A week after Abigail Whitaker’s funeral, her two children reluctantly began going through their mother’s belongings. To sell the valuables, donate usable items, and discard the rest. But it wasn’t an easy task. Abigail was a hoarder her entire life, and she couldn’t easily throw things away. She kept postcards, some of which belonged to sixty to seventy years ago. And like a zealot, Abigail kept all belongings of her late husband, who was listed as MIA in the Vietnam war decades ago. She loved her husband dearly and waited all her life, expecting him to walk through the door at any moment.

Amongst all her children and grandchildren, Paul Whitaker was Abigail’s favorite grandchild. Perhaps because he had the same name as grandpa, and by getting older, like two peas in a pod, he further resembled his late grandfather, the man he had never met. There was a framed black-and-white photograph of the grandpa in the military uniform on the grandma’s lounge room wall, very much resembling Paul today. Despite grandpa being around ten to fifteen years older than Paul when that photo was taken, the resemblance was stunning, as if Paul himself posed for that shot. Therefore, Paul had a special place in Abigail’s heart.

Paul willingly volunteered to clean grandma’s attic. Grandma didn’t like anyone to get close to the attic. It was a no-go zone for everyone. So much so that when Paul was a child, he and his cousins believed grandmother had a secret, and whatever it was, she hid it in the attic. In their imagination, they believed grandma kept a treasure there, more like pirates’ treasures, a box full of gold coins and jewelry. They possibly got the idea from the Treasure Island story, with its animated movie having just been released back then. Now Paul was in his late twenties, a Ph.D. student in theoretical physics, researching the concept of Time. However, it was implausible to find anything valuable in the attic. Still, Paul was keen to find what grandma stored there and why she didn’t want anyone to walk in there.

The attic hatch was secured with an old and bulky padlock, and same as all old things, it was made of high-quality steel. But no one knew where its key was. Eventually, he had to cut the tough lock with a bolt cutter, and he found it more challenging than he had expected. The attic was dark, and its light wasn’t working, possibly for ages. Its air was damp and heavy. At first glance, it was like a cave with lots of abandoned goods left forgotten for centuries. Everywhere was covered with a thick layer of fine dust. Paul walked in and stood in the middle of the attic. It took a while before his vision adjusted to the dim light. First, he noticed a few pieces of old furniture such as; side bed tables, chairs, and a lampstand, all covered in dust and spider webs. Some looked heavy and bulky. ‘How did grandma carry them up in here?’ Paul questioned. ‘They will go straight into the waste bin,’ he decided. Then he saw a bookshelf full of old, dusty books with discolored pages. As a bookworm, Paul quickly decided to keep the books for himself and read them all. He was sure no one would protest against his will to keep those old and dirty-looking books. ‘But family will worry about my sanity!’ He smiled at his thought. There were many packed carton boxes there, stored on top of each other lined up next to the walls. On close examination, Paul recognized his grandma’s handwriting on the boxes, with a short description of their contents. It made it easier for him to sort them.

The first box he examined was full of unmatched glassware. ‘Sorry, grandma. I know you don’t like to throw them away. With your permission, I will drop them at a charity,’ he murmured as if he was talking to grandma. Though he didn’t believe in the afterlife and the existence of spirits, he liked to think grandma’s spirit was there, monitoring his actions, and he didn’t want to cause her any distress. The next box was full of old and out-of-fashion dresses whose color had changed by the passage of time. ‘Should I donate them or throw them away?’ Paul asked himself. ‘With your permission, grandma, I will discard these old dresses. I don’t think anyone will wear them.’ Paul murmured as if he was talking with Abigail.

After going through a few boxes with unimportant contents, he found four large carton boxes with grandpa’s name written on them. He got curious about their contents. Paul had never met his grandfather. He was listed as MIA during the Vietnam war a few decades before he was born. But his memory was alive in the family. Grandma had told many stories about Paul Whitaker, her husband. So, for everyone in the family, grandpa was a hero. But for Paul, grandpa was a superhero. He was proud of being named after him. And their resemblance was Paul’s pride.

Paul opened the first box. It was full of civilian clothing belonging to grandpa. A quick examination told him they were all in his size. ‘I can wear them. There are good for a retro, 70s party,’ he smiled at his thought. The next box was full of old military uniforms and boots. At the bottom of the box, he found a military belt, a bayonet, and a stainless steel military water bottle. He excitedly decided to keep all of them to himself. In the third box, he found documents, photos, and letters grandpa had sent to Abigail. Paul couldn’t hide his excitement. It was a real treasure, and he would keep them all for himself. The letters were sorted by date. So he opened the first letter dated 10 th of June 1970 posted from Quang Tri, Vietnam, and read it.

My dear Abigail, Today is the tenth day since my arrival in Vietnam. I am sorry for not being able to write sooner. We were busy attending induction groups and adjusting to our new environment. Today I got a desk job, working at the company office at Quang Tri. My condition is not as bad as you might think, and we are far from any action. It is pretty safe here, and you don’t need to worry about me. The heat and the mosquitos are our sworn enemies. I am sharing a bunker with six other guys. But, three of them compete to prove who snores louder than the other two. So their symphony orchestra keeps the rest of us awake all night. I guess this is an army’s plot to force us to volunteer for the front line than sharing the bunker with these roaring bears. Sorry, I have to go. The sergeant is calling me. Miss you, Paul

Grandpa’s handwriting was like his. And strangely, his signature was exactly like Paul’s signature. How could two people, who lived at two different times, adopt to sign like each other? ‘Statistically speaking, its chance is near zero!’ Paul argued with himself. ‘If I knew, I would forge documents under grandpa’s name and get away with it,’ he smiled at this thought. Paul heard about hereditable genetic traits that some individuals are physically and psychologically more like a parent than another. But in his case, he looked almost identical to grandpa. But, as far as he knew, he should inherit just a quarter of his genes.

That night he finished reading all the grandpa’s letters addressed to his wife. Some were funny, and a few brought tears to his eyes. Now he understood why grandma had always been talking highly about his grandfather and had never remarried. They were in love. There was a bulged large manila envelope full of black and white photographs in that box. Paul took the bunch of photos out and explored them one by one. In the first picture, grandpa was in a bar and held a pint of beer in his hand. Grandpa wrote a short description on the back of the photo: 5 th of August 1970, at a local bar in Quang Tri. Vietnam. Paul Whitaker.

Most of the photographs were from his time in Vietnam. While shuffling through the photos, Paul found a much older picture, damaged, with low resolution, possibly over a hundred years old. A man that could be grandpa stood next to an old warship. He looked at the back of the picture. As he expected, Paul found a handwritten description there, which had aged with time. It was grandpa’s handwriting, which was like his own. 24th of December 1863, USS Wissahickon ship armed with an 11-inch cannon (Dahlgren gun). Civil war. Paul Whitaker. ‘Was grandpa interested in the civil war?’ He asked himself. Soon he found a sepia-toned old photo. In that image, a man who could be grandpa posed in a bunker with a long rifle hung on his shoulder. Paul quickly checked the back of the picture. As he expected, grandpa left a description. 5th of September 1914, France. A day before the battle of Marne. Paul Whitaker. Paul suspiciously stared at the old picture. The man looked like grandpa or even himself. ‘How could it be? How could he take part in that war?’ Paul asked himself, puzzled. ‘Maybe this man is his father and my grand grandfather!’ He mused.

Then he found another photograph. This time, grandpa or someone similar to him stood next to three other soldiers, with the one on the left having a sergeant insignia on his uniform’s sleeve. It was in another war zone near a coastal line with many warships on the horizon. By their uniforms, he could say it wasn’t Vietnam. He quickly checked the rear of the picture and nervously read the handwritten description. Wednesday, 7th of June 1944, a day after D-day, Normandy, France. From left to write; Sergeant James Blackwater, Corporal Paul Whitaker, Private John Parish, and Private Timothy Spring (our Medic). Paul Whitaker.

Paul was puzzled and couldn’t digest how his grandfather could be in all those wars! ‘If today someone shows me photographs of himself at different times in the history, I would suspect that the pictures are photoshopped. But these are real photos taken long before the invention of personal computers and photo editing software. So how can it be possible?’

Paul re-examined those bizarre photographs again and again, without finding a rational explanation for them. Then, suddenly, an epiphany caused a chill to go down his spine. The stunning similarity he had to his grandfather, their same physical size, similar handwriting style, and their identical signature made him ask, ‘what if I am my grandfather?’ Paul had been seriously researching the concept of time and the possibility of time travel in the last two years as part of his doctoral research. ‘What if I build a time machine in the next ten to fifteen years? Then I can time-travel into the past. And I can be my grandfather!’ Then he asked himself, ‘did grandma know the grandpa and I are the same person?’


