My wife’s name is Ava. She’s pretty much the only good thing that has happened to me over the past few years. Lately though, things have changed with her. Let me go back to the beginning. Three years ago, I was at rock bottom. Like just about everyone my age, I shipped off to college when I was 18. I was never the best student, but I was never close to failing any classes either. It was just the next thing to do in life. It just didn’t turn out the way I planned. I hit a wall in college. It wasn’t the classes but college life in general. Coming from a small town, I wasn’t used to all the social circles, gossip, and backstabbing. More than anything, my dorm was just a mass of loud strangers. My anxiety and insomnia hit a pick, and, eventually, I couldn’t do it anymore. My parents were disappointment, but they eventually got over it. I was adamant that I would get a job and that college just wasn’t right for me at the moment. My mistake was taking the first job that came up. I started working at the grocery store just down the street from my parents’ house. It was soul-crushing work at first. I stacked so many cans and peeled so many labels that my fingernails were permanently chipped. I dealt with so many customers yelling about their expired coupons and how the bakery ruined their child’s birthday’s cake that I had a persistent headache. Unlike college, however, work was repetitive and mind-numbing. More than anything, it felt pretty good to come back to my childhood bed at the end of the day. Things got better right around the time I met Ava. My do-nothing store manager retired and I decided to throw my hat in the ring for the position. Next thing I knew, I was working a salaried position. Things still were far from perfect. I had new migraines involving employees not showing up for work, stealing merchandise, or failing drug tests. The difference now was that I was finally in control of something for once. It was my store and my rules for the most part. It also helped that my bank account now had four digits in it, and I was looking to move out of my parents’ house. I met Ava on a completely random day at work. One moment I was fixing the lotto machine and suddenly there was a stunning woman looking at me. She was tall shoulder-length gold-brown hair and a set of large brown eyes. At the time, she was clutching a can of green beans. I shook off my immediate infatuation long enough to hear her explain that she had a lot of food allergies and that she wanted to know about some of the mystery chemicals listed on the ingredients label. I had to take out my phone for some quick research before piecing together some less-than-scientific explanation for the strangely named compounds. She was extremely thankful afterwards, leaving me a with a smile. This became an almost weekly occurrence. Ava (I learned her name after the third time) would come in to quiz me on some preservative or food coloring agent. It was a little strange, but I figured that she was used to going to organic grocery stores or something. Her questions eventually turned to conversations. She wanted to here about me, and I learned about her as well. She said that she was a graduate student, working with a professor to study some of the rare salamanders found in the nearby woods. When she started talking to me outside of her food questions, things picked up speed. For only the third time in my life, I asked a girl out and, somehow, she said yes. It was a whirlwind after that. She was adventurous (outside of food), constantly taking me on road trips and day-cations. It was good for me. I was a college dropout working a dead-end job and, suddenly, my world was a whole lot brighter. Ava never talked much about her past. She said that she had a bad relationship with her family and couldn’t move away from them fast enough. She only had a few friends, like me, she had made around town. My parents loved her, so it wasn’t heard to consider her part of our family. I was always teaching her things that I thought regular parents usually taught their children. I taught her how to change a car tire and how to cook a pot of spaghetti noodles. I guess her relationship with her parents really was strange. She always had an interesting way of bashfully bringing up questions about those things. She would be overboiling something on the stove and say something like: “Help. I do not have knowledge of this.” I thought it was cute. The little idiosyncrasies in her speech made me feel like she had spent time in another country or something like that. After a year, I was never so sure about anything. This girl had to be my wife. I wanted her with me, lighting up everything around me for the rest of my life. She seriously said yes. In some private moments, however, she did ask me if I was sure. After all, she had to travel regularly back to her college and attend conferences. We’d be separated for long spans. I said exactly what I felt. While I always wanted to be by her side, it seemed like a no-brainer tradeoff. If it came to it, I had no problem with quitting my job and picking up everything to move with her if we had to. My first clue that something was off came during one of those conferences. Back at home, I decided to call Ava to check in before I went to bed. She didn’t answer her cell phone, and I basically figured she was tired from the trip and had fallen asleep with the phone off. Still, being an overly-cautious person, I decided to call her room number. That was a problem. The number I called was disconnected. That was a little concerning, but I thought she may have scribbled down the wrong number for me. I called the hotel front desk then. That started sending shivers down my spine. Not only did they not have any record of anyone named Ava in the hotel, but her room did not exist. In fact, the hotel only had five floors and Ava had given her room number at 604. I didn’t sleep that night. My mind raced with possibilities. Did she not make it to the hotel? Had she lied about where she was going? Why? Was she having an affair? Had she left me? Why? We barely ever fought about anything. No, I was just being suspicious. I resolved to call her program advisor in the morning. I sent an email to the professor just asking if I could get in contact with Ava and how she was doing at the conference. I had just pressed “send” when my phone started ringing. It was her. I exhaled all of the air I had been taking in from hyperventilating. She had seen my missed call and was checking up. She apologized for falling asleep and not getting back to me. I delicately broached my confusion with the hotel situation. She told me that she had simply wrote down the wrong number and that the room had been booked by the university without her name attached. That made me feel pretty bad about feeling so suspicious. Of course, Ava wasn’t the type of person to run off without a word. I had completely forgotten about sending the email until I got a reply later that day. That reply sent me back to a world of confusion. The professor, Dr. Miller, told me that I had the wrong professor. She didn’t have an advisee with Ava’s name. I read that email is disbelief. Ava couldn’t have told me the about the wrong advisor. She had stories she told about her. I was sure that was her name. I only had more questions that were now coupled with that bizarre episode about the hotel. How well did I know my wife? Was she even in a graduate program? I’d never seen the bills, but she had assured me they were taken care of by a scholarship. What was she doing away from home? How do I even bring this up to her? When Ava came home, I still didn’t know how to find the right questions. I was afraid that just speaking the words would cause my perfect world to break. So, I was cold and distant. It wasn’t on purpose; it was just reflex. I was sure that I just needed to find the right time to bring it up. I was also resolved that this wouldn’t be the end of Ava and me. She was too pure, too good for me. Whatever it was—an affair, a job she didn’t want to talk about, something about her estranged family—I would not leave her. I think Ava really sensed by coldness. She started spending more and more time away from home. Mostly she liked to take walks on the trail down the street from our house, especially in the early mornings or in the evenings. I really started missing our evening movie dates. She had so many movies she had missed out on as a kid, and I enjoyed introducing them to her. Her favorite was Monsters, Inc. I had given her a Sulley plushie as part of her first anniversary present. It usually sat at the edge of our bed. It took weeks for me to get the courage to talk to Ava about her mysterious trip. Every moment with her started to be filled with suffocating anxiety instead of the warmth I had felt before. Finally, I decided that I would take a walk with her on the trail. I thought the pleasant atmosphere of a misty, early fall morning might take some of the edge off. Ava usually got up early for her walks, so I set my alarm for 6:00 am the next day. I awoke, surprisingly, well before my alarm clock. It was 5:00 am, and the sky was a very dark gray. I wanted to go back to sleep but quickly decided to stay awake to make sure I could catch Ava before she headed out. I rolled over in bed in an attempt to get up. That was when I noticed that Ava’s end of the bed was empty, save for the Sulley plushie. Ava was an early riser, but this was really early. My mind again wandered to where she may have gone. However, her care was still in the garage, and her outdoor sneakers were off of their rack. I figured that she must have went to the trail earlier than usual. I thought about maybe trying to get up earlier on another day to catch her but decided against it. No, this would be the day. I’d been putting this off for far to long. I wanted to hear what was really going on so that we could work through it and go back to normal. I got to the trail a few minutes later, needing a flashlight to guide me. Ava wasn’t near the path’s entrance, so I ventured deeper inside. The thick trees seemed to curl around the dirt path, making a canopy above me. The ground was just slightly muddy from the early morning mist. The cold air fully woke me up. I was only a minute into my walk when I noticed a dark goo-like substance underfoot. It darkened some sticks and the ground itself. Curious, I stooped down to get a better look. There was a red tint to the soupy substance. It was blood. It was gruesome to look at, but my first thought was that it was animal blood. Maybe a cat had gotten ahold of a squirrel or chipmunk, or maybe a deer had been hit by a car nearby and had stumbled back into the woods to die. I kept walking only to find that the bloody trail continued. Whatever had happened, it was brutal. I found a clump of hair next. It was wrapped around a large stick that sloped onto the trail. It was long… and human. In the light from my flashlight, I saw that it was golden brown. Ava’s hair… I nearly fall to my knees. I started coughing puffs of gray mist. This wasn’t just a hair or two. It was an entire patch removed. And there was all the blood. No! No! I was screaming internally, fearing that anything I actually spoke would make this situation real. What happened? Was it a bear? We usually had one bear sighting a year. Some crazed murder? Why? Why did I let her walk alone? My only two options were to run back home and call the cops or to try to find her myself. I just couldn’t leave her out here. It may be old-fashioned, but I felt like I was failing my duty to protect my wife. I kept going. The blood and hair clumps continued off the trail. With every broken stick, I was afraid that whatever had gone after my wife would spring out at me. But I knew that time was of the essence. I had to go fast. The next grisly discovery was only meters ahead. There was some gray mass almost glued to a fallen branch. It was sticky blood and flesh that had kept it in place. Realized that it was human skin, grayed due to blood loss. I may have thrown up then without stopping. Something did smell terrible. I nearly fell into a sort of clearing. The trees parted to a grassy plain. I felt strange whirring in the air, stronger than regular win. Some mechanical sound was rumbling the ground. I swung my flashlight around. Something was at the other end of the clearing. It was like a giant octopus, just taller than a person. Its bottom tentacles were larger, supporting its weight. Small tentacles appeared stacked on top of the base. A beak protruded from the thing’s center while two eye stocks grew out of the top. It was standing next to some time of device. It was large and metallic. Something inside the cylinder appearing to be spinning. I screamed completely, forgetting about Ava for the moment. With horror, I realized that I had crept to close to the thing while I was inspecting it. Its eye stocks pointed at me as I turned to run. I got to the line of trees only to cry out again. Hanging on a branch was an entire coat of human skin, dripping crimson. The top was covered with golden brown hair. “Ava!” Behind me, I heard another, animal-like gurgling sound. The monster was making noise as it advanced toward me. It was gaining ground much faster than I was. I looked down as I ran to find something else. There was another one. This was smaller but had the same shape as the first one. Only, whereas the first creature was red and blue, this one was whitish pink—flesh-colored. It came running towards me, gurgling like the other one. My only instinct was to kick it. My adrenaline-fueled kick sent the thing flying into a tree. The thing gave a terrible, ear-shattering screech. The larger monster behind me also shrieked. I felt something large touch my back. It had me. I clawed and punched at the tentacles. Some kind of purplish blood came out, but it still pulled me in. It hoisted me in the air. My feet could no longer reach the ground. It brought me closer to its gurgling beak. Then, it stopped. When I was in full view of the things face, it brought another tentacle to its mouth. It was another metallic device which it placed around its beak. “Nick! Oh, Nick!” That was Ava! “Ava!” I sobbed, forgetting that I had seen her lifeless skin. “Where are you?” “Nick…” I finally centered on the source of the sound. It was originating from the thing’s beak. “You!” I shouted at it, while kicking out. “Stop using my wife’s voice!” “Nick…” I kept kicking until the strength left me. “Nick, it’s me.” “You…” I gasped, my mind beyond hazy. “You…” “I’m so, so sorry Nick. I could never tell you…” “No!” I cried while shaking my head. “It’s not… it doesn’t make sense!” “I can explain, Nick.” I had to listen while the thing spoke. It told me how it came from a race of explorers from galaxies away. Those explorers were scholars, wanting to learn everything about the sentient beings of the universe. They like to take on their form and to live among them without creating a disturbance. They had machines that could craft skin, hair, and all outward appearance. Their bodies, like octopi, could fit into almost anything and were malleable. They could slip into fake skin and live like it was nothing. She told me her story. She had spent years waiting for an interstellar assignment. When a green and blue planet had been marked for study, she had been sent there. She had landed in the wilderness to make sure her arrival was a secret. After that, she had studied the languages and cultures. When she was confident enough, she stepped into their world, wearing their skin. She even picked out a name, one of the most common ones from a baby book she found. What she had never planned on was growing so close to one of the planet’s inhabitants. She had fallen in love with him and, despite any reservations, she had chosen to remain with her mate. “Ava… Ava…” I murmured in disbelief. “I’m so sorry, but it’s me. This is me.” Everything, everything, I knew was breaking apart. “We can go back,” she begged. “I can put on the human suit again, and you won’t have to see me like this again. It’ll be just like before.” It wasn’t just that the words had gotten stuck in my throat. My brain had completely stopped formulating thoughts. “Or, you can run away. I understand. I’ve lied from the beginning about something so important. You can go and never look back. I won’t be angry. I understand.” Seeing that I was calming down, she lowered me to the ground. I remained standing there in awe of the creature before me. “Even if you do leave, I’ve told my people to never intervene on Earth. I’ve told them that there are many kind humans there who should just be left alone and studied from afar. You’ve done so much for your world without even knowing it.” “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. It’s just the word my brain centered on to tell me that it was processing information again. Ava. This was Ava. I noticed another set of tentacles. They were the same fleshy ones that I had seen on the little one earlier. “Then… that one,” I gasped. “A miracle!” Ava replied, sounding like she was weeping. “Maybe the greatest one that the universe had ever known. That’s why I’m out here. I need to make a new suite.” I leaned down, holding out my hands to the fleshy creature. Sensing something on an instinctual level, and despite my earlier actions, it slowly climbed up my arms. The top of its eye stocks were hazel, just like mine. On that strange, cool morning, I held my child for the first time.


