It was two days before the biggest holiday at the infamous company. The team at the Allis Company came all together to meet up at the sixth floor to discuss what they should do this year. Everyone was there, except Mr. Sams. He was the owner of the company, but he was far too strict. He loathed April Fools’ more than anyone. That didn't stop the huge company from creating the biggest prank of the year that will soon be on every social media platform. Little did the company know things will go down fall from there. "Let's burn this place for the prank!" said one employee. "No, no let's junk this whole place with food!" said another employee. "Silence everyone!" yelled Mr. Sams secretary, Ms. Amy. Everyone silenced at her voice. No one wanted her there, but she knew about the pranks every year. The employees missed the last secretary, Mallie Mill. She was quirky, fun, and created the best pranks, but Mr. Sams fired her because he got bored. "How about we mess up this whole building, and I know what you all are thinking, Ms. Amy we already did that, so we are going to put a spin to that," she paused for water, "we are going to put up embarrassing pictures of Mr. Sams all over the office." Everyone silenced for a while because they knew that if they would criticize Ms. Amy’s ideas, she would fire them. "Damn it everyone, don't be afraid speak up!" Ms. Amy said furiously. "That's a horrible idea, we've done something like that a couple years ago," an employee named Jack said. "Yeah Jack's right we need something that no one will forget that is so lame, plus Mr. Sams doesn't even have any embarrassing pictures!" an employee said. Everyone started talking about how Ms. Amy’s idea was horrible. They weren't wrong, that idea is so simple, and Mr. Sams has only one face he does all day, which employees call the grumpy face. Every year it was harder to make up an idea, which sounds a bit intriguing. The company’s building is ginormous and has seventy floors, but only half the floors get used. They could practically do anything, right? "Ok, ok I get it the idea is basic and not that fun, but I have to let you guys trust me, I have embarrassing pictures of Mr. Sams," Ms. Amy said. No one listened to her and they kept on jabbing on how that was a horrible idea. Ms. Amy on the other hand was furious with this. "Next person who speaks gets fired, and I mean it!" Ms. Amy gasped for air, "we will be doing my idea no questions." She exited the large room. "Let her burn in hell," a quiet employee muttered. "Her ideas are the worst. Now we have to trash the whole a** building that is like what, five hundred feet tall," Jack held up five fingers and rounded his fingers to make a zero, "she's insane!" After a long time of trash talking, everyone exited the insanely huge dark grey colored room. Everyone went home wondering how they are going to impress the world with this prank. For Ms. Amy on the other hand, she was far too excited and was too eager to start this prank. In fact, she was too eager, she called Mr. Sams. "Hello Sams," Ms. Amy said in a seductive voice. "What do you want Martha I have to finish this paperwork for some guy in Tokyo," said Mr. Sams in an annoyed voice. "You better start talking nice to me or I might reconsider the Bahamas next weekend." "Oh, you can reconsider all right. My wife will be more than happy to accompany me." "That gold-digging b*tch," Ms. Amy muttered. "Don't call her that," Mr. Sams gritted his teeth. "Hmmmm what are you going to do, fire me!" Ms. Amy laughed evilly. Ms. Amy cleared her throat, "So when are you going to show me out in public?" "I told you the other day, I'm working on that," Mr. Sams said in a slight tone of fear, something he barley shows. "You're taking too long, hurry up or I’ll ruin you." Mr. Sams ended the call. The next morning, barley anyone was awake. Ms. Amy sent an email last night to tell everyone to be there by five which was far too early for most employees. She also told everyone to meet her at the same boring room from yesterday. "It's so early I forgot why we are even here," one tired employee said sarcastically and some people in the room chuckled. For Ms. Amy, she was not tired at all. In fact, she spent all night preparing for today to start the prank. She had the most important thing for the prank with her. The pictures. She treated those pictures like they were her baby, her prized position, the only thing that she valued. But why? What do these pictures have in store for her? "I know everyone is tired, but it is very important we set up these floors perfectly and that