They come for everyone, they’ve come for lowly peasents, witty balladeers and even for kings. They are the INEVITABLE but this time they’ve come for him, where are they going to take him? to hell? to heaven? He had already seen everything here. What difference is it even gonna make? They don't share the complex view of justice and morality that the mortals have. Their judgement will always be as simple as black and white for they are the duality - day and night, light and dark, life and death. Evil, lesser evil, greater evil that is all the same to them. The white one always roots for the mortals; she loves them and the black one, he simply doesn't care for them, they are but play things to him. An eternity of pain and agony or pleasure and joy decided with just a coin, a salient decision decided by chance. Oh! But the coin always lands on the right side. They are very reckless with the fate of the dead by leaving the decision to chance but the verdict is always unerring. But this time they each really wanted him taken to their own domain. For a very long time they haven't seen someone like him. Even in death he looks so magnificent and valiant. They didn't want his judgement to end in a toss of a coin, they wanted to seize this moment so this time they chose a game of will - chess. The white one as always intended had the first move… *Somewhere in the slums of a dying city a little boy is happy. He loves stories. That day he stumbled upon a book full of stories, he actually stole that from a kid from the rich side of the city. He opens the book with a mouth full of smiles. He was awestruck by what he saw in the book, it was a painting. He caught a glimpse of heaven that day. Amidst all the ugliness and injustice around he had hope that one day he would create paradise for him and his people.* As said the white one really loves the mortals, she started the game off with a pleasent and motivating memory but conflicting to the character of the black one, he cared for this mortal he wanted him in his realm. He started to dig out the darkest things the mortal has ever committed. He made his move.... *Only when he was 17 years old the mortal led a revolt against the king. He carried the wrath of all his people - The untouchables of an unlovely society. The courtiers and their men had no chance against his rage for he carried the wrath of hell to create heaven on earth. The king surrendered, he won. As a groundwork for his paradise he could’ve spared the king and his family he could’ve given them a chance but he didn't. His heaven’s bedrock was drenched in the blood of the undeserved.* The white one wasn't impressed, the black one always brings up the worst from the people. She knew that this mortal couldnt be defined with only this moment, she had hope in him. She made her next move. *When he was 25 years old, he looked out from his castle windows, all he could see was a thriving kingdom prospering under his regime. He got married to the most gorgeous woman in the kingdom and he loved her with all his heart. Though the kingdom was flourishing under his rule it still didn't even come close to what he had envisioned.* The black one was eager to make his next move as he knew what the mortal had done. He loves to point out the holes in the holy. He made his next move. *He is now the greatest king the kingdom has ever seen. He is king now but back then he was the mockery of a failed kingdom, the royals would cringe at the sight of him and his people because deep down they knew it was their ugly and corrupt selves that brought this upon their own people. He will not be like his predecessors. He craved for greatness, he waged war against other kingdoms. His thirst for conquest and victory got unquenchable. He left a trail of blood and tears on his way. He said to himself that this was for the greater good of his people and their paradise. He was so determined to not be like his predecessor but he turned worse.* *He became a tyrant.* The white one swiftly made a move and pointed out that the kingdom he conquered was joyful and delighted under his rule. The black one pointed to the rebels and conspirators fighting for their motherland only to spill more blood of the innocent and he made a move. This went back and forth for a while until the game ended in a stalemate… *The mortal is now 50 years old, he still wasn't satisfied with his paradise. He has now laid siege to the last and only standing fort against him. This is the final chapter of his conquest, after this he has no town to raid, no fort to siege and no rivals to challenge him. He wanted to savor his last conquest.* *They surrendered to him, his final enemies knew they are but practice for him. He has defeated far more powerful enemies than them. Their surrender rendered him fruitless. So he did it, he did what every sensible tyrant would do, he burned the fort down.* *Amidst all the blazing fire, while all his men were celebrating he stood idle with no purpose. A very little boy approached him, clenching a book to his chest, he asked if his father would be killed. The mortal assured the boy that his father had already surrendered to him and for that he would live.* *He took the boy’s book, it was the same book that changed his life. He is still wonderstruck from that illustration of the paradise. He reminisced about his old days of glory. hoping to feel nostalgic, he turned the page… he saw an image very unappealing and opposed to the previous image - he saw hell, an illustration of it. It felt familiar for him, he looked around him and saw hell. All these years he had only been marching forward leaving a trail of blood and death, he never once stood and looked back at the chaos he had been causing. He was too caught up in what he was giving; he forgot what he was taking.* *It was too late, the hell he created spawned a lot of demons. When he turned to look back at what he did, his back was exposed to those fiends.* *He was assassinated at a political gathering where he intended to free all those kingdoms he conquered.* And now he lies lifeless on a royal bed surrounded by those who wronged him. He lies there lifeless with a metaphysical chessboard with pieces that are stalemated. The disparities knew that the stalemate could mean only one thing….. The mortal lives.


#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. 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, a theme word, a 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.   *** #Last Week So many great stories were submitted last week! And I was delighted to see all the feedback exchanged on the thread. You all really brought your A-game and choices were tough. But with that being said, there were two that I thought stood out. by u/Rulerofgummybears - A short, thrilling tale that uses only 100 words to paint a vivid image for the readers. by u/PennGuinoMcAistear - An intriguing scene with a full arc and a lovely twist ending. #This week’s challenge: **The call came at midnight.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #How It Works: - In the comments below, submit a story between 100-300 words by the following Sunday at midnight EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. - Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take any nominations you make into consideration. You may send them to me via reddit or on the discord. But please remember, this is not a contest. - While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to come back throughout the week and read the other stories on the thread. Upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread.


Spring began with a violent storm. The storm was darker than the previous storm. It was wetter too. The clouds regaled as lightning burst and thunder cracked. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” “Collecting that vapor is no easy chore,” whispered Stratus. “But a cloud must go, where winds do flow,” said Cirro. With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the land from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw rivers change. He saw plants come and go, as was nature’s way. Once, he had been low enough to pass through a peak, but never felt it’s rocky touch. Because clouds cannot embrace what it is they feel. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Summer began with a reasonable storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds delighted as lightning surged and thunder smashed. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” All the while Stratus was silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked him. “I did not collect any vapor this time,” he responded. “The birds spoke as I floated. They said I am far too repressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the grass benefit from our storm. They said the three of you had accomplished more than enough.” “She had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can land on any tree or drink from any river. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the seas from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw mountains change. He saw creatures come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass around a peak, but never caught it’s steady glance. Because clouds cannot examine what it is they see. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Fall began with a hesitant storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds elated as lightning flared and thunder clapped. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” All the while Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not collect any energy this time,” said Nimbus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too oppressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the trees benefit from our storm. They said the two of you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can speak to any creature or taste any meal. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the skies from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw trees change. He saw people come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass beside a peak, but never heard it’s call. Because clouds cannot detect what they ought to hear. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Winter began with no storm at all. The skies were brighter than ever before, and the earth dryer. The clouds languished as no lightning was seen and no thunder was heard. Cirrus, Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not put in any effort this time,” said Cirrus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too depressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the Earth benefits from our storm. They said you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a moot point,” thought Cirro, “the birds did not understand that more than one relished in a storm’s benefit. The birds must not be wise if they can touch any peak they desire but never appreciate doing so. Better to cause a fuss than have no storm at all.” With that, Cirro turned to speak to the others. But the air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, but unhappily so. For Cirro had discerned for too long. He knew in his heart that the birds had been wrong. But he never spoke up. As the breeze heightened he realized they had created their last storm. He watched the trees, river, and mountain fade from view. And over the horizon clouds did go.