It’s a rainy Saturday: dark, gloomy, and miserable. The TV is on, and I’m watching a Charlie Chaplin episode. Its warm glow basks me in blue light, making me feel a bit less alone. The blanket snuggles me, and a bowl of chips compensates my stomach.

A knock at the door startles me. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. I turn the TV off, and make my way to the front door. Who would be at the door in the wee hours of the night?

I creep to the door, my blanket clutched around my chest. My moving boxes are astray in the hallway, still not sorted out. I weave my way through them, shoving them aside as I reach the door. There’s no windows near the door to look outside. Nor is there a peephole. I feel blind.

As I’m debating what to do, there are three more knocks. Loud and clear.

After giving myself a few more moments, I decide to open the door. At first, I only see darkness and rain. However, a figure takes shape. It’s a tall man, and he towers above me. I want to close the door, but I’m too scared to. The streetlights cast dark shadows across his face, hiding a sinister smile. His eyes are piercing blue, and they look deep into my thoughts.

He simply stands still in front of me, just like a lion about to catch its prey.

Am I the prey? Who is this man? As I ponder that question, he gently waves his hand in front of me. It’s pale and gentle, and I slowly close my eyes. ------------------------------- The tall stranger pushes past me, making me stumble.

“Who are you?” I question, mustering some courage.

“Nobody,” a gruff voice says back.

He heads into my home, and I tug at his long cloak. It’s blue and is coated with velvet and small jewels. He simply strides forward, ripping it out of my grasp. The dim lights make the stones on the cloak sparkle, just like stars. They look magical, and I run to catch up.

He makes his way upstairs, and pulls down the ladder to the attic. The stairs creak under his weight, and he ducks to head to the room.

Unsure, I decide to follow with only a moment's hesitation. I gasp, astonished, when I reach the landing. The room is bathed in a golden light, all radiating from the stranger. His cloak flies behind him, lifted by an unseen force. Blue and golden particles begin to float around, instifying into an orb a few feet before the wizard. Then he starts chanting in a language I can’t understand, and suddenly, the orb explodes, leaving me blinded. ------------------------------- “May I come in?” the stranger asks.

“Su-re,” I stutter as a reply.

“Thank you, Ma’am. If we have your cooperation, this ordeal can be completed without much time and trouble.

“What ordeal?” “Ma’am, please do not act like nothing is wrong. We have received a tip-off that there is some criminal cyber-activity originating from this location. To relieve you of all stress, my team is waiting outside, ready for my call.” “What?” He says nothing, and keeps on walking, ignoring me. He makes his way into each room, gracefully and purposefully taking objects out and checking every corner. My heart is pounding, even though I know I have done nothing wrong.

He eventually makes his way to my room, where he stops in his tracks. I rush forward, trying to see what’s wrong. I bat his arm aside, and stop in my tracks too. My room is a large computer setup, with multiple screens and some suspicious activity. I’m confused. This was never here. I turn back to look at the agent.

His stone cold eyes meet mine. “You are under arrest.” ------------------------------- The stranger quickly rushes in and closes the door behind him.

“Please. I need help.”

The door rattles, and thumps. I can hear the roar of people, banging against the woof frame.

“Please. I need help,” the man says again.

His face is bloody and bruised, as if he had been in a fight. But with this many people? “What can I get you?” “Ice. And some first aid, if you could.”

I don’t hesitate, and this man’s polite words make me want to help him even more. I hurry to help him. “What happened?” “It’s...hard to explain.” “Do you want to rest?” “Yes, please.” I lead him upstairs, and the stairs creak under his bulky frame. I guide him to the spare bedroom, which only has a mattress, but no bed. He mutters a small thanks, and collapses onto the bed with his eyes open.I make my way downstairs, trying to see why all these people are after this innocent man. The problem is, I can’t see anything. I sigh. With nothing else to do, I make my way upstairs. I freeze, however, when the sound of metal scraping against metal fills the air. I grimace, the horrible sound hurting my ears.

I peer over the banister to see the stranger, standing against the wall, sharpening his… knives. They are stained with blood, and it still looks fresh. Who is this man?

He notices me, and beckons me closer, holding the knife out menacingly.

Crying out, I rush downstairs, fumbling to open the door.