is why I split everyone in groups and decided who and what you all do on each floor." Ms. Amy said cheerfully. "Yay, great, so excited to see this amazing plan of yours," someone said annoyed and brave. Ms. Amy ignored that person, she was far too busy and excited to care for the sarcasm in their voice. "Ella, Tom, Riley, and Dale you four go to floor numero uno and dump the place, oh and don't forget the silly string, here...," Ms. Amy said and continued to tell everyone where they should go and do. "This is going perfectly so far," Ms. Amy said once she was alone in her room. She let out one of those evil laughs she did when she was being sneaky. Her plan was going perfectly, way too well. The employees on the twenty floors didn't know that she has been planning this for months. They also didn't know they were being used as bait. Ms. Amy was thrilled and called Mr. Sams wife, Noor. "Ahhhh hello Noor, long time no speak," Ms. Amy said confidently. "What the hell do you want Martha, I have a party to go to make this quick," Mr. Sams wife, Noor said. "No hello? I missed you, you know and while you're at it say hi to Mathew for me." "You are going to make me a murderer Martha, just tell me what the hell you want so I don't have to hear your god-awful voice." "Don't worry Noor, this will probably be the last call you will ever have with me before you go psycho on me, so take care, send all my love to Mathew." "You bi-." Ms. Amy ended the call satisfied with herself. Ms. Amy’s office phone rang. "Hello Ms. Amy, a guest by the name Andrew Garcia is here for you, he says it's urgent," Ms. Amy's secretary said. "Let him come to me, I'm in my office." Ms. Amy's door knocked. "Come in!" "Martha Amy looking good, looking good," a tall handsome man with dark colored hair and dark eyes named Andrew Garcia said. "Oh, stop it Garcia you know I can never leave the house looking like someone like Noor." "You are too much, and I love it." Andrew Garcia grabbed Ms. Amy by the wrist with his enormous hand and pulled her up for a long kiss. Andrew pulled back and licked his dark pink lips. "Strawberry chapstick?" "Your favoriteeee," Ms. Amy said happily. "I would love to investigate the many amazing tastes of you Martha Amy, but we need to get to business, shall we?" "Of course, Andrew," Ms. Amy pouted. Andrew put down his huge black bag on Ms. Amy’s desk and grabbed a record player and recordings out. "Ahhh Andrew you are so old fashioned for a man that is only forty-six." Andrew chuckled. He looked younger than forty-six. He had a tired face, but his many beautiful features made him at most thirty-five. Some might say he had procedures done to his face, but it was just his natural features. Andrew paused before he put the recording in the record player. "Are you positive you should do this Martha, people around the world will see the infamous Allis Company turn into the worst possible mess." "Andrew we've gone over this, I'm positive and remember our deal?" Ms. Amy looked at Andrew's lips and licked hers. Andrew let out a sigh and placed the recording into the record player. After thirty minutes, Ms. Amy and Andrew Garcia finished hearing the recordings and discussing which ones are worth keeping and which ones are not worth keeping. "For doing a great job, I think you deserve a real treat," Ms. Amy said sneakily. "Look Martha, the only thing I really want is my cash," Andrew said in a rough and annoyed voice. "Fine, fine let us keep this professional but my offer is still up," Ms. Amy pulled down her sleeve. "Have a nice day Martha," Andrew Garcia said anxiously and left her room and exited the office. The building was busy, and Ms. Amy was preparing all day for the grand plan. Every floor took hours to complete and the employees had to get it perfect for live television. Some floors were bigger than others, but they all had that boring mood to it with the bland beige floors and dark grey walls. The interior of the Allis Company looked like an awful mess after the employees trashed it. Some might think a five-year-old runned the company. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I am proud of all of you," Ms. Amy said looking around the huge mess in the first floor. Everyone on the floor rolled their eyes. "Well, there are some things I need to go over now." First, be here by six and I am expecting all of you. Second don't do anything embarrassing on live television, and you all might hate me but I need you guys to act like you like me. Third, don't mess anything up. Fourth, don't talk unless me or Mr. Sams allows you to. Lastly and most importantly, have fun." "Does that mean we have a day off tomorrow," a hopeful employee asked. "Absolutely not, after the LA television crew leave, I expect you all to clean your office and return to work. The janitors will clean up this horrid mess." You are all dismissed, thank you for helping." After everyone left, Ms. Amy called Andrew Garcia. "Helllooooo Andrew," Ms. Amy said cheerfully. "Hola Martha, is there anything you need?" Andrew Garcia knew exactly what she needed. "I need you to come to the office, I'm preparing." Andrew sighed, "Ok then, I'm coming, but I can't stay there for long I have to finish this important project." "Oh don't you worry, it'll be quicker than a hiccup." Andrew ended the call and hurried to the office building. He didn't want to be a part of this mischievous plan that Ms. Amy has prepared for months. Ever since his own company decreased in stocks and he lost money, he had no choice other than to agree to the offering that Ms. Amy explained to him. If he helped her with the alarming plan, she would help him bring his company back on the market. Andrew Garcia hated drama or ruining a big image on a company which is something he had to face years ago. Andrew used the key Ms. Amy gave him for the office and opened the door. He went to the elevator and started going up to Ms. Amy's office. Knock, knock. Ms. Amy jumped out of her chair and walked to the door with her slender legs. "Andrew Garcia! Aw rub that smug look off your face your money is coming soon," Ms. Amy said sneakily. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" Ms. Amy sighed and flipped her long blonde extensions out of her skinny pale face. She knew that many people didn't like her, but she hoped that Andrew Garcia would at least show some appreciation for her. She wanted to be loved and cared for, but that was something she never showed so she turned into what many people like to call her as an “evil witch”. Ms. Amy pulled out the recordings and papers. Andrew and Ms. Amy got to work by hanging up the pictures on the dark grey walls on the first, second, and third floors, placing a thick white paper on top. The idea was to remove those thick white papers once the cameras started rolling. Andrew Garcia placed the recording around the same floors. The idea for the recordings was to play them using a recording Ms. Amy would use. The plan was mischievous and rude, but Ms. Amy knew what would come out of it, a load some of money and a new name. After an hour of setting up, they met on the bottom floor. "This is just... perfect," Ms. Amy said happily. "Yeah I need to go now I'm expecting my money soon," Andrew Garcia said aggravated. "Stop being tense Garcia, you're going to come on the top because of me," Ms. Amy put her small hands on his chest. "Martha please, I have a wife and kids." "That's not what you said last week," Ms. Amy sang. Andrew Garcia shrugged off Ms. Amy's hands and walked out the door. The next day, everyone was prepared. Employees were standing on five floors anxious and excited. It wasn't the same kind of excitement like every year, but the laughter of the floors brought delight. Ms. Amy was far too excited and bossed around the camera crew at one point. The plan had no mistakes and that encouraged Ms. Amy that this horrid plan was going to turn in a successful one. “Alrighty, we are going to start filming! Is everyone ready?” a brunette female that is a part of the film crew said. “No not yet,” Mr. Sams said as he was walking to his spot. “You’re late,” Ms. Amy whispered once Mr. Sams was next to her. “3, 2, 1 we’re live!” the director said. “Hello this is the Allis Company, I’m Martha Amy, I’m the secretary of Mathew Sams,” Ms. Amy said enthusiastically. “For today, we will be showing everyone at home a tour of the new office. We have changed everything, and this will be the permanent design of the new interior,” Mr. Sams said trying to sound interested. It was obvious this was a prank for all the viewers at home, but the internet enjoyed this every year. Mr. Sams wasn’t quite sure what the prank was, but he knew it involved a huge mess. He hated being unorganized and dirty, so this prank was something he wasn’t excited about. The camera followed Ms. Amy and Mr. Sams to the mess around the rooms with large business-like tables and many chairs. “This is how most rooms will look like. Paper is the new trend folks so keep that in mind while seeing these awesome rooms!” Ms. Amy said. The rooms were covered in food, paper, and trash which looked very unprofessional. Ms. Amy and Mr. Sams continued