The mind, such a beautiful fragile thing. The key to slipping away from our painful, stressful realities. But also the secret weapon we harbor that can lead to our ultimate downfall. I always look at the world in a half-full glass, I whispered in a daydream once. Oh, how daydreaming was my eudaimonic pleasure, how it dulcified my anxiety like the lull of the luscious melodies of Jazz. My mind glowed with the glimmer of a million fireflies leaping across the luminescent sky. But that was before the storm clouds came rumbling in camouflaging my midnight. A year ago I would have never had to make the vow I now make on this December 31st, but your life can change in an instant. Happiness, you were everything to me, your radiating positivity, but where did you go? My life was once a fairytale, but it withered. It started one day in March. "Virus spreading rapidly in Europe'', the voice on the black box stated. I thought nothing of what was supposed to be a "humorous meme". But fear still settled in my mind. You see, we were actually headed on a school trip to Europe, one I had dreamed about since I was 3, yes at an age where I was just beginning to recollect dreams. But then I internalized the words my teacher stated about the trip, "they won't let you go if you have the faintest of a cough." I from then on had a mission. This mission coupled with my ambition to achieve perfect attendance took up most of my thought space so that no other thoughts could have the precious airtime. The battle was on and I suited up. I wore my shield of a face mask. Others mocked me saying the mask would do nothing to prevent getting the virus, but I didn’t care about just the virus. You see before my trusty shield came along, I was left defenseless against the siege being laid by the flu. “No cough” my thoughts reminded me, as persistently as an alarm clock. I got smart by wearing a mask, and my shield and I formed a bond as strong as that of a soldier and steed. Wearing my shield, I felt safe, an indescribable feeling of safety. But then my armor with age sought retirement. Except I could not provide that, for the quest to obtain a new shield proved impossible. So I instead bandaged the steed up with tape yet this proved an ineffective solution so more drastic modifications had to be made. That’s right, layers of paper towels. However, my armor then became heavier and the days felt longer. It’s as if safety couldn’t exist in my little corner of the world. The improvisations inflicted feelings of excessive warmth and sickness within me. Good thing we were given rest in spring break. But who I thought was the enemy in a battle I thought was over was not the real devious mastermind. The truth was, my battle was just beginning and turns out there was almost no one I could trust. The germs that danced once across my nightmarish visions ceased out of existence, blown away like dust. I found comfort in the cocoon of my solitude. I made friends with the silence as my contact with the real world had been severed. But very soon my own mind started to fight me as if it was discontent with my inner peace. “Pick up the litter or bad things will happen”, it screamed in my head on a loop. I obeyed and thought it was just the morality of my conscience. But this thought echoed in my inner being in parks or any time I was outside. I would stop everything I was doing just to pick up a cigar with my bare hands, and then I couldn’t stop. I was like Pac-man on a hunt. Picking up trash was like a never-ending addiction that I did not desire to have. I would scream out of frustration yet I could not stop until my arms itched. Could not stop until it was dusk by the time I came home where I would be met with a “Where have you been?” Oh, mother how I wish I knew. I was in emotional distress, longing for freedom. I was tired of this. But one day, it was as if relief came. My mind no longer chanted such banter in my ears. And yet I wasn’t free. “Step on the sidewalk crack and your mom will die”, became my next favorite tune. And once again I obeyed. But did obeying make me feel better? No! You’d think if you were in perfect submission to your captor, then they would be satisfied. But instead, he ramped up the punishment. Intensified it until I snapped. On that fine September day, I just a girl going about her day. But then he called out like a siren to a sailor and I was lured in by the far from melodious tune. Yet the tune had a hypnotizing effect. I reawakened my trash habits and I knew I had walked into a war. Soon enough I was sticking my arm elbow-deep in a trash can to re-throw away a water-logged phone three times. “Do this or your dog will be poisoned!”, “Oh we wouldn’t want your brother getting into a car accident now would we?” Well, he was right, so I obeyed. And by the end my shoes were muddy, my socks wet, leaves intertwined in my hair, itching sensations all over my body, and an emotional breakdown as the cherry on top. I then obeyed more trying to please him so he never put me through that again. But he never held up his end of the bargain. He kept it up, but what could I do? “Step on the sidewalk crack and your mother dies”, became my mantra. But the demands of being outside were too hard to keep up. So I just solved the problem by staying house-bound. Others never left the house in order to protect themselves from the virus, but my main reason for staying home was because being outside was too scary, time-consuming, and emotionally draining. So two weeks passed, and I was officially kind of like Rapunzel minus the shiny long blonde hair which some of us secretly wished we had. But then I was fine until I was not. Honestly, how could I fight a monster I could not see? Time progressed and I tried to get by as fear paralyzed my body at any given moment. With tears from fear arising occasionally. I stayed in his servitude and by doing so I almost lost myself completely. I slowly started to deteriorate. Joy could not be found so often, and my days were not enjoyable. And then I felt emotionally void, as he hid my feelings from me. But then it changed. My pain became visible and mom finally cracked the mystery. So me and my mom went to an ally for valuable intel. The therapist finally revealed my enemy to me. 3 letters, one syllable, OCD. I still lose myself in his mazes. He being my OCD voice Baxter. I am slowly finding myself. The truth is I almost had to lose myself completely to uncover my enemy. So this year as I reflect, while others make resolutions for diets or improved patience, I will make my resolution. A resolution to fall in love with myself again, and learn to forgive myself. Because we all deserve happiness and independence. But to do that we must learn to break free. And that can only be done with understanding and self-love.


One Father, One Son It was late spring in the city – one of those days, when both sunshine and light rain are received with joy and, let’s say, with hope. It was an early afternoon – lunchtime in downtown: hugs and handshakes, half-buttoned shirts, a sip of lemonade from the decanter. Chair legs squeaking, silverware clattering, the humming of talk. Lunch specials on the table, pages rustling – people devouring pastas, meats, and soups so intently, as if the meal were altogether a detective novel. Lunchtime was booked for the dates that were not exciting enough to spend an evening with, but, pleasant enough for a meal. A middle-aged, medium-tanned gentleman in a white polo and a jacket, blue jeans, and moccasins – like from glamorous adverts of the '90s – beckoned to the waiter, asked for coffee, and then looked at his watch. The man looked around and didn’t see someone or something he was expecting to see – and finally he opened a newspaper, slowly turned the pages and, eventually, buried his nose in it. After the man had finished his second espresso and handed the cup to the waiter, a voice behind his back said: “Hey Father!” “Finally!” the man responded joyfully. “You are here!” He turned and gasped. “What happened? You look like you’ve been ran over by a... cow.” The young man he was talking to didn’t look that bad. He had dusty boots and shaggy hair, as if he had traveled from afar. Also, he was wearing a questionable, in terms of style, tracksuit, but the “cow” reference said more about gentleman’s hunger than about the appearance of the young man. “And what’s here?” Father asked, “What’s with the neck?” “Oh, that?” Son touched a patch on the right side of his neck. “I removed the mole. It was annoying me.” “This mole?” Father pointed at his own neck. “Not 'this,' of course, but a similar type, yes,” Son said, nodding. “That’s weird,” Father said. “It doesn’t annoy me.” “Clearly, I am not you.” Son gave a subtle smile. Father folded the newspaper and tucked it away in his square-shaped leather bag. Then he stood up and gave a hug, a tight one, to his Son, who didn’t offer much hugging in response – he rather sank in Father’s arms. “I’ve got news,” Son said in a muffled voice. Father released him, and both finally they sat down. Both Father and Son were easy on the eyes. They had straight backs, massive chins, and long necks. When these men moved – say, for an extra tissue, or an ashtray, or to get a spoon that fell to the ground – they did it with an elegant slowness, even grace. They could make quite an impression on someone – for instance, on some bored eater at the next table – so he would wonder if these people actually had learned not to hurry unless there was a really serious reason. “Hold it for a little,” Father said, “the guy is desperate.” He nodded at the waiter. “He approached me, like, three times already. People don’t like to wait, you know, even if they are called “waiters.” Father laughed at his own joke. While he was giving his order about wine and the rare cook of the meat, Son plopped a transparent folder with some papers in it on the table. Then he asked the waiter to bring him the salad with couscous. “Did you come by car?” Father asked. Son nodded at the parked bike. Father laughed. “Can you drink and bike?” he asked. Son shook his head. “I am okay with water.” “Then I will have the whole bottle,” Father concluded. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. “What?” he asked. “Life teaches you nothing,” Son said. “That’s actually fascinating.” “What, again?” “Mum died of cancer.” “I know.” “She was a smoker.” “Your mum, unfortunately, had underlying health conditions.” Father made another puff. “She was 52!” “Exactly,” Father said, nodding. “A critical age for women of their family. Genetics. There is not much we can do about that.” “You are just damn stubborn.” Son sighed. “I am going to be suing you,” he added. “For smoking?” Father chuckled. “No, not for that,” Son said, taking the papers from the folder. “Not just for that. My company is suing your company.” Father finished his cigarette. “I don’t understand.” The waiter brought the couscous salad on the same tray with the drinks. Son sipped his water. “You know what I do for a living, right?” “I believe, you work... at a research center,” suggested Father. “And I certainly know that you chose this job over getting your PhD.” “It’s an Urban Environmental Research Center,” Son explained. “I am an expert, one of the experts.” Father remained silent. “The data we just got in, show that your company, your company’s production is causing pretty terrifying damage to the western part of the town, and...” he sighed, “to the workers as well.” Son had a bite of the salad. “What are you doing?” Father asked. “Oh, sorry, I realized I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Son said, putting the fork down. He continued speaking, though: “This is toxic metal, for the most part. You’ll have to either replace it with something less environmentally challenging, or, you know, we’ll shut you down.” As Father was pouring another glass of wine, his medium rare steak, covered with cranberry sauce, arrived. “We?” he said. “Who is 'we'?” “We’ve got an amazing legal team.” Father grunted, cut off a tiny piece of meat and chewed it slowly and carefully. “This is not the first time someone has threatened me,” he said. “I am not threatening you,” Son said, sounding surprised. “I am warning you.” “You are warning me?” Now they were both eating. “Dad, you don’t need more money.” “Excuse me?” “You’ve earned a lot, from my perspective, and you don’t need more.” Couscous or bread went down the wrong pipe, and Son started coughing. He then leaned toward the water, but, accidentally, grabbed the wine instead and took a good gulp. “Put my wine back,” Father demanded. “Sorry, man,” Son said and swallowed what was left in the glass. “Nice wine, though,” “Do you know that I once almost killed a man who was trying to squeeze me for my business?” Son paused for a second, as though recalling something, then said: “Yeah, it was a nice bedtime story.” Father smiled. “So you know who I am,” he said. “I am not trying to scare you. I am just warning.” Son shrugged. “The law is on my side, Dad,” he said. He waved to the waiter and asked for a tea. Father took off his jacket – the sun was roasting his body from his forehead to his chest. “I am telling you – your manufacturing is screwed,” Son said firmly. “We’ve got the evidence. Complaints, measurements, numbers. The impact you are making is horrifying. Better leave now, and, you know, go travel, embrace life, all that...” “What you are suggesting exactly?” “If you look into the documents, you’ll see I am offering you a good deal.” Son smiled rather happily. “I’d give you a name. You would transfer the company to this person. You quit. We win the case. The company pays the fee to us and to the state. I pay you a certain commission. Win-win, and – our city is a slightly better place to live in.” “Okay,” Father agreed. “Let’s see this battle.” “What battle?” “You are challenging me to.” Son looked confused. “You are rejecting the deal?” he asked. “This is not a deal,” Father said. “This is everything else but not the deal. Who taught you that?” “Taught me what?” “This.” “I only care about...” Son began, but the phone interrupted him. Son took the call. “Yeah… Sure… I am just in the middle of something… No-no, I will be there. Of course, you can count on me,” he said softly, if not ingratiatingly. Father, in the meantime, was dipping a piece of bread into the sauce, and then eating it with his fingers. The sauce left brownish marks in the corners of his lips. “Is it because of your mother?” he asked, when Son put his phone away. “What? Why?” Son needed a moment to switch to a different tone. “Is this because I left her when she got ill? Because if that’s the case, I can explain.” “I don’t need an explanation,” Son said, gesticulating expressively. “And it’s not because of that… Though it’s awful what you did.” “She didn’t want me to be around,” Father said. “She despised me, just like you do now. She said she wanted to spend her last years without me.” “It’s really not about Mum,” Son insisted. “I am just doing my job, and I like it.” “But I never stopped supporting her – money, good doctors, care,” Father said, squinting at the sun. “I think I left my sunglasses in the taxi.” “I don’t want to hear that!” Son shouted. People at other tables glanced curiously over, waiting for the continuation. Father didn’t say anything, a fight was not flaring up, so people soon returned to their own conversations and meals. For a while Father and Son just sat in silence. “I don’t care about the past,” Son said finally. “I’m trained to care about the present moment and the future.” “You were trained?” Son nodded. “And who paid for your training, I wonder?” “Who?” Son asked. “I did!” Father slammed the glass on the table so hard the stem broke in two. “I paid! To see you betray me!” The waiter came over. He looked displeased. “Is everything okay here, sir?” he asked with moderate irritation. “Yes-yes, I’ll pay for it,” Father murmured and handed him a broken glass. “Can I have another glass?” “More wine?” the waiter asked a bit stiffly. “I said – another glass of wine,” Father said. The waiter hovered over them for a few moments as if he wanted to say something else, then headed into the restaurant. “So this is what you meant by ' I love nature and all that, Dad '?” Father said to Son. “When did I say that to you?” “When you were little. Like eight or something.” “I didn’t lie,” Son agreed. “I do love nature. I want this planet to survive. It is in danger, as you probably know. Oceans, climate, species… My job is to heal it. Or, at least, not to let it die.” “It is a chronic disease,” Father said. “What?” “The disease can get worse or better at times, but it won’t kill the Earth.” Father yawned. Son grinned. “You clearly don’t give a shit!” “Do you?” “I do,” Son said – all of a sudden, joyful. “I don’t know if I'll have kids of my own, but I want future generations to treat the planet with respect. And to enjoy its enormousness, its beauty, its hospitality...” “I just don’t understand,” Father responded quietly. “You were such an affectionate kid. We spent a lot of time together. We hiked, we played football… We did stuff! Do you remember?” “Just some bits.” “How come you abandoned our bond so easily?” “Look, Dad. I am done worrying about insignificant stuff, like how you and Mum screwed up your lives, or me not having the right partner around.” He now sounded and looked like a doctor who was about to deliver bad news to a patient. “Times have changed. The world has changed. There are more important things in the world than two people’s interactions with each other.” Father whistled. “Oceans, I guess?” he said. “Not only, but oceans, too, yes.” “Are you recording our conversation?” Father asked. “No, I'm not.” Son looked perplexed. “That’s an amateur mistake,” Father laughed grimly. “Now you are thinking that you should have, aren’t you?” Son didn’t respond. “I think I have to go now. And you do what you want.” Father waved at the waiter and gestured that he’d like the bill. “I am only paying for myself,” he said to his Son. “Are you leaving?” “Oh, yeah.” He put on his jacket. “You can’t leave!” “Why not?” Father saw his Son clasping his head with his arms. “Headache?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent. “If I don’t bring them this deal, they will fire me,” Son said. “What?” “We are broke,” Son continued. “We lost most of our donors. You know, the world is in crisis.” “Yeah, I read,” Father noted with sarcasm. “We don’t want to go the court,” Son whispered. “We want money. We still have to pay rent, and bills, and salaries… This fee would cover most of our costs and help start new campaigns… Anyway, I promised my bosses to bring them this deal. They don’t know you are my father. If you’d just agree to transfer the company to the third party!” Father suddenly laughed. “That’s some dirty business you’re in, Son!” “For the good cause,” Son said. “Why won’t you find a new job?” “They will sue you anyway.” “You don't have much to offer, huh?” Father asked. “That’s why you are not quitting. Apparently, it is not enough just to declare your love to Mother Nature. You’ve got to have some hard skills, even if you are a bloody damn environmentalist.” Finally, Son started crying. The waiter brought the bill, and Father stood up and paid his half. He was about to leave. “Give me the papers,” Father said. Son looked up at him. “Give me the papers,” Father repeated angrily. “And the pen.” “You will sign?” Son asked. His tears dried up. “No, I will just make a doodle,” Father sighed. “Yeah, I will sign. But first I’ll read what I am about to sign.” Father lit a cigarette and looked at the documents with disgust. “This is the right thing to do,” Son said. “I am happy you are contributing to helping the planet.” “Just so you know,” Father replied, “I don’t give a shit about the planet.”