------------------------------- The stranger pulls me into a bear hug, embracing me.

“My dear, are you alright? Took you forever to open the door!” “Da-d?”

He lets go for a moment to look at me, with a large smile on his face.

He leads me inside, and I hug him tight. “Charlie Chaplin, eh? I used to watch him quite a lot!” “Well, want to join me?” “Sure!” However, as I enjoy the episode with my dad, I can’t shake the feeling off; something is wrong. I manage to lose myself with my dad, until...there’s three knocks at the door. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. Again.


Whenever I wear a Double Windsor knot, the tie tails run embarrassingly short. I hide the tiny tails inside the safety of my vest so no one else can see them. The gargantuan knot, however, that’s a big dumb flashing advertisement: THE GENTLEMAN ENTERING THE ROOM IS VERY IMPORTANT. God forbid I bend over and pick up a pencil or paperclip off the floor—the tails could pop out from under my vest and everyone would think that I’m a clown rather than a lawyer.

What day is it anyway? Is it Thursday? I wear my brown tie on Thursdays. But there are three ties here on my closet post, one for each day left in the week. Wasn’t yesterday Wednesday?

I’m going with the brown tie. I love this tie. From a distance it’s a deep mahogany, but close up, it’s a myriad of chocolates and indigoes. The browns swirl in different hues, resembling tear drops or amoebas—I haven’t decided whether the tie is crying or an amoeba. If the tie is crying, the blue drops radiate sadness in cocoa stitched echoes. If the tie is an amoeba, the blue drops are its food vacuoles, deep inside the plasmasol of the light java swirls and the ectoplasm of the dark chestnut stitches.

The sun peeks over the horizon like a hot red blanket. Is it March already? I rub the meat of my palm over the steam clouded bathroom window and the tree line comes into focus. No frost. It must be March.

With a washcloth, I wipe out a sliver of my reflection in the steam fogged mirror. The brown tie agrees with my blue collared shirt. It’s a meeting of the minds. I fasten the top button of my shirt, flip up my collar, and place the tie in position. The short end lays on point with the fourth button down while the long end swings low around my mid thigh. I rub the tie between my right index finger and right thumb. This tie is thicker than most ties. Fabric like this probably caused the Silk Road Wars. The coarse top and soft underside feel exotic, even in 2020. Or, is it 2021? I pull the long end over the short and pull the long end up and over what will become the majestic Double Windsor knot. The long end’s tip wafts her perfume, tones of orange, pear, jasmine, and vanilla. What was it? Chanel? Black Opium? What is she doing now? Is she asleep? Maybe she’s dreaming. It’s an hour behind there. No sunrise in Memphis, yet.

I pull the long end up and over again, but this time on the other side. The end swooshes past my left ear. We rode the swing carousel. The air wooshed past my ears. I could feel it more than hear it, though. DJ Xtre was so loud that night. We got “Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol for our ride. She was in front of me for most of the ride, but when it tilted, she and I rode side by side. Our eyes met just after Steve Stevens’ guitar solo, the one that sounds like a Stormtrooper gun set to stun. “I’d sell my soul, for you, babe. For money to burn, for you,” Billy sang as the colored lights and artificial thunder buzzed and boomed around us. We held hands after the ride and then shared a fried Twinkie. A month later, she left. How long ago was that? Last year? Has it been a year already? I pulled the long end over and around and over and around. Did the Duke of Windsor ever tie a Double Windsor on accident? The Double Windsor is sometimes called the Balthus knot, named for Balthasar Klossowski de Rola. Balthus is said to have created his knot around 1930 out of boredom, but he rarely wore it. If he hardly ever wore it, how would anyone even know about it? With no TV, no internet, no wide newspaper circulation, something seems amiss about giving Balthasar the credit for popularizing the Double Windsor when he only wore it maybe twice. It must be Thursday because I haven’t worn this tie yet this week. I tuck the large end through the loop and pull it taught. I flip down my collar. There, there—a perfect Double Windsor. Thick and in charge. Not a Half Windsor. Not a Full Windsor. A Double Windsor. I tuck the ends of the tie into my waistcoat.

I grab my pocket watch from the watch stand next to the bathroom mirror. I rub my thumb over the back of the watch. I read the engraving, “Congratulations on passing the bar, Malcolm. Love, Mom.” She gave me an engraved money clip when I graduated from high school. I lost it on Franklin Street during a Thursday night bar crawl. Mom gave me an engraved chip when I checked out of rehab. I carried it in my pocket everyday. But one day it fell out when I sat in a comfy chair at the Wagon Wheel Tavern. I fell off the wagon. The watch chain clasps to my belt like a vice grip. I tuck the watch away in my vest pocket. Biden’s on the news a lot, talking about empty chairs at kitchen tables. Mom was one of those chairs. COVID snuffed her out. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I ain’t losing this watch. No way.

I sit in front of the television with a bowl of granola mixed with two tablespoons of Skippy peanut butter and a cup of whole milk. I turn on the news. Thursday! I was right. It is Thursday. She still calls Thursday “Little Friday.” Why does she always want to leave work early on Friday? I guess she likes the weekend. I hate the weekend.

The weather report predicts rain later today. It’s supposed to rain in Memphis this morning, too. I hope she has an umbrella. Shit, she has like five of mine. I don’t know if it was because she liked my umbrellas or if she just kept losing them. But wait, she won’t need an umbrella because she works from home now. I’d wilt if I had to work from home.

The Double Windsor holds all of this in place, deep and under my vest.