showing the first floor with Ms. Amy mostly talking and Mr. Sams adding side comments. Ms. Amy felt like starting the plan was far too early so she waited until they got to the second floor. After, showing some of the second floor, Ms. Amy believed it was time to show the pictures and play the recordings. “Now I would like to show everyone the most important part of this amazing tour,” Ms. Amy said thrilled. She pulled down the thick white papers around the dark grey walls and everyone gasped. They were pictures of her and Mr. Sams kissing, and doing things Mr. Sams would say were “unprofessional and unholy”. No one expected this, but many people have suspected Mr. Sams and his secretary had an affair. Mr. Sams was wordless, and his face turned as red as a tomato. Ms. Amy started the recordings that played of Mr. Sams telling her how much he enjoyed her in his bed and asking her if she wanted to stay with him forever. The LA camera crew on the other hand, were puzzled if this was part of the prank or real, but it didn’t matter to them, they would get attention over this. “I- uh I-, turn that piece of sh*t off and take down those d*mn pictures down!” Mr. Sams said furiously trying to remove the surrounding images on the walls. Ms. Amy laughed her witch laugh, “Since you wouldn’t tell the whole world our affair, I had to do it because apparently I’m the man of the relationship.” Ms. Amy was delighted, and she even had the nerves to give Mr. Sams a peck on his cheek. “April Fools’ everyone, and you too Mathew, your whole company is a joke,” Ms. Amy said walking off. After a couple days, other companies turned their heads away from the Allis Company and Ms. Amy started her company using some of Mr. Sams money for it. She was successful. Mr. Sams was furious and tried fixing the company, but his affair with his secretary and the pictures Ms. Amy showed, were far too unprofessional to many companies. Mr. Sams decided he couldn’t lose his huge company and entered Ms. Amy’s company. “Hello Martha, miss me?” Mr. Sams said sneakily. “Mathew, what are you doing here?” Ms. Amy was confused because Mr. Sams hadn’t spoken a word to her since April Fools’. “I decided to take revenge.” Mr. Sams pulled out his knife from his pocket and hid it behind him. “What do you me-.” He stabbed Martha Amy. “That’s for ruining me and my company."


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Fear. It’s out there. It’s real. It’s coming to get us! Ahhhh! In the spirit of Spooktober fun, who is the scariest monster of them all? * Why does the monster scare you? * Any tips for making monsters even more scream-inducing when writing? * If you haven't dabbled in the horror genre, what's stopping you? I challenge you to try writing at least 1 horror story this month. (Don't forget to come back and tell us how it went!) * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


“This one right here,” August said. I peered into the car. There wasn’t much inside, not what it looked like. I got the window breaker ready. August stopped me. I was about to smash it and car alarms were about to go off like crazy, and I wasn’t ready for that. I was crossed on some strange mix of Adderall, weed, and caffeine, and August was pretty drunk, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this, would we? He doesn’t drink much anymore, so he was fucking obliterated (NOT EVEN OFF MUCH EITHER. FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHT WHORE! I HATE YOUR GUTS). I was about ready to straight up smash the window, but August’s hand caught mine. “Let’s check if it’s unlocked first,” he said. “Sounds good to me.” It was unlocked. Me and him looked at each other, and both started moving silently. Considering the fact that we were drunk and high, we were moving gracefully. I checked the trunk. Nothing worth taking. The Back Seats were empty. The car was dirty, trash everywhere, to the point where if there WAS anything worth taking, you’d never find it underneath all these old McDonald’s bags and empty cigarette boxes. And the inside of the car? Smelled like an ashtray. August had the front. I saw him check the glovebox and find nothing. Nothing in the center console. We almost gave up until he remembered there’s a little place to keep stuff in between the seats. He opened it, and found a small bag. We closed the door and ran into the park to look at what we found. We first looked inside and didn’t see anything except for makeup. I threw the thing, considering we just wasted time and committed a felony for nothing, but August picked it back up, saying the