Frank Leary, 68 years of age, lived in apartment 4B in a drowsy, decrepit building on the corner of Gaston and Avery.            With most of his days spent reading encyclopedias and passing judgement on pedestrians who spoiled the urban view from his window, he found peace in the silent company of his one-bedroom apartment at the very end of an otherwise vacant hallway. Short, stocky, and with a figure resembling a crouching toad, he was, in all respects, a peculiar man with an equally peculiar set of likes and dislikes. This included, but was not limited to, a rare appreciation for the calm, rhythmic wagging of his dog’s tail; a mild irritation with foamy coffee; and a surprisingly unparalleled loathing of the dripping faucet in his bathroom, which he was both too inert and close-fisted to fix.            In the same way, Frank was, to put it lightly, no big fan of stereotypes.            “They’re a cheap, embarrassing excuse for character development that gives viewers nothing of substance to hold on to”, he would tirelessly exclaim to his grandchildren the one time a year he took them to the movie theater. A former scriptwriter himself, he believed this gave him the indisputable right to insert his ‘objectively correct’ opinion into every movie-watching experience. But despite Frank’s inherent peculiarity, he was far from unintelligent, and the irony of his being was not lost on him. Deep down, beneath his cold, callous exterior, he knew he matched the ‘bitter old man’ stereotype through and through. Of course, having dealt in absolutes his whole life, he knew this fact, too, with absolute certainty – although nothing would pain him more than to admit to it. This subconscious resentment for his own hypocrisy brewed within him a burning desire for seclusion. For Frank, this seclusion would be incomplete if not accompanied by a deafening silence that hung in the air like cobwebs on a tall bookshelf.            One might then attempt to imagine how severely Frank’s expression soured (more so than usual), when, upon opening his front door one day, dog leash in hand, he was met with an unfamiliar character. A young man, who looked as though Frank had caught him in the middle of knocking, stood before him in a pair of sensible brown pants and a white collared shirt, both of which he had clearly taken care in ironing. Fresh-faced and boasting a warm smile, the man carried with him an air of youthfulness and a sense of wonder. He knew he had his whole life ahead of him, and this only added salt to Frank’s perpetually festering wounds.            The dog, a small, scraggly mutt that had become Frank’s personal burden after the passing of his wife – mirroring his owner in appearance, but not in demeanor – barked with delight at the presence of another human being, particularly one so radiant and energetic. The crisp, high-pitched barks resonated off the cracked and musty walls of the hallway but were quickly brought to an abrupt end by the kick of Frank’s heel to the little burden’s side.            The stranger, despite being made clearly uncomfortable by the treatment of the dog, did not break his smile. In fact, while introducing himself as Frank’s new, next-door neighbor who had just moved into apartment 4C, his smile only grew warmer. Once the echo of his words slowly ceased, a brief silence descended between the two men. Suddenly, with a low grumble and slight nod of his head in acknowledgment, Frank yanked the thick nylon leash and hurriedly made his way down the hallway.            Whilst the busy city streets burst with excitement and anticipation for the weekend, a profound, burning anger situated deep within Frank’s gut had made him feel nauseated and lost, for he could not understand why or how someone might move there. The building was on the verge of collapse and had hardly been in an attractive part of town, thanks to which Frank had gone almost a decade of living in complete, unsullied solitude at the end of the long hallway. Disoriented and overwhelmed by the news he’d just received, he collapsed onto a bench and convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.            But, lo and behold, not two full days after his first encounter with the new resident, Frank’s initial hunch seemed to have been proven right.            The day had started splendidly. The street outside Frank’s window was empty, as it typically was on Sundays, with only the occasional squirrel making an appearance on the pavement below. The usual morning coffee was rich and foamless, and even the dripping of the bathroom faucet appeared hardly noticeable. Perched over his elbows at the rickety kitchen table, Frank breezed through a section on African sand gazelles in the third edition of Weisman’s Encyclopedia, astonished by how such a small, dainty animal could reach such incredible speeds.            Suddenly, a faint sound caught the attention of his finely tuned ear. Ruffling his brow, he soldiered on with reading about African sand gazelles, considering them to be much more important and worthy of recognition than the happenings of some irrelevant ne’er-do-wells. However, despite his best efforts to drown out the noise by means of intense concentration, the noise only seemed to grow louder and ever-more present.            Surprising as it may seem, despite his persistently resentful attitude, Frank was not a confrontational person. He, too, then, was surprised when he found himself marching with great zeal to apartment 4C, convinced that his new neighbor was the root cause of his grief. After all, this had never happened while the apartments around him were vacant. With a powerful knock on his neighbor’s robust, wooden door, Frank’s voice boomed:            “Can you please stop making so much noise? You’re disrupting my peace!”.            The door quickly opened to reveal the figure of the young man. His casual house clothes appeared just as neat and tidy as the brown pants and white-collared shirt he wore a few days earlier. Although clearly puzzled by this unexpected accusation, his quintessential warm smile once again did not waver. Whilst he was polite enough to apologize for any inconvenience he might have caused Mr. Leary, he also, nonetheless, insisted that whatever noise his neighbor might have heard was not his doing.            Returning to his apartment, Frank noticed that the sound had disappeared. He scoffed under his breath, probably uttering an insult or two about the man next door. It wasn’t until a few days later that the same, aggravating sound had once again graced the otherwise hushed atmosphere of Frank’s home. This time, however, Frank’s incredibly short fuse led him straight to DEFCON 1 – filing a formal noise complaint to the police. For the next few weeks, as the noise persisted, Frank incessantly issued noise complaints, but to no avail.            Embittered by the sense of duty that was so painfully lacking in the police force of the city, Frank could think of no one else to turn to but the building’s concierge. Intelligent as he was, he could also think of no reason why a decrepit, old building in a far from appealing part of town would even have a concierge, and he detested that part of his rent went into paying for this service. For this reason, Frank generally avoided speaking to him, unless it was absolutely necessary, like it was now. The concierge was a man slightly younger than Frank, with a long, grey face and visibly thinning hair. Generally insipid and terse, his expression for once revealed a sense of shock when Frank came to speak to him. Upon hearing Frank’s noise complaint, though, the concierge’s expression of shock would immediately turn into one of confusion:            “Sir, the resident in apartment 4C moved out last week.”            Whilst this came as a massive relief to Frank, it, strangely enough, did little to put an end to his daily exasperation. Even after the young man’s alleged departure, the seemingly sentient noise was a regular at Frank’s. It would arrive unannounced – sometimes during breakfast or the afternoon news – and would only leave after dark, when the few sounds filtering through the apartment was the whisper of the gentle evening wind and the soft tapping of branches against the cold, double-paned window.            The menacing sound in question was more so an indecipherable ruckus than simply a noise – impossible to pin-down and often changing where it came from, it was a constant and ubiquitous force. Its peculiar nature made Frank wonder. Perhaps it came from the upstairs neighbor? Or from the building next door? Or could somebody simply be playing a cruel trick on him?            Whatever the case, the weeks-long debacle had quickly tired out the old man, and the next morning, after loading his bags and dog onto the backseat of his old, rusty Ford Pinto, Frank Leary left his one-bedroom slice of heaven on the corner of Gaston and Avery.            It had not taken him long to make it out of the city. As he made it to the outskirts, he watched the oncoming miles of workers making their daily commute towards the city center. For a moment Frank pondered whether they, too, faced a problem that, like himself, only they could understand, but upon remembering that he left the city to escape from the wretched noise, not to think about it, he mechanically switched on the radio as a distraction from his thoughts.            It had been a long time since Frank had listened to the radio, or any music, for that matter. For a man so obsessed with silence, he considered music to be a sacred creative force. After all, listening to music was a favorite past-time of his that he once shared with his wife, and he intended for it to stay that way, as a memory cemented in time. As he allowed himself to reminisce over fond recollections of enjoying music well into the early hours of the morning with his wife, a bitter-sweet feeling enveloped him, and, as if by some curious twist of fate, her favorite song chimed through the speakers of the Ford: “My Echo, My Shadow and Me”.            Almost as if he had been hypnotized, Frank made it to his country house, having completely lost track of time. Idyllic and quaint, the little white house sat perched on top of a hill, overlooking the rolling wildflower meadows and birch forests that spilled out below. Frank chose a comfortable looking spot of grass to sit on and gazed at the spellbinding beauty of the landscape, which was perhaps second only to the sight of the scraggly little dog chasing a butterfly.            For the first time in weeks, Frank felt a sense of calm. He had, in a mere few hours’ drive from the city, all but forgotten the ghastly noise that had haunted him back home. He felt at peace with his own thoughts about coffee foam and African sand gazelles, and this time he thoroughly enjoyed his little canine companion’s rhythmic tail-wagging.            When, suddenly, the noise reappeared.            Bewildered and confused, Frank jumped to his feet. Running erratically in circles around the overgrown meadow, he searched desperately for a source of the noise as it rang through his ears, cruelly and carelessly.            But there was no one and nothing there. There was no one to complain of, and there was no one to complain to, and yet the noise still persisted.            In that moment, Frank fell to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and cried. Hot tears dripped off his face and onto the ground below. Meanwhile, apartment 4B returned to its natural, silent state of being.