# I Am a Tree *I am a tree.* *An apple tree.* *My name is Woody Elwood Jr., but Woody works just fine.* *I was born to Mr. Woody and Willow Elwood on April 22, 1901.* *My father worked as a photosynthesizer and my mother as a housewife.* *I have sixteen older sisters — Acacia, Aspen, Butternut, Ebony, Hazel, Laurel, Magnolia, Maple, Olive, Rowan, Sassafras, Spruce, Sugarberry, Sycamore, Tulip, Walnut— and one older brother — Paul.* *I grew up just outside Forst Manor. I decided to stay there, and so did all my relatives, barring Paul.* **Here** is my story: I was planted by one Christopher Forst. He was a young chap — a mere eight years old — when his green thumb first met my … green … thumb. I liked the boy: an awful charmer, he was. His hair was perpetually shaggy, his polos perpetually dirty, and his smile: perpetual. His nose pointed as if to have its parents tell it that it’s rude to point, and his eyes were blue as if to have their parents tell them off for crying in such an ugly manner! The boy was astute. He made sure to always have his studies complete before supper, and he would often find himself in need of my shade while reading *Paradise Lost* or *Candide* or *The Holy Bible* in the blistering sun. I was just a sapling, and yet I would listen to the stories as he read them aloud to himself. He spoke of heaven, of hell, of moral philosophy, and of Jesus. (To think one of my own became that crucifix. Damn my brethren!) I personally did not belong to any church, but Christopher did. That satisfied me enough. When Christopher’s parents were too negligent to water me, Christopher did it himself. And when Christopher’s sister — Jasmine — peeled away at my tender, timber skin, he would pull her away and admonish the girl. Christopher was my protector. Childhood was particularly difficult for us. Christopher lost his father — he was now fifteen — and he did not take it well. He became resentful, hateful of his own being and blaming everything on himself for something he could have never wished to control. The boy still loved me, though. He would run off from his mother and come to me to sit under, arms crossed and nose pointed. I would whisper to him that everything would be O.K., but I don’t think he heard me — he only listened. His tears would water saddened ol’ me to make me feel better. He loved despite his own self-pity. He would now read to me even better stories — books like *Great Expectations* and *Tess of D’Urbervilles*. He really did care. As a teenager, my body started to change. My hair started to curl, my branches started to crack, and I grew roots in places I had never seen roots grow before. I soon produced my own seeds, who flew into the Church’s graveyard. All but one — Woody Jr. Jr. — had to be dug up by Church officials’ orders. My friends would now say things like “Woody’s got a Woody” and “That’s a mighty bush you’ve got there,” but I paid them no mind. Christopher’s mum had died, too, now. He was no longer a boy and thus did not react in such an unstately manner as he once did with his father. Jasmine had gone off to live with a French chap, but Christopher stayed loyal to me. He had no wife, nor any children. He was a bachelor like me, and a content one, too. I never found myself very attracted to any of the birds by the manor — and by birds, I mean trees. There was one just down Wick Lane – Ashley, I think: a gorgeous pear tree — but she was too far away. Any chance of communication between us would need to be through others of our kind or a partridge, but such an endeavor was fruitless. I was happy without a female companion, so long as Christopher was. I soon decided to get a job as an apprentice soil technician. My dad always encouraged me to remain traditional and work as a photosynthesizer, but soil technicianing was always much more appealing to me. Plus, money doesn’t grow on trees. Christopher got himself a lass — a Ms. Brandon Maisel — and he now wore glasses. He became increasingly distant. I was hurt, but not completely torn. He would still come and water me — rarely, though — as he was working as a failed writer most of the day. My sisters had all gotten married — some to the same tree! I was still without a better half, and I was O.K. with that. Christopher’s wife was now expecting — a bigger deal for humans than it is trees, it seems. You would think I’d have been cynical and envious. But I was actually quite gay. Another Christopher to read me stories, to sing me songs, to protect me from the evils. I was older now, a little more weathered, but still well and intact. Christopher had bought cattle to roam the estate, and things were looking good. Christopher and Mrs. Christopher had a beautiful baby boy — Thomas. He was too young to read to me yet, but I yearned for the day he would. He did not. Thomas passed from scarlet fever in his sleep one midsummer’s night. The many days I spent hoping this was a dream. Christopher spent more and more days at Church, praying to God to return his son, but He did not give him him. As my green hair became spottily brown, Christopher’s brown hair became spottily white. His wife grew pregnant again, but all they did now was squabble. It was a lonely May night — 8 months after his son’s passing — when Christopher came home from a nearby warehouse with a long rope. My boy approached me; he was finally back to love me, to read to me, to kiss me goodnight when I cried my lonesome tears of dew. He was my Son and my Father alike, a majestic brew of all that is Good and Bad and Excellent. And he grabbed a branch. No, he *really* grabbed it. It was a forceful grip rather than a light tug. So he grabbed me, and he laid the rope upon my arm. Well, what lies next is evident. Needless to say, the Forst Manor was soon empty, his wife moving far, far away following the horrifying death of her husband. My leaves — very few, though — remained stained red. It kept my hair warm. I was sad. A gorgeous and fertile young cow — no older than two — came up to me the night of to ask if I was okay. I nodded. She hugged me and introduced herself. “Maggie.” “Maggie what?” “Just Maggie.” “Your kind doesn’t have last names? *How animalistic!*” Maggie became a good friend of mine; though, my sisters would giggle at me for befriending a cow, because “all they eva’ speak is bull.” But Maggie did not speak anything of the sort — in fact, she was quite grounded. “Maggie, tell me, beautiful girl,” I said. “To which Mr. Father Cow do you belong?” She pointed her finger to her father, Buttercup. He was an enormous and frightening bull, one with a curious proclivity toward harm. One day, however, I braced myself and asked for permission for his daughter’s hoof in marriage. He granted as I wished. Maggie, a former resident of a farm, had, too, heard stories. This time from a kind, young girl. “*You ain’t never herd’a Peter Pan!?*” Maggie would ask me, excitedly. “Gee, it’s the best book I’d ever heard!” My books apparently were “outdated,” and “vintage,” but I had disagreed. She would share what she remembered of the stories with me, and I would share what I remembered with her. We would spend nights away, reading to another *The Rainbow* or *Walden*. Workers came by sometimes to scout the house. I didn’t know why. I married Maggie on July 12, 1942, in attendance by all my sisters but one. Paul did not come to visit. Workers visited more frequently, now checking the house. We shared our first kiss a few weeks later. Workers plunged into the ground with “OPEN HOUSE” signs. Maggie and I had our first child on April 29, 1943 — a sweet, baby cow girl … *cowgirl?* Realtors were already showing the manor to visitors, builders already busting away at doors. The Forst Manor was being destroyed. It was a happy summer day. I was thinking quite a lot about Christopher this day — June 5 of that same year … Yes, that’s it. I was reminiscing about the times he would read to me the Devil’s banishment to Hell or Candide’s epic travels in El Dorado. To-day, they were planning to move the cattle. That meant my poor Maggie. Maggie was taken away on the back of a trolley to a slaughterhouse. Buttercup remained here. Weeks later, a lumberjack was hired to cut me down. I got on no knees and said to him, “please, please, Heavenly Father! Do for me a favor — find for me the gorgeous and fertile cow at the nearest slaughterhouse, and ensure our eternal entanglement in death.” The ginger, full-bearded man stabbed me, cutting away one bit at a time. Whether or not he heard this plea or by coincidence, me and Maggie did end up together. I am no longer a tree. *We* are a book. *This book.* ***(Author Note: This makes sense if it was in a book of short stories, which I could do.)*** And her tender, leather skin holds me so.


The First Line of Defence By DannyG “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Mary Oliver I was convinced that my all of my future reincarnations were nullified by the enlightenment I had just attained. But something was wrong. The cycle of Samsara wasn’t broken -- not as broken as my family, as broken as my community, or as broken as the middle finger I had snapped getting up from my cross-legged pose under the shading Ficus. Also, after forty-nine days without movement, my legs were numb.              Bodh Gaya was tranquil at this time of early morning, every breeze carrying whispers of centuries old chants and prayers. Monsoon was still a distance away. Lush, verdant landscapes seemed to pulsate with life, their emerald hues a stark contrast to the earthen tones of the ancient temples and monasteries that dot the area. The Ficus I sat under smelled woody and slightly sweet from the ripened figs, its branches, heavy with history, stretch out like wise old arms offering a shaded solace to those who seek answers. At night, the sounds of gongs and prayers fill the air, a lullaby speaking of peace and liberation. I grimaced and gripped my left hand, disappointed. Why, when all of my efforts to finally release myself from dukkha, from life’s perpetual dissatisfaction, did everything around me collapse into disorder?  The cycle was driven by karma, past actions, and by clinging to that which was temporary so could only be effectively terminated by achieving nirvana. But I was only one man, and so all of Bodh Gaya had to be convinced to follow my path, else I would being a single success amongst a sea of failures. Not the best odds. Not exactly the ideal template for society's salvation. I stared at my middle finger, breathing deep and mindfully drifted into another focused reverie.

Mara, the temptress, tried a number of things to distract me from staying the path, preying on my desires, fears, and doubts, her timely tools testing me. 1.     The Filtered  Mirror of the Future:  A surreal tapestry of my future unfolded – an aged reflection of my tired face with absurdly bright red dog ears and an elongated, flapping pale tongue. It was a vision so bizarre, so vividly detailed, it seemed to dance on the fine line between a fevered dream and an alternate reality. 'How can such a future be?' I wondered, my voice a mere whisper in the dense air of incredulity. In a moment of disbelief and defiance, I hurled the mirror to the ground, only to be drawn back by an inexorable curiosity; I picked it up again, my fingers trembling. 'Damn her,' I cursed under my breath, Mara's trickery weaving a spell both confounding and captivating. 2.      The Funky Melody of Forgotten Dreams: Instead of being entrapped by the seductive music, I chose to respond with a dance. I stand up, my movements at first awkward from stiff legs gradually become more fluid. This dance isn't one of grace or skill; it's a dance of mindfulness and presence. With each step and movement, I focus on the current moment, on the sensations in his body, the air around him, the ground beneath his feet. He transforms the temptation into a practice of mindfulness, reminding himself that true contentment and fulfillment are found in the present, not in the echoes of past dreams or the allure of an imagined future. 3.     The Infinite Shape-Shifting Buffet:  In the labyrinthine expanse of my daily contemplation, there emerged the vision of a boundless feast transcending time and form. Here, an array of dishes, each a universe unto itself, shape-shifted ceaselessly: now offering morsels of such exquisite delicacy that they seemed to encapsulate entire epochs of culinary mastery or, without warning transforming into the most ephemeral of sustenance, as fleeting and transient as the thoughts that flit through a mind lost in reverie. Faster Food, so to speak.  This eternal banquet, ever-changing yet constant in its limitlessness, stood as a paradox, a tantalizing mirage at the edge of my pensive world, challenging the very notions of reality and illusion. 4.      The Selfie with Celestial Beings -- if you could converse with anyone –dead or alive – blah, blah, blah. I opened my eyes amidst what must have been a once-in-a-lifetime snowstorm in Bodh Gaya. Mara was not the immediate threat. The usually serene Bodh Gaya was caught in the grip of an unusual tempest, the once vibrant landscapes blanketed under a pristine layer of white. The cycle of Samsara, of reincarnation, obviously still remained intact. Here I was again. Everything else around me was still shattered, like my middle-finger, which i snapped while rising from my icy meditation beneath the snow-laden Ficus, its branches heavy with the weight of this unexpected winter.   The chill had seeped into my bones and my legs were numb. Standing alone in the snowstorm I realized the magnitude of my task. To construct a foundation for society’s salvation I needed to convince the entire community to embrace the path I’d trodden.