bag looked expensive. We walked into the light part of the park, where our friends are. August takes a second look at the bag, in the light. His face changes instantly, now filled with a mixture of what looked to be excitement and/or anxiety, probably both at once, but completely fueled by adrenaline. He mumbles something incoherently and we both run into the woods, into pitch black darkness, leaving our friends behind in the park, confused. There wasn’t really a trail, we just ran until we hit a road. THEN we decided to start strategizing. There was really no plan at all. We only started planning after we were too far to go back. Well now we’re on this road, and it’s really empty. We’re not near much. There’s nobody around at all actually. We walk up onto a trail, and look in the bag. August holds the light while I count. 20, 40, 60, 70, 90, 100… so on and so forth until we reach a little over 200 dollars. This is the most money we’ve had in a while, and at such little effort that I seriously considered breaking into cars as a career. Glad I didn’t pursue that. I got away with it this time, but again? Probably pushing my luck. At this point we’re on a trail through the woods in the dark. August takes the money out and hucks the bag off a cliff into the woods. Goodbye, designer makeup bag. You won’t be missed, at least not by us. We call our friends, and they meet us on a street corner near a bridge. Obviously they were upset: me and Augs put all of them in danger. Not serious danger, but danger. What if the people who own that car come back, see their stuff missing, and call the cops? Me and August weren’t there anymore, but who would be? The good ladies and gentleman, the finer people of the Washington DC area, the real people you want on your side, and the ones with the best, or mostly best, intentions. And they were with us. I don’t give a shit what happens to me or August, he feels the same way too, he couldn’t give less of a shit about what happens to us, but I’m not putting anyone else’s safety at risk, especially when they didn’t partake in the activity at all. Me and him are one thing, but our friends are a whole other ballpark. Naturally they were pissed. They were probably the most mad that they had to leave the spot, but when I produced a fresh 20 for a 30 pack of beer, they said it was all worth it. Once they got that free beer, on yours truly, they were a lot happier. In case you were wondering, my name is Jared. I’ve lived down the street from August for a while. For a long time I avoided the sick bastard like the plague, he was just so damn strange. He was never particularly threatening to me, or most people, but he was known to act erratically, without much thought. He had the mindset, when he was in a moment, that he would throw his whole life away for one thing, and that it was totally worth it. But the things he’s done, by dumb fucking luck, have never ended up throwing his life away, while they very much could have. He won’t admit it, but whatever god there is up there is looking out for him, and he definitely knows, he just won’t ever say it. He’s only had to truly learn a couple times, but when he had to, he really did fucking learn. I don’t remember when he moved in. He’s interesting, but definitely weird. Some people would say it’s weird in a fun way. It keeps things moving, just untraditionally. I didn’t say a fucking word to him for the first 2 years I lived down the street from him. He was always looking around, analyzing everything, asking questions in his head. That’s where we differ. I blindly accept the world around me for the way it is. He’s always analyzing. My first few conversations were interesting. He was obviously a people person, but only if he wanted to be. He was good with people, but only sometimes. I remember him saying some strange things, and then asking if I wanted to light something on fire. That’s when we first became true friends. We collected all the math homework from our previous year, put it in a pile, poured some lighter fluid on it, and threw a match. Then we watched it burn. “We should burn down Ms. Smith’s house,” I heard to my left. “That’s a little much. I know you don’t like her but I don’t think it’s worth it. We can do other things. Why don’t we order pizzas to her house or something harmless like that?” I got no answer. Just the sight of him vacantly staring into the fire. I can’t see in his head, and was never able to, but he was definitely thinking about actually doing it. Legitimately burning his math teacher's house down. He was probably 11 or 12 at the