(Descriptions of fictional crimes investigated by the story's main Character Max.) Detective's Fate It's august of 2008..... Max is a detective living in Chicago He checks his pistol and puts on his police badge as he walks out his front door. He has been searching for a serial killer known as the Caller for years and always been one step behind due to the red tape..... More importantly the chief's lazy attitude towards getting search warrants and actions approved by the courts for raids. Twice Max had good intel on the suspect's locations and photo evidence showing him at the sites. The department needs more vigilant, caring officers and leaders but no one steps up to do it, instead they just complain about the slow progress and officers. And hinder investigations. Now Max has decided that it might be time to stop playing by the rules and catch this scumbag.... .... .... Starting his car Max sets his GPS to the address that "The Caller" was last seen and pulls out of his driveway as the 50 miles of directions pop up. The killer's nickname being for his signature of calling in as he is committing the crime. As he drives he remembers his first case, five years ago now..... ..... ..... A woman, Joane Taylor, was found dead in an alleyway after going out for the night. She showed no signs of struggle leading the police to believe she had drank to much and expired from alcohol poisoning.... ... The death was written off as a "party gone wrong".... That is until several more were found and the coroner decided on a whim to test for other substances. Once it came out that the deaths were possible murders... The calls started coming in, almost like the suspect wanted credit before revealing himself.... Then ways of the deaths began changing as the Serial Killer explored his twisted desires searching for his preferred method. The last case being a young woman found stuffed in a dumpster after the killer apparently got scared off.... Max will never forget it.... .... .... The GPS finishes and the car beeps its final direction, taking an exit off the highway. Ramps out here are always confusing... Which is funny since he has driven this one for five years now... The chief says he should sit this one out but he can't... The latest victim 3 months ago. Marie Spelner, a waitress out on her smoke break talking to her spouse on the phone. Survived by her husband, no children or living relatives. .... Max Spelner turns into the driveway of the house he was directed to... Stepping out of the car he walks up and knocks on the door. Looking at the house he knows the family must be doing well if they live here.... Raising his hand to knock again he hears a scream from inside.... A second later the door is answered by a middle aged butler holding a tray with wine glasses on it... "Hello Sir, I'm sorry but this house does not wish to partake in any offers at this time..." Max calmly says. "I'm not selling anything." The butler looks confused for a moment before his eyes dart over Max's shoulder seeing his unmarked cruiser and he nods. Looking past the butler Max sees that a woman is cleaning up after their dog. "Have you seen this man?" Says Max holds up a picture of the one suspected of being the killer. The butler gives it a once over before replying. "I'm sorry sir, no I have not." His tone sounds like he is lying... .... "Are you sure?" The detective asks. "I would not lie about something like that, sir." He states, his eyes not meeting Max's. The woman calls from inside "Fletcher, who are you talking too?" "Some man asking about a killer" he calls back. "The killer is an inside job!" The woman quickly states. "What?!" Max says. "The Killer, it's an inside job." She says again, louder this time. In the same Max also hears a child begin to cry in another room. "We should start from the beginning, it will be easier to explain trust me." The woman says. 'She seems to know what is going on.... "How do I know your story holds water?" He asks out loud. "Oh I wouldn't lie. I have been following the case myself and it seems like an inside job to me." She states, somehow sounding hurt. "Is there anyone else in the house besides you two and the baby?" He asks noticing the baby isn't crying anymore. "Just Fletcher and I live here, the baby is my cousins but he just stays the night sometimes." She replies. Max draws his gun and enters the house upon reasonable suspicion of an emergency in progress or suspect on the premisses as the man seems to be deceiving. While the woman still seems unconcerned that the child is now silent. He pushes past the butler and rushes towards the area he heard the crying. passes the entryway, the dinning room, and a kitchen before finally finding a child in a playpen. "There there..." He says in a sing song voice picking up the child. "I'm officer Max, do you know where your mommy is?" The child just cries louder. Then he sees the man from the photo walk out of the bathroom, upon seeing him he bolts for the door and Max sets the child down gently then gives chase. He runs through the house, following the man as he can hear the woman screaming at him to stop but he doesn't." "Stop or I'll shoot." The man doesn't even break stride. Instead he runs out of the front door and jumps into his car. Furious that the man might escape he fires at the car as it drives away. The back window shatters and he hopes he got his tire, but he doesn't wait to find out as he runs to his car and initiates a pursuit.... He flips on his concealed lights in his cruiser as he reverses down the drive and into the street. The suspects car is fast but he manages to keep up with it weaving in and out of traffic as people move over for the siren. As they approach a red light there is heavy traffic in the intersection..... .... The suspect slams on his brakes and Max's cruiser only just stops short of hitting it. Jumping out the Detective points his firearm at the vehicle running up beside seeing heavily tinted windows. "Get out of the car and on the ground now!!" He shouts as he moves to the driver's side door. After seeing no response.... Max throws open the door and the driver is gone with the passenger side open. He quickly runs to the other side catching the man trying to sneak off tackling him to the ground and then takes his arms putting them behind his back. Max grabs his radio and calls it in as the man cries. As he is waiting he hears a noise that sounds like static..... "Wrong guy moron.. Did you ever stop to think I wanted you close for this one. That I planned everything...Even framing the pothead..... I almost lost interest until you pulled in the driveway... The attic is kinda cramped tho... I think I'll go carve some meat. Maybe graduate to other things to. I'm not sure yet. Lets see if you can catch me before......" A familiar voice says over the radio then cuts off... ... Max looks at the man on the ground. "Why did you run from me?" He asks. "Cause I have like 19 grams of marijuana in my pocket." He replies... "Do you know how stupid that is?! I don't care about that I'm looking for a killer." Before he can answer Max hears the woman from the house screaming for her life and a child's cries on his radio. Then from below Max. "He's in the house, he's in the house! My mom and the baby!" The man on the ground says crying. Max uncuffs him and runs to his car heading back to the house as he lays down rubber on the road... ... ... As he approaches and pulls into the driveway he notices the front door is open. "Hold on I'm coming!" Max screams jumping out of his cruiser... He runs into the house finding the woman's body arriving too late. Moving over to her he checks for a pulse but she is gone, a large gash in her neck. As he stands up he slips in a fluid but gains his balance and tries not to think about what it is.... He rushes to the room the baby was in finding the play pen empty. He leaves the room searching the rest of the house and still doesn't find the child. "Where are you!!!" He calls out.... "This is the Callers first kidnapping and the media would eat up the fact I failed to stop the man." He thinks as he blames himself. Sirens begin to blare in the distance as backup is about to arrive... ... ... "There's a woman dead and a baby missing! The woman is in the dinning room straight ahead of the front door, Hurry!" He yells into his radio... Looking over at the mother seeing a piece of paper on the floor. He walks over to it seeing writing. "So close... Looks like I'm a kidnapper now.... Good luck finding me.... And... I so enjoyed killing that sweet wife of yours. Might do it that way again. Not to the kid tho....later Max. Ps. This game is so fun.." It says. "He was here..." Is all he can muster as the team enters. "He was right in this house and I missed it because her son freaked over weed and ran..." He says as another officer speaks to him gently. "Don't beat yourself up Detective, it's not your fault. He must have hid before you got her and left after you arrived." The words do little to comfort him "First day back on the job and the killer escaped taking a child..." He says as he walks away. The chief arrives in his new lexus with a screeching of rubber as he lurches to a halt. He quickly exits and leaves his door hanging open as he rushes into Max's face.... "I told you to stay away from this case MAX!!!!....(takes a breath)... "If I catch any flak from my superiors, I won't suspend you.... That'd be to easy. Desk duty and an entry level demotion. The new guy will have a higher rank than you if things go my way.... Now get outta my sight...". "(Sighs)... "This job is gonna be the death of me..." He says walking away from Max and towards the Coroner's van..... ..... ..... On the way home the detective stops by the store close to his house which is unlike him because he usually follows the same routine. He nears the front door and he hears a kitchen timer ding loudly from behind him as his car explodes throwing him through the storefront windows as they are blown out..... ..... Alarms around the lot and others nearby create a cacophony of noise. His head pounding as his body aches, Max pushes himself up and collapses as the store manager runs over to him telling him not to move as he dials 911.... .... .... Waking in the hospital Max recalls the feeling of the Shockwave as he flinches in phantom pain. "Who woulda thought its like holding a ringing metal bat that hurts your hands but all over and way more intense." He thinks. He suddenly feels tired and falls asleep.... .... .... .... The next time he wakes, he sees a breaking news story that Jane Saltani is reporting on.... "Young toddler Accidently Shoots Serial killer/kidnapper ending his life and Alerting residents in the Area." The news anchor says. Sighing to himself Max thinks about how crazy that is and laughs. Tho he really wanted to bring the guy in. He closes his eyes to get some much needed sleep as his door opens. Max looks up to see a man with a silenced pistol pointed at him. "Hm. Now they think I'm dead. Funny how they just assume they got the right guy. Just like.... You did Detect... ....." Max hears but then hears no more as his end comes at just over the speed of sound.... The Caller leaves the hair of another intelligent convicted murderer that he obtained in a spot that's believable and quickly leaves..... He disables the surveillance system and sends a virus out to any device that has received video data from the hospital. Erasing and corrupting the systems. Leaving a master hackers finger prints on a glass from his home.... "Sorry, no witnesses." He says to the security guard as he fires... ..... ..... .... ....