I looked down. Light flashed about my feet, then my torso, then my eyes, as if someone were whirling the sun around on a rope over their head. Flakes of snow darted at my eyelashes. Ahead, gleaming objects with lights instead of eyes moved quickly along wide silver trails. It was if the air carried scents so complex and alien. Nothing like the earthy, fresh aroma of my forest -- it seemed to be emanating from a multitude of carts of food. The people were like a swarm of ants, each moving with purpose, their voices a constant, unintelligible hum, so different from the harmonious whispers and chants of the forest. Every touch of my foot on the hard, unyielding ground was a reminder that I was no longer at home, the sheer scale of the temples, towering like cliffs of stone and clear glass, made me feel smaller than I had ever felt under the tallest trees. The first line of defense is not you, not me, not the two of us, not the street we live on, not most of us after you take away the very old and the very young, not all of us minus 1. The first line of defense is all of us. Period.   How do I know that? Cars……that’s what they were called. Cars. A huge car, with a long piece of metal in front of it pushed all the snow to the side of the road, just moving it really. There wea snow being moved from one place to another in a well-coordinated group effort.              We should get to work. There is shoveling  to be done.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Use one holiday-themed song as inspiration for your story.** **Additional Bonus Constraints:** *(These are just for fun and extra inspiration. All writers will receive the bonus points this week.)* Use at least one of the following constraints in your story: - a snowman - a ruined holiday dinner - a character unwrapping a present - an unexpected guest appears - sleigh bells are heard We’ve approached the holidays! For most it’s a warm, cozy time spent with family and friends, and a time full of memories. In celebration of these coming holidays, I am giving you a . I would like you to **use one holiday-themed song to write your story** this week. The provided songs are just ideas; if you have another that inspires you, use it! Just be sure to list the song title and artist at the end of your story. Remember, when using a song as inspiration, you may use any part of it, whether it’s the lyrics, a single word or image, or a theme. The interpretation is entirely up to you as long as you follow all subreddit and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week I appreciate your patience last week. For anyone who missed last week’s rankings, you can view them . Now, onto this past week… - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/nazna   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Ilicarian   *** ###Subreddit News - Nominate your favorite content from this sub on our ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I had always thought that the Muscatellos had a perfect marriage. Lindy Muscatello would often leave the windows open whenever they made love. During one of their sessions, Oscar Muscatello would sing opera at the top of his lungs. I’d be lying in bed next to Robert and he would beg me to shut the window. The whole thing made him uncomfortable. When we made love, there was no sound at all. Just a quiet gasp when Robert decided to land the plane, so to speak. My plane never landed. It just circled endlessly until it ran out of fuel and plummeted back to earth.

There were never any survivors. The Muscatellos were a symphony. Not just in the bedroom, but in every room of their house. When they were in the kitchen, there was singing. The B52’s, Blondie, and even some Dean Martin. It didn’t matter to them. Their taste was as eclectic as their wardrobe. They seemed to throw on whatever they could reach for in the morning. Their income was derived from the sale of honey. They made it using the colonies in their backyard. Lindy would wave to me as I walked to my car in the morning on my way into the office where I would update my Google calendar to include a meeting with a Japanese buyer that was little more than chit chat and a request to speed up production. Lindy would be wearing her beekeeping uniform, and inside the house, I would hear Oscar begging his wife to come join him in the shower. I hate them. The both of them. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense for me to hate them. What sense is there in hatred? One night I asked Robert to join me in the shower, and he asked if there was a spider in there that needed to be killed. I told him that I was perfectly capable of killing my own spiders, and that I wanted him to make love to me under the pitiful water pressure we keep meaning to have a plumber take a look at. “Why would we make love in the shower,” he asked, “That’s why we have a bed.” I would have divorced him, but all the good lawyers are downtown, and you can never find parking. Better to just die unhappy. What right did I have to happiness anyway? My ancestors were in gulags. Before them, there were cavewomen. Women living in caves. Did they have happiness? Of course not. I had a house, and a microwave, and I could fall asleep every night to Forensic Files. What more did I want? I wanted what the Muscatellos had. Or so I thought. The letter was addressed to Oscar Muscatello, but it had somehow found its way into our mailbox. That was probably because the mailman was losing his sight, but didn’t want to admit it. He’d already hit three parked cars on our street, but when I called the post office to ask why they weren’t forcing him into retirement, they said it was because nobody wanted to be a mailman anymore. There was no job security in it. Who sends mail? My only mail came in the form of packages that I ordered late at night while watching Forensic Files. Articles of clothing I would never wear or skin cream I would never put on. I once ordered a candle with edible wax and asked Robert if he wanted to use it on me. “And get it all over the bed,” he asked, horrified, “Why would we do that? It’s such a nice bed.” I began to wonder if my husband was having an affair with our linens. A good person would have taken the letter to Oscar Muscatello right over to him. They would have knocked on the door, waited until the Muscatellos finished making love on the piano in their living room, and then handed over the letter without giving it a second thought. I am not a good person. I also know the look of a woman’s handwriting. Oscar’s name was written with a feminine touch. I tore open the envelope. Right away, I smelled it. Cherry perfume. Something fruity, but sensual. I felt my lips moisten. I had done something bad, but something worse was in this envelope. A single piece of paper. Five little words written on it. And a question mark. Does she know you’re leaving? Oscar Muscatello was having an affair. Oscar Muscatello was not a good husband. The Muscatellos did not have a good marriage. The sound of Tosca came careening into my living room window, and, based on the selection, I concluded that both of them were about to land their planes at the same time. But Lindy Muscatello had a bomb on her plane. And she didn’t even know it. I pictured Oscar leaving her for a bee. The Queen Bee. Someone nurtured by Lindy, cared for by her. I pictured him shrinking down to the size of a worker bee. A drone. Moving his lithe body through the hive until he met his new wife. They would procreate singing bees. Bees that knew Don Giovanni. Bees that knew Carmen. When she was done with him, the Queen would eat him. Or maybe that was what a praying mantis did. I wasn’t much for science, unless it had to do with fingerprints or blood splatter. Those were things I learned from Forensic Files. I had to wait for Robert to fall asleep before I put it on, because it made him anxious. I never get anxious. I’m too certain of the worst. You can’t anticipate something you know won’t happen. I will never kill or be killed. I will die some boring death. Not like Oscar Muscatello. He and Lindy will die interesting deaths, but, holding the letter, I knew they would not be dying together. They would die their interesting deaths alone. This revelation should have thrilled me. Instead, I felt my own sense of betrayal. Betrayed by whom, I couldn’t say. Not at Oscar. What devotion did he owe me? I wanted to know when he would be leaving. I wanted to know who was better than Lindy. Who was this Queen Bee with such beautiful penmanship? What did her ink taste like? Was it sweet? The Muscatellos moved shortly thereafter, and when they moved, they moved together. If Oscar left, he left after the hives had all been shipped out. He left after the piano had been moved through the large living room window that looked out onto the street. He left after the mailman crashed into a parked pickup truck, had a heart attack, and was finally forced to hang up his uniform. If he left, he left after all that, but I don’t know. I don’t know if he ever did leave. The night I received the letter, I took off all my clothes and walked into the bedroom where Robert was reading a biography of Mamie Eisenhower. I took the book from his hands, and set it on the nightstand. He started to say something about Mamie’s childhood, but I placed a finger on his lips. They twitched. I asked him never to leave. When we were finished, I put on my robe and went to the open window. Across the way, the Muscatellos were in bed. The lights were out. Maybe they had already discussed their move. Maybe Oscar had confessed to his affair. Maybe none of that happened. Maybe it all did. Up in the sky, I thought I heard a plane. I thought I did, but who knows? These days anything can sound like a plane.


     Rosethorn was being tormented by a dead ghost.      She didn’t understand why; she hadn’t done anything wrong! Rosethorn, 25, lived in Chicago, worked as an editor for a popular newspaper, and had two pet cats. Just another ordinary folk in a world full of ordinary people.      So of course Rosethorn would be frightened and perplexed when a demon started haunting her dreams.      The first night it happened, Rosethorn brushed it off as just another nightmare. She had had her fair share of those in the past. Rosethorn went about with her day, editing newspapers and spending time with her cats, Sophie and Yoyo.

     What was the dream about? Well, it was actually quite disturbing. Rosethorn had been running down a damp, dark sewer tunnel, surrounded by darkness and searching out the light at the end of the tunnel. But no matter how far she got, or how fast she ran, Rosethorn could never catch up. She had been stuck in the tunnel.      Then there was a voice. That of a young child. Rosethorn had turned around to see a little boy, around the age of 8 or 9, with wide blue sapphire eyes and dressed in a white and blue sailor outfit.      “I’m lost.” The boy had said in an innocent, scared voice. “Can you help me find my mommy?”      Rosethorn had smiled, picked him up, and promised that she would get the two of them out of the sewer tunnel and up into the city to search for his mama. But when she looked back up again, the light at the end of the tunnel was gone .      Rosethorn was trapped in the tunnel, with a little boy crying for his mommy.      “The shadows are approaching.” The little boy said, pointing to the encroaching darkness with a tiny, wobbly finger.

     Rosethorn had been terrified. She ran as fast as she could blindly in any direction, but the shadows just kept coming. The little boy in her arms didn’t seem scared any longer, however.      “I’m lost.” He said again, in a cute, innocent, yet slightly mocking voice. “Can you help me find my mommy?”      Rosethorn glanced down at the child, only, to her shock, for him to blur and vanish into nothingness. She stopped, looking around for where the boy had gone.      “I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? ” Voices began to chant from the shadows, malice and glee rising through the undertones and gaining momentum. The shadows reached out, with their gnarly, black tendrils, and the last thing Rosethorn saw before she awoke with a startle was a pair of glowing narrowed red eyes, staring at her from the darkness.      The next night, Rosethorn dreamt of winning the lottery. But when she came to collect the money, the boy was there again, saying the same phrase in that cute, innocent voice of his.

