hi, Bestie!” She says. “Hi Maya,” I replied. “Hold it right there girl,” she says. “Why so glum! It's the weekend. Cheer up!” “I know Maya. I can’t stop worrying.” “About what?” she asks. “Maya! You know I can’t tell you.” “Yeah, I know. I figured I’d at least try.” I wish I could tell Maya. But I can’t. It hurts to keep a secret from someone you have known your whole life. I’ve kept the secret for a few months now, what's a little longer gonna do? “Soooo…” said Maya, breaking the silence. “What’s today’s agenda?” “Oh,” I said snapping back to reality. “Ummm, well Grandma Rose is here with all her luggage-” “luggage!” exclaimed Maya, cutting me off. “Why does Grandma Rose have her luggage?” “Oh! I totally forgot to tell you!" I said. "She’s moving in!” “What?! Yay! Then I can see her every day!” Maya walks home with me every day after school and stays until her mom can pick her up after work. Maya adores Grandma, and Grandma adores her. “Yeah! I said. You can!” I changed the subject from me to her, and asked her what her agenda was gonna be and if she could come over today. She replied with a “Yeah! I’d love to! What time can I come over?” My phone pings as a notification blocks the top of Maya’s head. It was a text from mom to me and Lola. A text that read, Girls, please come downstairs. I’m afraid something is going to happen. My heart started beating. I told Maya I had to go and then I ran down the stairs. Lola was already there. As soon as Lily was in view, I heard her say, “Grandma Rose? Can I tell you a secret?” All three of us ran to Lily and told her to be quiet. She wasn’t listening. When that girl wants something, she gets it no matter the cost. That’s the thing I was worried about. “Sure honey!” Grandma replied. And before anyone could do otherwise, she told her. No, I’m not telling you my secret. But then something worse than I expected happened. Grandma collapsed. We all ran to her side and mom checked her pulse. Mom started crying. “What is it?” The three of us asked simultaneously. “Grandma’s dead.” She said.


I scratch my kneck. My eyes burry themselves into the walls. My head twitches. "I wonder where it went," I think. I get up from my bed. Pacing, I hum an arpeggiated tritone. Over and over again. *Hmm, hmm, hmmm*. My phone rings, but I ignore it. The ringing creates dissonance with my humming. My head twitches, I scratch my kneck. "There you are," I think. I run to the left wall. I put my face real close to it: the spider. The spider has been in the room for weeks, but I have not been able to catch it. I lost it a few days ago, but now I see it again. "I got you now," I laugh. The spider disappears. I wake up on my bed. I sit up, scratch my kneck, look at the ceiling. "I wonder where it went," I think. The phone laughs at me: *Ring, ring, ring*. I ignore it. My head twitches violently. I get up from my bed. I start to pace. I look at the right wall. The paint is violet. Seeping into my eye-sockets, pain swims in my eyelids. I scream. I writhe on the floor. I bang my head on the carpet. Over and over and over again until the pain spills out my eyes. I see the spider. "I got you now!" I yell. I wake up. I scratch my kneck. The spider is nowhere to be seen. I won't sleep until the spider is exterminated. I can't sleep until the spider is gone. Then, it will be pure. It will be true. "I wonder where it went," I shriek. "Spider. Spider. Spider. Where are you? I want you. I need you. Come, spider. Please?" The spider appears. My head twitches. The spider hums. The phone rings. "Get it," says the spider. "No," I say "Why?" "Because I despise you," I reply. I wake up. The spider is on my forehead. I try to get up, but my body is unable to move. The spider laughs. I can't scratch my kneck. My head is locked into place. The phone rings. "Let me get the phone," I shout at the spider. "Nah, you lost your chance," the spider said. "Please?" "Nope." "Please. Please. Please! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!PLEASE!!PLEASE!!! The phone stops. I feel the spider on my forehead. I am disgusted. "What did I do wrong?" "You tried to kill me, you fucking psycho," the spider said. "Well, of course." "Why of course?" "You are a spider. Spiders are to be exterminated." "Fuck you," I close my eyes. I try to wake up. Nothing happens. I can faintly hear drums. "You are going to die." "Please, no!" "I don't want to," said the spider, "but you keep trying to kill me. What else am I to do?" "Don't!" The drums start to get louder. "Will you stop trying to kill me?" "NEVER!!!!" I shriek. I struggle. I struggle. I struggle. "Then I'm gonna kill you." The drums bang in my ears. "NOOOOOO!!!" I cry. "Die, Nazi." I sleep.