It was the first day that I had been able to venture out alone. My Sherpa had been keeping me in closed quarters until now, but she felt I knew the terrain well enough now for a solo wander. I set out early, crossing through the wooded area, and the cold slate flats before taking some respite and food, a mixture of soaked grains and meats to keep me from becoming dehydrated should I not find a water source. By mid morning, I came to another wooded area I had been through once with my Sherpa, but was not very familiar with it. Two pools and an almost dry waterfall framed the terrain neatly, beyond this was unknown to me. I decided to push no further and began to explore the dry basins, scrambling over hardened clays that so recently held water. I came to an unusual looking raised area, the shapes too regular to be natural, though in material it seemed to be wooden. Yes some sort of wooden structure, a man made object all the way out here? My curiosity peaked and I couldn't resist the urge to climb up and explore. I leaped and scrambled up the side, which proved smoother and more difficult to get a grip on then anticipated, as if its creator had been attempting to deter such actions. Of course, this only spurred me on further. At the top, unseen from below was a plateau. Some signs of long since ceased activity still showed here, but it was the eastern side of the plateau that caught my attention. A raised lip in the midst of the flatness. I wandered over, to discover that the lip shielded what seemed to be some sort of hole. Whether natural or man made I could not say. After poking about for a few moments and realizing from I could not see far into this cave, I weighed my options. My sensible side yielded, the stern voice of my Sherpa echoing in my ear. We didn't have a common tongue, but I knew a warning from her when I heard it. But my wild side won out. I am a strong climber, I could descend a little and have a better look and come back out if the cave looked too dangerous. Tentatively I lowered myself over the ledge, gradually sinking into the crevice. My leg reached for the next foothold just as I lost my grip, the surface smooth and polished - in a flash I found myself free falling into the darkness. I've been deemed lucky and told I always seem to land on my feet in life, something I have scoffed at in the past but fortunately rang true this morning. I blinked in the darkness, mentally checking over my body which appeared injury free after the fall. As my eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, the light from above began to reveal the shadowy shapes that made up my surroundings. The cave had an unnatural smell, musty and a sickly sweet almost synthetic fragrance singed my nostrils. I set out to familiarize myself with my surroundings, and most importantly, seek out a route back to the ledge I had climbed down. Unless I had become completely disoriented, I discovered that the east and south sides of the cave did indeed seem to be of stone. The hairs on my neck began to raise - what was this cave, part nature and part constructed. What and where was that sickly sweet smell coming from? I followed the southern wall of the cave around until I met what must have been the western face I had climbed, it's smooth and constructed surface mirroring that I had just found. Underfoot I heard a rustling and froze... was there more than one level to this cave? I shuddered at the thought... though perhaps that could be my way out. I decided to continue mapping my surroundings first, turning north. With a sickening thud, my entire body rebounded of an unexpected surface. I reached out to feel a smooth, highly polished surface, cold to the touch. This was not like the stone or constructed walls I had encountered. No, this was something entirely different. I gave the surface a tentative sniff - metallic. My mind reeled. This must have been the same surface I lost my footing on, leading me here. A trap? What was this large metal object? Why was it hidden in this cave? Or could I even call this a cave, given its apparent semi constructed nature? My heart raced as panic roared in my ears. pullyourselftogether pull yourself together PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!!! I took a deep breath. Be rational. My mind had jumped ahead to alien conspiracy theories, and I struggled to rein them in. Perhaps this had once been the site of some sort of industrial plant? But why then hide it? Toxic sludge monsters battled the far more rational "to keep people safe" option in my mind. As I explored further, the panic in my mind became harder and harder to control... encountering areas of dampness with that heavy perfumed scent. What felt like gigantic plastic pipes jutted aggressively out of the metallic surface. A knot in my stomach grew progressively tighter, with the realization that I had left my food topside, having planned to initially just have a little nose around the edge. The surfaces of the cave proved unclimbable, and though I had a little more luck with the plastic piping, it only raised me slightly from the surface - there was no way I could clamber back to the top. I sunk to the floor, dejected, hungry. The smell of the cave becoming more and more nauseating as time wore on and my spirit wore down. I'm uncertain how long had passed when I felt the breeze, the scent of fresh air. I sought out the source and discovered that the cave I was in was not rectangular as I suspected initially, a small opening between the rock and the metal revealed itself on the north east side. Exploring this could mean a way out. But it would also mean being pressed between the indifferent rock and the cold, unknown metallic object. The potential of escape won out, I slowly moved forward into the tight space, squeezing my body forward. There was no room to turn, should I meet anything on this path a hasty retreat backwards my only hope. The resonance of my movement against the metal surface told me the object was some sort of hollow entity. I tried not to dwell on the multiple grim scenarios that plagued my mind and keep focus on my escape. After what seemed like a lifetime, a sliver of light shimmered in the distance, my heart soaring with joy. But with each step forward, an unseen force began to clip the wings of my soaring heart. The sliver of light was just that. A sliver. The cave narrowed impossibly, not even enough space to slide a hand through. To my dismay through the crack I could see the wooded area I had so happily traipsed through hours before. The sight was torture, and I slunk back into the dark, damp perfumed air. Hunger gripped at my belly and though noises we abundant, no dark evil seemed to make is presence known. I tried to make myself comfortable, as best I could. Here and there were the crisp, hollow remains of long since dead bugs, nothing lived in this box. Would I?, I thought grimly... To keep warm, periodically I would move my bones, and on one such jaunt stumbled across a soft surface, too hard to be a blanket... a rug perhaps? I decided to sit and consider my limited options. I screamed myself raw, hoping perhaps in this remote wilderness someone would pass. I sat and sobbed, thinking of my Sherpa's warnings. Would she return this way? I expended what little energy I held attempting to hoist myself back towards the ledge, through which by now the light was beginning to dwindled. Night fell, and with it, my hopes. I lay dejected, nauseous, miserable. The smell and metal shape infecting my mind, cruel smooth surfaces, perfume stench. I was doomed, this was my lot. My mind drifted to the Sherpa, she often practiced some form of meditation whilst I had been awakening in the mornings. I tried to emulate her calm, but my mind fixated on my slow and eventual doom. I wept. Small mewling sobs escaped my lips, when I began to hear the noises. A distant boom - from outside or within the depths of the metal object? I shuddered. Rustling.. trees? Or creatures ascending whatever depths the object held? And then... in the distance a voice? Not alien but a human voice? The source was hard to decipher but I pressed forward into the narrow crevasse I had earlier explored in the hopes of freedom. The forest remained dark and silent, until I heard it again. My name. MY NAME. Faint, distant, but unmistakable My heart rate rapid I attempted to push my way as far into the crevasse as I could. A light, and her. The Sherpa had returned and had begun to search for me, relief flooding my every fiber. I parted my dehydrated lips to shout in response but nothing came out. She moved away as I tried again and again to get my hoarse voice to respond. She had moved completely out of sight when finally a choked noise escaped my mouth - HERE. HERE. HERE. OVER HERE. I heard her sure and speedy footfall and finally a familiar face loomed in front of me. She smiled and said something - her native tongue incomprehensible to me, though I could see a flash of fear in her eyes. I cried back at her pleading for her speedy help, but she turned and ran back towards the slate flats. I openly cried. After what seemed like hours, she returned, this time with some of her strange items I had seen her use before. She began to methodically work on the smooth surface opening the space but it was not enough. I continued to weep freely now, the metal object still blocking my path and I saw no hope of this small, weak woman shifting it. Unlike my fear of the object, she seemed unperturbed by it, confirming that perhaps it was not some monstrous spacecraft but in fact something of her native people's design. I cowered in the back of the cave as she worked at the crevasse. Then unbelievably, with what I can only imagine was my Sherpa having called on the strength of her gods, she started to push and pull on the metal object. There was a ferocity I had not yet seen in this gentle soul and with an almighty heave, to my disbelief the object began to move.... small minute distances at first. The roar from the hollow drum deafening my ears. With an almighty heave this unassuming woman moved the metal structure, in the light now visible to me as some sort of box. As fresh air flowed in I became aware that this box was the source to of the perfumed stench I had choked on throughout the day. My instincts took over and I dashed to freedom, past the Sherpa who was now struggling with the metal object, a strange and I thought pointless dance now that I was out. I found the pack of food I had left behind scarfing down chunks of meat and moist grains barely stopping to chew, and within moments, vomited everything I had consumed back up. Shock, I assumed. But I was free. The Sherpa had by now replaced the metal box, and in a high voice, I assume gave me a scolding, but I did not understand. We walked back in silence to the area we most often camped on, with it's soft plush surfaces. Exhausted, she lay down, and I moved to her side, trying to express my thanks - thinking late is better than never. She looked at me and rubbed my head, which I took as an open invitation. Purring, I moved on to her stomach and curled up for a nap, gave a little meow and began kneading her legs with my claws.