     But Rosethorn knew better. Rosethorn had immediately figured out that it was highly unlikely that a person or thing from one dream would transcend into another, especially considering that the boy was a figure of her imagination, and not even anyone she knew.      The next night, Rosethorn was planting roses when the boy came out of the rose bushes and asked for help.      The night after that, Rosethorn dreamt of skydiving. But when she fell into a storm cloud, the boy was there again.      The night leading up to the present day, Rosethorn was skiing on Mount Everest. But when an avalanche rained snow and ice down upon her, the boy was there again. Chanting.      Asking.      Terrifying the living daylights out of her.      Rosethorn shuddered in the cold November breeze as she walked briskly through the crowded streets of Chicago on her way to work. Every night, she had a dream different to the one before. And on occasion, something she had been really focusing on lately would reappear one way or another in consecutive dreams. But those were things that Rosethorn knew and loved in real life.

     The boy wasn’t real. The boy wasn’t someone from a story or show that Rosethorn had known. The boy shouldn’t have existed!      Yet there he was. In her dreams. For five consecutive days.

     Something was terribly wrong.      Rosethorn had consulted her best friend Terra about her nightmarish dreams. Terra had told her that she was most likely hallucinating. After all, there was an unbreakable line between dreams and reality! What happens in her dreams stays in her dreams. The boy was just another figment of Rosethorn’s wild imagination, and he would fade with time.      Rosethorn hoped that what Terra had said was true. She desperately prayed that it was.      But all hopes came crashing down when Rosethorn took a shortcut through an alleyway to work and a small hand tugged gently on her coat.      Rosethorn looked down, and sucked in a sharp breath. Her silvery gray eyes widened until you could barely see the white of her eyes.

     Standing before her, next to a rotten dumpster, was the same little boy haunting her dreams. He had the exact same black hair, wide blue eyes, and sailor outfit. Those wide orbs were filled with the same fraud and mocking innocence and fear.

     “You’re…” Rosethorn began to hyperventilate, staggering away from the boy. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it can’t be real —      “I’m lost.” The little boy whimpered. “Can you help me find my mommy?”      An ear-piercing scream tore through the alleyway.      From that day forward, Rosethorn Waters was never to be seen again. Her close friends and family were frantic, and the police conducted a thorough search. Eventually, they managed to pinpoint Rosethorn’s last known location to be an alleyway between Walter Street and 18th Ave. But there were no signs of a struggle. No signs of a murder, either.      The only thing that was there was a soft black feather, lying on the ground where Rosethorn had vanished.


TW: eating disorder It began just after she stopped struggling with food. Her two year battle with bulimia was, as she had convinced herself, over. The only scars apparent from the battle was her now dangerously thin physique. Lana was 18 years old and had just graduated from high school the month before. She had not gone to college, she couldn’t afford it, as she was completely independent and completely broke.

She lived alone in the overcrowded, vast city of Los Angeles California. the summer was lingering on. LA was restless with its blazing one-hundred degree weather, the youth taking up the beaches and downtown area, and the streets lined bumper to bumper with cars day in and out, windows rolled down and the latest tunes from Madonna blaring all over Hollywood Boulevard. Lana strolled down the streets of downtown LA. With college out of the question she put all her effort into finding a job. She approached a familiar bakery just around the corner of Laguna Avenue and entered it.

The suffocating heat of the LA summer was drowned out by a refreshing, shivering cold air infused with the mouthwatering smell of various flavored muffins and pastries. She inhaled delightedly as the door chimed introducing her to the store and it’s few customers.

“HEY LANA! What can I get cha? The usual?” Came the excited voice of Jack, the 40 something owner of Zen Bakery.

He was positioned behind the counter, a large pearly white grin on his round and rosy face, his chubby fingers were wrapping a box for an order. Lana had been a regular at Zen Bakery during her senior year of High School. Every morning she’d come in and order what Jack referred to as the “usual”, two large and soft bran muffins with a steaming cup of black coffee.

“Not today Jack” Lana replied with a friendly smile as she walked towards the counter, “Actually I came in today to see about a job, I just graduated, I could really use the money.”

Jack looked at her thoughtfully. “I got no work here in the kitchen, but talk to Sissy in the back, she’s hiring right now.”

Sissy was a petite woman with her long, curly, dark brown bangs covering the first half of her face. Her brilliantly colored green eyes shone through her hair and lit up when she smiled, and as Lana introduced herself.

“All I need to know is if you can drive a van. I distribute the muffins, you can help with the delivery to the customers and stores” Sissy stated after hearing Lana’s proposal. Although having no prior experience with driving a van that looked enormous in comparison to her small figure, Lana did have experience with her own banged up 1979 Chevrolet and figured the basic operation of the old thing would be similar if not exact to that of the van. Lana answered with an impatient “Yes!” Having a feeling that her long job search was finally over and done with. Sissy agreed to hire her, and as a sort of confirmation to this, shook Lana’s hand firmly.

The days cooled off as summer came to a closure for the people of LA. The wind still carried the smell and warmth of summer as it weaved through the palm trees, and pushed the waves against the beach shores. Every morning at five, Lana would leave her small, old apartment building on 31st street, buckle up in the rusty blue van with the fading name of ZEN BAKERY on the sides, and drive down Laguna Avenue to arrive at the bakery in time for the five thirty pick up. After the back of the van was loaded with zen muffins, Lana would follow her route on the highway to deliver the muffins throughout the Los Angeles area.

With Jack baking the muffins, Sissy handling the distribution, and Lana delivering them, success came almost instantly. ZEN MUFFINS were the new words on the street. The healthy vegan treats happened to be the newest craze. During the course of nine months Lana spread Zen muffins all around northern California. Even though the pay was great, one thing stood out to Lana, she’d see Sissy putting hundreds of dollars in her pocket every night before closing. Although the pay was more than Lana would have made anywhere else, the thought came to her: How can I make that much dough?

“Dough Boys” bread was something no one had ever heard of before. Lana wouldn’t have even heard of it if she hadn’t made a delivery to the Co-op one Friday afternoon. After a year and a half, Lana had gotten the rights to sell and deliver other products besides the Zen Muffins (which was not as hot and new as it was years prior). When she saw “Dough Boys” bread she knew one thing immediately, this bread was absolutely nowhere. And in her past experiences, things that were nowhere had to immediately be put on shelves everywhere.

Frank was the owner of the bakery from which “Dough Boys” bread was produced. He was a man in his mid 30’s with a stern look upon his finely structured face. He held himself up right and in a very professional manner. He was taken aback when he met Lana in person. The skinny, small, girl of 20 who had demanded over the phone for exclusive rights to deliver “Dough Boys” bread. During this time, Lana had branched away from exclusively selling the Zen Muffins (which had at this point become a thing of the past) and began to sell other health food products, acquiring a considerable amount of money in the process. The “Dough Boys” bread would, as she felt, would be her biggest hit, she was so confident in this fact that she was not going to let Frank walk away from her offer.

Lana may have only been young, but she knew how to talk. Frank listened to every persuasive word that Lana spoke and automatically trusted her. Within the span of an hour, Frank had agreed to give Lana the bread to deliver. Within the course of a few months, ” Dough Boys” Bread was everywhere. Calls were made day in and out, demanding for the delivery of “Dough Boys” bread. It was a case of first impression, no one had seen this type of bread in a health food store before, and unlike most health food goods, the bread was absolutely delicious. Lana was now primarily working with Frank. The Zen Bakery had since gone out of business and wasn’t doing so well. If there was one thing that Lana could pick up on it was that people are fickle and products can be instantaneously “hot” and not “hot”, in and out; but bread on the other hand, was always consistent. People always wanted to break bread.

John Doe was homeless. He spent his days stalking the streets and alleys of downtown LA. He was always looking for food, not for him, but for his girlfriend who had just given birth the month before to a baby girl. Without a job and with only a few pennies to his name, he resorted to trash digging in the local dumpsters behind markets on nearly every street corner. No one had paid much mind to him before, so he was shocked when Lana had called out to him one spring morning.

“Do you want some bread?” Lana asked looking at John and taking in his ragged appearance. The freckles, fiery orange hair, and distressed overalls he was clothed in, reminded her of huckleberry finn. The couple leaned against the Van (Lana still had the van) and Lana listened to Johns tale of misfortune. After a minute of thought, Lana was offered him a job as her assistant. The job by itself had gotten to an overwhelming point. Lana had to deliver the bread, stock the bread, cover checks at the bank, and handle all the orders. It was a huge operation for a twenty-three year old (with absolutely no business sense) to handle by herself. John agreed as soon as she finished her sentence. For a while, he was a great help to her and the stress of work was lifted off of her mind. For a while things were going as smoothly as ever. But this was only for a while.