time. He was even more mentally unstable as a kid than he is now. Now, he has the common sense to not genuinely think about doing something like that. He fantasizes, but he’s not actually going to do it, because he’s 18 now, and I’m 19, and we’re both adults, and we need to make it in this world. Neither of us are big tough guys either. I don’t think prison is a real option for us. So now these ideas just sit in his head. I’m sure he still thinks about burning down her house. Thankfully he never did. He had the common sense not to. Sometimes, I have tried to imagine what it’s like to be him. I can’t. When he feels an emotion, it’s stronger than a normal person would. He’s very emotional but won’t admit it, and tries to hide it. He’s actually quite the emotional person. He used to commit a crime more or less every day, usually at someone else’s expense (money from their car, food from the restaurant, etc) but he still had great capacity for empathy. He could understand what people were going through every time. Sometimes he just didn’t care. He had a great deal of empathy for people he was close to and loved, like family and good friends. He would feel guilty if he hurt them. He really would. He won’t admit it, but I can see it in his face. The thing is, if he doesn’t know the person very well, or at all, he won’t really take their feelings into account in any way. And if he does, it’s a save-face type of thing rather than a guilt thing (I’d rather not yell at this guy so I don’t *look* like an asshole, not because I’d rather not *be* one). These things don’t paint August in a positive light. They definitely don’t. But there’s a flipside. When you make it into his circle of empathy, he has a lot of it for you. He’ll have your back. He can be the sweetest boy in the world, it just has to be the right person. Him and I have gotten into physical fights before out of anger, and we always resolved it after. And his girlfriend? Despite the fact that I spent the last 2 pages painting him as a psycho, he really is trying his best to be a good boyfriend. He loves that girl to death, I can tell he does. And he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And he has hurt girls in the past, when he was younger, and didn’t think through what he was doing. But he promised to himself that this would be different, and it was, They’ve been dating since halloween. He can be such a sweetheart. But if you wrong him, he’ll remember, and he’ll NEVER forget. He’s not capable. He holds grudges, and has a hard time forgiving people. He has a tendency to act vindictively, seeking revenge. There’s people out there who will be dodging him until the end of time. I’m not giving much background about me, because honestly I’m quite similar to August, in a lot of ways. I’m way less unhinged than he is. I have good control. Here’s where him and I differ. I’m crazy enough that I would do all the same reckless shit he does. I’m just smart enough to not do those things. August wasn’t that lucky. He’s plenty intelligent, but smart? No. He makes an absolute fool of himself sometimes. And the decisions he makes aren’t the wisest. Why did I even let him talk me into breaking into a car? We bought our friends the beer. Still had almost 200 bucks left. Me and August were discussing what to do with it. He said, “obviously we split 50/50.” “That’s fair,” I responded. We divided it into halves, so we each had roughly 100 bucks. Maybe a little more or less. “I say we invest in stocks,” I said. “Waste of fucking time. I tried and I couldn’t do it. It’s bullshit.” “That’s because you invested a dollar, and didn’t hold them long enough. You panicked and sold before any money could be made. You have to wait a bit, it’s a long term investment.” “How about Bitcoin?” he asked. “It’s not really real. I don’t trust it, it could crash at any moment, and it’s not really based on anything.” “We could buy some cards and do some nice fraudulent activities, make a quick buck, or at least get a new pair of shoes or something.” Neither of us liked this idea. I’m burnt out on fraud and so is August. It’s tiring. “Drugs,” he said. “What should we sell?” I asked. “Anything we can find.” I pondered the idea of wandering into Anacostia, capitol heights, and up and down H street with nothing but a vial of PCP and a pack of cigarettes, or maybe to the rich areas, with some baby powder or allergy medicine, walking the trenches to find a crackhead to send into psychosis or some moronic white kid to con. Maybe I could load up on every drug I could find and sell them all at once. What had the