Sue Ellen sat at her desk sipping her Earl Grey and eating her usual lunch of low-fat turkey and a hastily prepared salad. The more she thought about it, the more she began to believe what her recent ex-boyfriend, Brian had said. She was boring, and her need for order and routine was getting in the way of her life. She had eaten this lunch every workday for the past two months with no problems, but today it tasted bland and unappealing.

Just like her .

The thought snuck into her head greasily, leaving an unpleasant feeling.

Being recently single after being in a relationship with Brian for over three years was something of a shock to Sue Ellen. She was not forty years old yet, but somehow, she felt too old to date. She felt like old produce left in the fridge, wilted and unsaleable. Brian had certainly perpetuated these feelings by having an affair, and honestly, there were so many little things that she should have noticed but didn’t. Or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. Tap. Tap. Tap. She works through lunch because she has nothing better to do. Watching her coworkers, the sea of square placeholders in a beige room, they have all grouped up for lunch, small friend groups chatting about everyday things.

Her cubicle had nothing of note in it. No personal items, no photos, maybe just a hint of her smell. She suddenly remembered she needed to run by the department store after work. Tonight was the dinner reception for the wedding her old friend, Tammie Lynn had invited her to.

“You remember my kin on my momma’s side, right?” Sue Ellen had nodded.

The two had been out to lunch ‘catching up’, but mostly Sue Ellen had felt like a burden, unloading all her problems on her old friend. The ‘kin’ in question was the blue-collar side of the family. Specifically, the cousin that gave Tammie Lynn the reputation for being a hillbilly in elementary school. Her cousin Clint had come in with a pet possum once, and Tammie Lynn was the only one who would talk to him after that. Of course, Sue Ellen came along for the ride.

“Well, Clint's finally tying the knot! The bride’s a real sweet girl. A nice Jewish girl he met when he moved to the city. You wanna be my plus one?” Tammie Lynn had asked outright.

She never did mince words, and Sue Ellen could read the hopeful glint in her old friend’s eye, a hint of mischief even. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything else going on.” Tammie Lynn’s blue eyes sparkled with delight as she gave Sue Ellen one of her characteristic bear hugs. The girl was rail thin but somehow strong as an ox.

So here she was, going to a hillbilly wedding. She knew that Tammie Lynn’s mom’s side of the family were the hillbilly ones. It would be fun, though. They were good people and had always made her feel so welcome, even if they didn’t have anything, they still shared it with her whenever she had come over. She hadn’t seemed very excited at first, but the more she thought about it, the more she appreciated her friend inviting her out, particularly with people she felt safe around, though it would be a sight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to drink or not. Did she want to be a part of it or just be a spectator? Sharing a drink with someone was like sharing a meal with Sue Ellen. She spent most of her Friday afternoon workday shopping online to see if any styles would suit the occasion. Tammie Lynn had mentioned bright colors and... denim. Boots? Probably. She would have to dust her old pair off and dig up her denim jacket. They were broken in and comfortable, so at least she wouldn’t be stuck chilly and wearing high heels all night. “This isn’t going to be so bad.” She could feel herself getting psyched up. Pausing her endless cycle of routines for a couple of days. Everything would be fine.

The department store she had chosen was near her workplace, so she walked for some fresh air. A small cafe nearby smelled like roasted garlic and red wine, but she put her hunger behind her, knowing that the reception was only two hours away. The department store was almost empty, with only a few patrons within on a Friday evening. The smell of perfume from the counter gave the place a floral note, and she figured she could get a tester of something to make herself smell a bit better after she picked out the dress.