Lana was upset to the point of eruption. She clutched the large brick phone to her right ear hearing the annoying sound of a line unanswered on the other side. Where had he gone? What was he doing? John had not returned a call or message in nearly a week. The time was almost 2pm and there was no way now that she could get the bread delivered by the deadline of ten. The whole week had been a mess, Frank hired a new delivery boy even after he promised her the rights to the distribution of the bread, John had disappeared without so much as a warning , and Lana was scrambling all over the place to cover all the deliveries, barely making them for the most part. The realization that this business was getting to be at such a greater capacity than she was ready for, hit her with the force of a Californian ocean wave.

Even though in her mind the business was falling apart before her, Lana still made an effort to mend it. Her hope was restored when she, discovered a new type of bread. The taste free, sweet free, yeast free, bread in a can, “Un-Bread”. Lana saw the potential that this bread could have, she saw all the money that she could make if it was put on shelf and if she could convince the bakery who produced it to do business with her. “I’ve gotta have this bread” she repeated to herself, she imagined herself a millionaire before 25 and that was enough incentive to drive the two hours to San Diego and speak to the owners of ”Un Bread”.

Lana used those words again, those words that had the power to convince anybody to do anything. She talked. They listened to the words that were wrapped in certainty and were convincingly potent. The makers of “Un Bread” told her what they wanted and she agreed to give it to them. “I can get it in Whole Foods.” She wasn’t sure if she could get them into Whole Foods, but she said it in a way that convinced them otherwise. They agreed after some thought. The deal was done.

She decided she would demo the bread in Arowan, A small food store located in San Deigo. Within a couple of weeks the bread had received an incredibly positive reaction and had met up to the expectations Lana had predicted. With the feedback being so great, Lana decided to be truthful to her promise and get the She decided she would demo the bread in Arowan, a small Health food store located in San Diego. Within a couple of weeks the bread had received an incredibly positive reaction and had met up to the expectations Lana had predicted. With the feedback being so great, Lana decided to act on her promise and get the bread into Whole Foods. She worked fervently day in and day out to secure a meeting with a buyer. By the end of 2 weeks, she had gotten a call back from the store and the next day she was scheduled a meeting. She used her persuasive power that was embedded within her words and that had never failed her before. The Whole Foods buyer agreed to sell two flavors of the canned bread. As a sign of confirmation, He took Lana’s hand and shook it.

Lana was elated. Once she got home she rung up the “Un-Bread” owners. After three seemingly endless rings, the other line picked up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Lana! I’ve got great news; Whole Foods wants your bread! I did it! We are going to make a lot of money together!” Lana let the thrill and excitement ring in her voice. There was a quiet buzz on the other end; no one said anything for about a minute. “Hello?” Lana said confused by the abrupt silence.

“I’m sorry Lana…” Came the slow regretful words of the one on the other line.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” Lana began to panic slightly.

“Well…We are closing the bakery; our family has decided to retreat to the mountains.”

It was the first time that her words, those words that held some supernatural power, failed her. Leaving her silent. Lana slowly moved the phone away from her face, ignoring the muffled apologies from the other line. In just a single sentence, Lana saw her world fall apart. She dropped the phone, not having enough strength to carry its weight. It seemed, as odd as it might be that Lana had worked for this one moment. That this canned bread was her big shot to find true success, to earn money, to earn recognition, to find absolute happiness. And it failed. She took this as some sort of cosmic sign from the stars, she took this as the end of something that wasn’t meant to be.

This failed mission had destroyed her and in that destruction, opened her eyes to what this business had turned out to be. John still was missing, Frank hired a new delivery boy, and the canned bread hippies were retiring to the mountains in some remote part of northern California. A sudden epiphany took her out of her state of shock and into one of reality. Her eyes were finally wide open, and with that, she straightened herself out and decided to tie up some loose ends.

Lana stayed away for a week and 4 days. In her absence, Frank had called her numerous times demanding where she had been. She called Frank and told him she was done, dismissing his angry, erratic outburst, and hanging up the phone. She had, by some luck, found out where John was living and drove down to his address. It lead her to a trailer park. At first she banged on the door of the trailer John had supposedly been at this whole time, but when all that came back was the eerie silence of no movement, she decided to wait for his return. To her anticipation, John did not show up. Taking this as another sign, Lana decided to leave, placing a loaf of “Dough Boys” Bread, which she had brought for lunch, on the step of his trailer.

Summer, as is routine, came to LA again. Bringing it’s high temperatures and busy streets. Lana looked back on the days of the Zen Bakery, the “Dough Boys” business, and the canned bread which would have brought her millions. She didn’t regret a day of any of it. Instead she remembered every second, so she could look back, so she could remember how close she had come, so she could remember how much she had accomplished. Lana in a way felt relieved. She imagined her life like those Californian waves. Just like the waves roll up on to the sand, the clear water bringing something unknown from the depths of the ocean to rest upon the shores, Lana found opportunity. Her feet sink into the muddy sand. She knew that when the waves come again, as they will always do, they retake what is left on the shores leaving the beach bare and empty. Lana would wait. She would wait for those waves, with the fragments from the sea beyond, to cover these shores again. To make way for another opportunity. To make way for something new.