Holidays are always happy times for all to enjoy family and friends for many years to come but this year proved to be one of extreme difficulties for all. The COVID virus has plagued the entire world and the way we interact with others has changed and we all had to make adjustments. Tom has expressed how depressed he has been since this whole thing started. In an effort to make things as normal as possible, Claire and I decided we would still have our annual Christmas Cookie Exchange party as usual.              The invitations were sent to just a few select friends and family members because the gathering had to be kept small. Everyone invited had responded with more than enough recipes making sure there would be plenty of cookies for all. Since Tom was having such a hard time, I decided to make this year extra special for him. He is the secret guest of honor.              Tom and Chris have been in a relationship for over five years. They had been discussing marriage but had never made anything official. Since Tom had been feeling really down, Chris felt this would be the perfect venue to pop that magic question. Chris had discussed the idea with Claire and I and we were ecstatic that he chose our annual cookie party as the perfect opportunity. The only catch was that we had to keep the secret from everyone so it would be a surprise to Tom.              Claire got right into the holiday planning spirit and put on her romantic hat and changed a few of the decorations to make them more about marriage with Christmas colors. We had the traditional bells of holly, wreaths, and candle centerpieces all laid out with a beautiful gift box right in the middle of the table that was decorated with wedding bells in Christmas colors. The seating chart had everyone taking their respective places with Tom sitting right in front of the gift box. Cinnamon wax melts in all the warmers was the finishing touch. Now it was time for Claire and I to get into our outfits.              Claire adorned herself in her red and white Mrs. Claus dress complete with the red and white hat. I put on my green elf suit and we were ready. We started the Christmas music to get everyone in the mood. The Christmas tree was lit with beautiful festive lights dancing all around it. Tinsel was glistening making everything sparkle. Now we had to wait for our guests to arrive.              I dipped up two cups of spiked Eggnog for Claire and I to enjoy while we waited. Just then the doorbell rang. We both jumped up to greet our first guests. It was Julie, Pete, Jon, and Ted. Their arms were filled with tins with bows. We knew that these tins held their prized Christmas cookies for the exchange. We placed their tins on the gift table and seated them at the table according to the seating chart.              The next guests to arrive was Sally, Will, Chaz, and Anita. They too had arms filled with many tins that took their place on the cookie table. That’s when the guest of honor arrived. Tom and Chris were wearing matching Santa Suits with Christmas bows of holly pined to them. It was so cute! Claire and I were busting at the seams with excitement. Everyone in attendance was going to witness the best event of the year and no one was aware it was going to be happening!              Tom and Chris took their places at the table. Claire and I served up a light Cesar salad, tomato bisque soup, with Turkey, Chicken, and Vegetable wraps with peach punch to wash it all down with. We all enjoyed wonderful conversation as we gobbled down our light meal in a hurry to get to dessert. I couldn’t wait to drop several of those cookies in my mouth!!              Claire and I cleared the table of all the dishes and cleaned up everything. We brought out the dessert plates and prepared for the next portion of our party. The excitement was bubbling forth inside me and I couldn’t take it anymore so I invited Chris into the kitchen for a brief conversation.              Hey Chris! Can you help me get some of the napkins from the kitchen?              Sure thing Layna!              Off to the kitchen we trotted. Once there I whispered in the softest voice I could, “So how are you going to pop that question?”              Oh Layna. You are always wanting to know everything before it happens. Girl just wait and see how it unfolds. Thanks a bunch for placing the gift box in front of Tom’s spot for me. That box is where everything begins.              Did you tell that to Claire? I asked.              Not at all. You know if she was aware of what she was doing that someone would know something by now!              Chris laughed and began walking back towards the dining room. Come on girl, let’s get the rest of the festivities out of the way.              We both chuckled and headed back to everyone in the dining room. Claire had already prepped the table for the cookie tasting and exchange. Everyone went around presenting their cookies and telling the story behind why they chose that recipe. Then came the big moment. It was Chris’ turn to present his cookies to all. He handed Claire his iPod player and told her to play selection 9.              “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey began to play. Tom instantly lit up! This was his favorite Christmas song of all time because it was playing the first time Chris and he had met. That’s when I realized how romantic and beautiful this moment really was. I had to fight back the tears that were ready to stream down my face as I watched Chris begin to speak to Tom.              Tom, my beloved. This year has been one of the hardest of times for you and I know that you did your best in dealing with the distance we have all had to endure. You have lost your job that you loved and thought you would never reinvent yourself but you did. You are now working from home in a comfortable space. We have kept to as normal as a life as possible with all the things going on with COVID. When you came down with the virus, I thought I would lose you. But you told me that there was nothing that could take you away from me and you eventually returned home from the hospital.              Things seemed to be doing well and that’s when my job took a turn for the worst and I had to be furloughed for six weeks. You thought we were going to have to sell our home but we made it through that. Then the worst of all, we lost our beloved dog Bleu. We both cried for days and nothing in the house seemed the same. But a few days ago I came home with another teacup mini whom you promptly named Fancy because she pranced all around the house! In keeping with the spirit of Christmas, I have another gift for you. Please, Tom, open the gift box sitting in front of you.              Tom, who was now in tears, took the lid of the beautifully arrayed gift box and immediately screamed, “Oh My God, Chris!! I Love you!!” and he jumped right out of his seat and ran and hugged Chris. We were all sitting around looking at them in amazement but did not know what was in the box.              Claire said, “Oh Tom! You must let us see what is in the box!!”              Tom, shouted, “Oh! I completely forgot!!”              We all laughed as Tom went back to the table and took his seat. He then pulled out what was inside the box. It was a large cookie shaped in the form of two bells with lots of glitter and glam with a blue ribbon tied around it. On one end of the ribbon was a ring tied to it and on the other end of the ribbon was a note pasted to it that said, “Tom, will you marry me?”              We all cried together as Tom told Chris that he would marry him. It was the most romantic experience I had the pleasure of being a part of. We danced and sang for the rest of the night. Tom and Chris were very happy and it melted the hearts of all.              At the end of the night, we bid each of our guest a blessing with their own personal tins of Christmas Cookies and the joy of knowing they witnessed the miracle Christmas joy can bring even during a pandemic.