She found the cut and color she had seen online. It fit beautifully, and it was very comfortable. Maybe she would have a drink after all. She grabbed a tester of perfume. It smelled of lilies, but the name was just BURST, and for some reason, the impression was that of a poorly ventilated funeral home with a bum freezer. She put that one back for another with a fresher smell. More like chamomile and bergamot. Her hand twisted the glass to face the name. It was just called Dolly and had a flower on the spray cover. As someone who worked in sales, she was confused by the branding on both perfumes.

“When did things become so literal?” This one reminded her of that Dolly Parton song, wildflowers, however. “Fine by me”.

There was no time for a shower by the time she got home. Quickly, she freshened up her makeup and hair and gave herself a dollop of Dolly. The boots fit like a dream, and she found a fifty-dollar bill in her old jean jacket. She hadn’t worn it since before...before Brian.

“Thanks, old me,” She thought, as she drove through the city, to the outskirts of town, until the neon lights and pavement became warehouses and well-lit industrial barn buildings. She wondered for a fleeting moment, if it wasn’t her fault for Brian. This outfit that swallowed her in comfort and practicality would have disappeared from her closet, and been replaced with something 'acceptable'. He would see her in a pair of boots and give her a look that made her feel unwelcome in her own space.

Finally, she found it. It was a barn-style building, with lots of tables and dancing space. The interior was painted a tasteful grey with green accents. A bar on the right side of the room was artfully built with reclaimed wood. A stocky bearded bartender waved her inside. Her first glance around the room was intense, to say the least. Old Jewish men in kippot cavorted genially with old-timers in tight denim and tucked-in button-down flannels. There was a small buffet with finger foods and charcuterie. Finally, she heard Tammie Lynn’s voice above the tumult. She waved an arm toward Sue Ellen, who was with the bride and groom’s family. Tammie Lynn scooped up Sue Ellen in her thin arms, directing her to a chair.

“Ya’ll, this is my oldest friend, Sue Ellen. Mamaw, you ‘member her, don’t ya?

A familiar elderly woman with perfectly permed hair carefully pinned on her head nodded and gave Sue Ellen a shaking hand. “Hello, honey. How you been doing? I heard about that awful situation with that boyfriend of yours. Don’t you worry honey, there’s plenty of decent men to go around here, Tammie Lynn’ll show ya around.” Sue Ellen was so shocked that the old woman and her husband were still around, they must have been over ninety. It took her a moment to feel embarrassed that everyone knew her situation. But looking around the table, she saw nothing but friendly faces standing up to hug her. She introduced herself to the Blums. Their daughter the bride, Ava was a delightful girl, standing next to her, beaming with pride--no longer the possum pet owner. Now he was her groom. Tammie Lynn’s cousin, Clint had turned into a tall and handsome man. “Good for you two! Congrats!” Sue Ellen exclaimed after she got warmed up to the room. There was surprisingly no jealousy or malice in her voice, or her secret heart. Sue Ellen saw at first glance that she was everything he wanted her to be, and Sue Ellen knew that Ava never went home with Clint feeling like she didn’t belong. That’s nice. “ You could have that too, now.” Sue Ellen’s secret heart whispered.

Dinner was being served, so she took her seat waiting for their table to be called to the buffet line. Sue Ellen realized that Tammie Lynn was sitting across from her, but she had neglected to introduce herself to those on either side. She made to do so before Tammie Lynn cut in: “Oh where are my manners?! Eric, this is Sue Ellen, and to your right, is Bubbe Blum.” She raised her voice a little, reaching a gentle hand across the table to the woman almost as old as Mamaw and Papaw Walker. “Bubbe? This is my oldest friend, Sue Ellen. The old woman raised her eyes to Sue Ellen, giving her a gentle pat on the hand. “Nice to meet you, young lady. You’ll be taking care of me tonight, right? Don’t let these old-timers sweep me off my feet, alright?” Sue Ellen couldn’t help it. As she shook the woman’s hand she saw the faded and cursed tattoo on her arm. But despite it, the woman bubbled with spunk. I think they would say ‘Hutzpah’.

“Yes ma’am, I’ve known these guys for a while, they aren’t getting anything over on me!”

The old woman pats her hand again, and finally, Sue Ellen remembers Eric there. He smiled sweetly at his Bubbe, his brown eyes the color of honey. She met eyes with Tammie Lynn, who gave her that mischievous smile. Sue Ellen shook her head slightly; her friend was clearly trying to set her up. He seemed nice and all, but she wasn’t ready for anything. But she saw how Tammie Lynn was looking at him. Why is she trying to set me up with him if she clearly likes him?

After their meal, Sue Ellen drags Tammie Lynn alone to the bar. “Thanks again for inviting me! I’ve forgotten how your family makes you feel so welcome. Also, what’s the deal with you and that Eric fellow?” Sue Ellen bought them a round from the bartender, who was more her type if she was being honest. He had a burly physique and a nice smile.

“Oh well, you know. You have a city lifestyle so I thought you might get on with him well. He is handsome. I think he’s some kind of professor or somethin’ I don’t remember. But he seemed yer caliber.” Her eyes squinted like she was hurt by this admission.

“But don’t you like him? Why aren’t you, his caliber? You’re loving and down to earth. Go get what you want, girl.” Sue Ellen could feel her old twang coming back. That part of herself that Brian had tried to kill.

“Does he make you feel like you aren’t good enough?” Tammie Lynn shook her head.

“I guess I just don’t know him well, is all.” Tammie Lynn looked back at the table where Eric was now drinking scotch with some of the Walker cousins and the groom. He listened intently to a raucous story but met eyes with Tammie Lynn, and Sue Ellen could see it. He thought Tammie Lynn was something pretty special.

“Well, what should we do, Tammie Lynn? What’s the plan?” Sue Ellen elbowed her to get her attention away from him.

“Well, I don’t know! He’s out of my league.”

Sue Ellen grabbed another round of drinks, though she didn’t even think she wanted to drink earlier that evening. It was her turn to usher Tammie Lynn forward toward the cousins. They all spent the rest of the evening together, and eventually, it was time to head home.

Tammie Lynn and Eric got to talk amongst themselves for a while. Sue Ellen entertained the cousins and had to take a cab home.

The wedding was an early one the next afternoon. Since the families were of two faiths, the wedding was held outdoors. The wedding color scheme was blue and yellow, it was a lovely spring morning in the backyard of the Walker residence, only an hour out of the city. The Chuppah was a beautifully built pergola that the Walker family made for her. He said it symbolized the effort that went into blending a family. The veiling and the walk to the Chuppah were wonderful to watch as each family gave away their children. Of course, Tammie Lynn cried the whole time and kept stuffing tissues in her purse. She had always been a little sappy compared to Sue Ellen who rarely cried. She noticed Eric seated a little behind them on the bride’s side of the aisle. He glanced at Tammie Lynn often, smiling at the woman’s blubbering. Somehow being with Tammie Lynn was cathartic and cleansing. Washing away the stink of her old self. Even if she wasn’t the one crying.

Eventually, the ceremony came to an end, it was a little long because both faiths were addressed, and there was a Rabbi and a Preacher in attendance. Lots of praying, and singing, some speeches. Lunch was barbeque, potluck-style. Very Walker. Everyone sat on picnic tables, and a huge dancing area was set up in the center. The bride and groom had their first dance, but then the party opened up. Sue Ellen wasn’t always a dancer, but it was a fun bunch. She found herself dancing with just about everyone at some point. Some of the old-timers brought out instruments, from both families. Somehow, they made it work, either taking turns or playing popular songs. The sun shone down on them, as the two families swirled in a bouncing continuum.

For a moment, Sue Ellen was free. She was wearing red polka dots today, a dress she had pushed far back into her closet, almost in hiding. It was thin and airy, and she felt radiant. She chose boots again, though she put on the nice cream-colored ones with the white tassels. By the end, they were grass-stained and sweaty. She separated herself from the group for a moment, it was about three o’clock and she had been dancing for hours. She kicked off her boots and found a cool patch of grass beneath the shade of an old hickory tree. She nodded off, the cool breeze on her flushed cheeks. The sky was brilliantly blue, and her toes felt soothed beneath the thick grass. A gentle clicking sound roused her, who knows how long she slept there. Looking up, it was Bubbe, she had pulled a lawn chair out to sit with her beneath the tree.

“Hey, Bubbe Blum. You, okay?” Sue Ellen sat up on her elbows. Her body felt loose and relaxed. The older woman in her fine yellow fascinator hat, her hair looked like a bouquet as she sat above Sue Ellen, the shade framing her body in a silhouette.

“Just watching my grandson fall in love with your friend. I would have thought you would go for him. And here I knew I would find you feeling sorry for yourself, but you look just like the picture of splendor.” She looks down at Sue Ellen with a fond expression.

“Being here with you all reminded me of better times and a better version of myself. Are you sad that it wasn’t me?" She paused, thinking. "I don’t think it should be me. I’m not ready for that yet. Hell, only yesterday I thought I was worthless and boring. Now I don’t even know what to think.” She trailed off, lost in thought as she watched the party wind down. “A day can make a big difference, can’t it?” Bubbe got a faraway look, but then she patted Sue Ellen’s arm and stood to leave.

“You’re going to be alright, kid.”

Sue Ellen beamed because she knew it to be true.