__END__


When I moved to my college town, the first semester was already going on for about two weeks, and it was basically impossible to find a decent room, so in the beginning - for about six months - I lived in situations most people would describe as adventurous. It was interesting at first, but very fast was becoming a living nightmare. And after a search, that felt like years, I finally found a place: a whole house for three people, nice housemates, not far away from university and all vital necessities nearby. The house was something you would expect from a old Grimm tale, a maze-like M.C. Escher nightmare with, for some unknown reason, very weirdly arranged rooms on half-levels, staircases that either ended in a kitchen or at the neighbors house or somehow in the garden or in the attic. It also had very large holes in what we prayed weren’t load-bearing walls, especially the one, which was ground-level and connected the house to the also rundown garden, which was basically just broken concrete with small sick islands of gras. But the garden had a nice cabin, which we shared with our neighbors, who also had a worn-down-as-hell house. Anyways, it was very, very, very cheap, so it was perfect. There was only one catch: The place had a cat. And it wasn’t that one of my two new flatmates had a cat, no, the building came with it. One of the former residents brought her into the house and when he left town the cat was so used to her newly conquered habitat, that he thought it would be the most humane thing, to just leave her and go on with his life. Another tiny part of his decision to leave her behind, might have been, that she was also crazy as hell, as you will come to learn in this story. Anyways, I had never owned a cat, so I was never able to develop an affection for these animals, plus, they come with a certain reputation of being dicks. I also remembered, that I was mildly allergic to felines, with a light pink rash on the skin test. So the cat was a problem. But I really wanted and also needed to move in, so I did, what I had to do: I ignored the shit out of her. I wasn’t greeting her, I wasn’t petting or caressing her, always avoided eye-to-cateye contact and trying to only feed her when it was absolutely necessary. When my flatmates were gone for a longer time, I basically just dumped a whole bag of cat food on the kitchen floor and just avoided stumbling over it when I was cooking. The cat was also totally banned from my room. So she was in my life but not a part of it. We continued this relationship of peacefully ghosting each other for about five months. It was almost at the end of my second semester, where I started settling. I had my favorite courses, my favorite clubs and bars, my favorite restaurants and I also established a fair amount of necessary acquaintances and even made some good friends. My new place had a big attic, where we studied and played table-tennis, but basically just hung out and got drunk. Most of the time, it was me and Philip & Philip, same name, different people, equally lovable. And with good friends always come their friends, and those are the ones, you *don’t* choose but still need to accept in your life. And they brought Thomas, one of those friend-of-friends, you can’t avoid. He was a weird, somewhat ugly guy, but handsome in a way, very smart and what you would call the life of every party. Just one of those guys everyone loved. I hated him instantly. But after a good amount of beers, I started beginning to slightly approve of the presence of this blue-eyed intruder. And it was exactly this moment, when something magical happened: The cat-lady of the house decided to pay us a visit. As usual, she would sneak up on us, using the couch next to the stairwell as a strategic cover, only to appear out of nowhere to scare the shit out of us. For the Philips and me, this was a totally normal behavior, we had witnessed this for many times, but not for Thomas, who hadn’t been at my place before. His handsome smile suddenly turned into a hideous grimace. Screaming in horror, he jumped up the couch (as if that would help with a cat!) screeching and mumbling incoherent whispers of terrified dread. He grabbed his stuff and ran down the stairwell, like someone, who was saving his last possessions from a fire. The cat was following him downstairs, apparently excited to suddenly find such an entertaining and unexpected prey and we listened to his horrified screams until the door to the street finally closed with a loud bang. As it turned out, Thomas was afraid of cats, and I don’t mean a little, it was a full-blown phobia. For him, being in a situation like this, was basically like drowning in a sea of spiders. The cat came back to the attic, that was now filled with loud laughter and looked at me with eyes you could only describe as mischievous. I looked at her with a lack of understanding and with the pride of an emotionally distant father, who just discovered that his little girl can knockout the strongest guy in high school. We smirked at each other, knowing, this would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She was called Mashura, named after a druggy 90’s happy-hardcore djane from Germany, a purple-haired, weird, life-is-a-party, techno queen; and that turned out to be a very fitting name. With black and brown colored fur and little yellow stripes, she was basically an eight pound wasp, but way more dangerous. Scalpel-like claws that would cut through metal, created to bring death to anything that moved but also, to gently massage your stomach for some reason. Eyes, that either warned you about the three seconds you have left to live, or stared into your soul with a fearless love. And with the affection of a loving friend, who only wants to cuddle and watch a movie with you, who, a few seconds later, transforms into an unpredictable, temperamental maniac, screaming „I’m not going to be IGNORED!!!“. I think it’s fair to say, if she would’ve been a human woman, I would have fallen for her in a matter of minutes. And from that infamous day on, I fought with my roomies to be the one, feeding, petting and caressing her, playing and cuddling with her, showing her my favorite movies and sharing my strawberry ice cream with her. I also was the one, who was rewarded with dead mice, with dead birds and one time, amazingly, with a fat dead rat, right there in front of my room next to Mashura, who meowed in pure joy. She wasn’t like a pet, more like a weird roommate and buddy who loved you, but still would mess with you on any occasion, basically like best friends would do. She was fully able of opening all kinds of doors: jumping on the handle, pushing it down with one paw, and using another paw to push away the door from the frame, creating a convenient slot for her to leave the room. Like any other cat, she also loved heights and was sitting on the shelves in the kitchen, silently watching you cooking, fully aware of the fact, that you haven’t noticed her yet, patiently waiting for the moment where you leave for one damn minute to wash your hands in the bathroom, just to come back and find her going down on your steak, which by now was dragged across the whole kitchen floor (as a student, I washed the steak with hot water and ate it in tasteless anger). And when she was sleeping next to me, I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, just to find her watching me like a hawk, or maybe a vulture, making me almost shit myself. But that one time, she really outdid herself. It was wintertime in our snowy linen lands and our old building had an abandoned ground floor with no foundation and, like I said, a lot of big holes in the back wall. Bad for keeping temperatures humane in winter, but perfect for a cats free-roaming spirit. Since my room was on the first half-floor, but was directly connected to the L-shaped slanted stairwell that led from the kitchen to the ground floor, the door had a knob instead of a handle, to keep the cat from opening it in the middle of the night, which in winter would have resulted in my certain death, caused by freezing. I was sitting in my room, studying for an upcoming exam. It was one of those courses, where you study and study like a maniac but still couldn’t wrap your head around the subject matter, so you feel stupid and worthless, and you start getting angry and furious, asking if humanities endless struggles and basically all of its existence are worth this trouble at all. Mashura was outside, scratching at my door, searching for some entertainment. I wouldn’t let her in, trying to concentrate on the unsolvable mysteries of Media Theories and focussing on not going berserk. After an hour, she started getting really mad, scratching furiously at the door and jumping on the knob, trying to open it again and again, meowing, and somehow growling, like it would be the most vital part of her life to get into this particular room. I turned up the volume of the music and ignored her as good as I could, drinking loads of cheap energy drinks to compensate for the four hours of sleep I had that night and continued learning. After another hour, I started to understand a little bit, finally breaking down some of the topics of the prep paper, getting deeper and deeper into the tunnel, starting to find a little light at the end of it, and then understanding many of the problems, setting up connections, that made sense, breaking and breaking them into smaller pieces. Finally, *finally* a redeeming epiphany! Andy Dufresne – who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. I was so happy, I couldn’t believe it! I also really, really needed to pee. So I hurried to my door to get to the toilet, only to realize, that I was locked in. I stood there in sheer wonder and disbelief and after a few seconds I figured out, what just happened: My keys were still on the outside of my door and my feline friend Mashuras relentless jumping and gripping and grabbing turned the key into the lock. Not much, just slightly enough to keep me from leaving my room. In this sudden realization of my entrapment I started shouting and screaming at the door, her, happily meowing at me, just happy to finally find some form of communication. Raging, with a bladder, that should have been emptied an hour before, I stood in the room and looked through it like a panicking animal, trying to find a container that felt appropriate to hold in approximately two liters of fermented, cheap dollar-store-red-bull, but there were no bottles or vases, or anything like that. In total desperation I started looking for grocery bags, but of course, I only had the ones out of paper, stupid environmentalism. I tried to call my flatmates multiple times. They didn’t answer and were probably out for the day, so I figured, there was only one way to pee. I rushed to one of the windows, which was about six feet above the sidewalk, jumped into the snow, only to realize that in the heat of the moment I forgot to put on any shoes, and ran to the little canal next to our house and relieved myself of a gallon of glowing-in-the- dark urine, trying not to moan like a pervert. I finished and rang my neighbors doorbell, who unfortunately were my friends and who opened the door with very confused faces, as they saw me standing there shoeless in my t-shirt at temperatures below zero. They let me in with a curious laugh and I avoided looking at them, only mumbling „Don’t ask...“ while I angrily walked through their kitchen to our garden to our backdoor into my house. There she was. Meowing. Purring. Rubbing her back on my legs. I turned the key and entered my room, freezing, changing my snow soaked socks, calling her things like „If Hitler had a cat.“, „God’s revenge for the sins of mankind.“ and „A pure catastrophe.“, fully aware of the beauty of this pun. She apologized to me by licking her ass in nonchalant indifference. Like I said: What best friends would do. Eighteen months and many beautifully weird stories passed by, and then she died. I came home one day and she was lying on the ground floor, meowing in a bad way, obviously in pain. My housemates and I drove her to the vet and we found out, that apparently someone in the neighborhood put out food that was poisoned, to kill the few rats that were roaming our backyard from time to time. And she just ate it. The vet handed us some medicine, told us to give it to her every hour and wished us good luck. My housemates and I came up with shifts, taking the now almost immobile cat, who just meowed in agony and peed herself, to our rooms and gave her the liquid medicine, that we had to apply to her throat, using a syringe, every time our alarm clocks hit the sixty minute mark. I had the last shift of her last 48 hours, that felt like weeks. The alarm went off and I put her back between my thighs, like a baby, starting to slowly feeding her the medicine while stroking her head. In clueless despair and total fear she would bite and shiver and cough, because medicine tastes bitter, and would look at me with wet eyes of hopelessness and agony and, this time, her lack of understanding. The coughing got stronger and stronger, the moaning stopped, and her head fell back between my knees, with open mouth and her tongue hanging out. I actually was able to take her back for a few seconds with mouth-to-nose ventilation, something I learned from a documentary on dogs, but her time was just up. We drove her back to the vet, who declared her dead and gave us two choices for what to do next. Either take her back and bury her in our backyard or, for the second choice, leave her there to be taking care of by something Germans call a „Tierkörperverwertungsstelle“, which roughly could be translated to „animal cadaver utilisation place“. Needles to say, we took her back to our house. My flatmates started to build a beautiful cross with her name. Also a fancy casket, made out of the shoebox she used to sleep in. We kept a head count of her killed prey on the fridge for years and glued it onto the casket, next to little pictures of birds and mice, of which we replaced their eyes with little X’s. I was in charge of digging the grave, which took me about three hours. German law says, that any dead animal needs to be buried seventy centimeters or around twenty-eight inches deep, to prevent scavengers like foxes from digging up your backyard, and after a third of the depth, it basically turns into what feels like shoveling concrete. In the evening, all of us were mentally and physically tired, hardly able to keep our eyes open but less able to close them, so we decided to invite our friends over to keep our minds occupied and to have a little barbecue and drink a few beers. We called them and told them our cat died, without sharing any details of the last two days, and an hour later about fifteen people showed up in our backyard, armed with basically every bottle of liqueur they could find in their sideboards. We started barbecuing and drinking and everyone literally had ten stories about Mashura to tell, one weirder and funnier than the other, leaving us crying in laughter for the rest of the night. One friend told us, she almost broke her neck slipping on the cats vomit, barely avoiding falling down the stairwell. I thought about strawberry-ice-cream-cat-puke and smiled. Another friend once crashed on our couch, because he passed out drunk, and in the morning almost had a heart attack, because when he woke up, Mashura was staring at him, an inch away from his face. Also, basically everyone at some point was holding her up, like you would with a newborn lion, loudly chanting a fake-african-jibberish-song, long before we knew, that cultural appropriation was a bad thing. And of course, everyone was tearing up with pure joy, listening to the story of that one time Mashura made Thomas run down the staircase, fearing for his life. They stayed for a while longer and after a few hours, everyone left, taking a beer for the way and a little bit of the pain. And that was it. A few month ago, many years after her funeral, I saw Thomas again. We are friends now, because sometimes people change, of which I mean myself, and we had a really nice chat, catching up after a long time. But there were these small moments during our conversation, tiny little things he said, that still annoyed me, and where I thought: „Man, I wish I had my cat with me right now!“ and I could just take her out of my bag, hold her in front of his face, just to see him screaming and running away, high-fiving her afterwards and smirking together at this stupid idiot! But then I remembered, that I was still the one, who once got locked out of his own room by the same cat. So...