most money in it? Me and August found out later that weed was our best bet. It ended up working out. Me and him rarely commit other crimes than weed related ones. The closest we get is slinging pills or some other random stuff we can find that isn’t weed. We’re both from DC. Weed is legal here, basically fully. It is illegal to “buy and sell” marijuana, but legally you can “gift” up two ounces. Meaning you buy a T-shirt, or a postcard, or in our case, a literal designer drug bag, and you get the “gift” of marijuana. It’s legal but not really. And that’s how every dispensary in DC works. We ended up both selling weed, which we do to this day. It seems to be working. At the time we were scheming what to do with the money. We both ended up buying a couple of dab pens, and saved the rest of the money. We both really like the fucking things. They burn your lungs up and make you cough the signature “dabs cough.” A dabs cough isn’t like any other cough, like a cigarette cough or sick cough. It’s a hollow cough from deep in your lungs, and you can tell they’re trying desperately to get whatever dabs you inhaled out. Your body rejects what you just put in it, in the most simple form: coughing your fucking heart out. The writing you are reading is currently being conjured up from MDMA. Today is my first day doing E. August has done it before, but he says it was probably fake, so he didn’t count it. I texted August to see how he felt. No answer. It’s possible he’s asleep, but if he’s anything like me, he’s probably not, and I am WIDE FUCKING AWAKE right now. I wonder what would happen if we both ate a few rocks and went to school. If I’m being honest, I feel pretty fucking good right now. I’m cranking 4 pages or so at this moment, feeling focused, and sharp, and creative. If I can do this at home, I can do it at school. This wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I should write that down in my notes… 3/10/21, 10:41 PM: buy more molly. Maybe try before school, and see how it goes. You owe your boss 15 bucks. Sell more weed tomorrow. There we go. I probably won’t forget now. Not like this is gonna ever really leave my head anyway. You rarely forget your first time doing a drug, unless it’s your thousandth time doing the drug. And by then you don’t remember the first time you did it, just that it’s a part of your life now. Maybe I sound like a drug addict. This is the first time I’ve done MDMA ever. I used to be pretty heavy into worse shit when I was younger, maybe 14 or 15. Wrong fucking age to be getting into this. A lot of the time, I look back, and I think to myself “I wish I didn’t like drugs.” But I do. This is life. Weed is medicine for me. It’s like a pill I take that helps me get through the day, not much different than the pills I currently do take to get through the day. I take a kind of speed in the morning, and then tranquilizers at night, as well as anti seizure meds, for my mood swings. I take my meds. August doesn’t. He’s nicer when he does. Sometimes when he doesn’t, he gets angry and worked up, and starts yelling at people, and hitting stuff. He needs his night meds to sleep. Sometimes I wake up at 6 AM and see him walking down the street, with dark bags under his eyes, because he hadn’t slept at all in the past 22 hours, and was looking extremely deranged, with a crazed look in his eye and a strange lilt in his voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. August had it worse with drug addiction than I did. I had a minor problem, but August had a serious issue. He recognizes what is bad for him now though. He doesn’t do anything crazy anymore. He hasn’t touched DXM in years, not even medically, and he claims he never will. I saw what it did to him. He did too. He ended up going to the psychiatric ward. I got my shit together before I had hit that point. So August spent the next 2 years or so wandering the different halls and campuses of psychiatric facilities, I walked the streets without him. It wasn’t quite the same. I was functioning, but things happened that probably wouldn’t have if he was there. One week after August was admitted to the psychiatric ward, hearing nothing from him, I’m walking down Kennedy st. I don’t know anyone here. He knows everyone here. They don’t know me like they know him. They’ve only seen me. I look behind me and I see two people following me. I look ahead, and at the end of the dark, empty street, I see two more people. They start to walk towards me, while the people behind me do the same. I see what’s happening here. I get ready to run but they got me just in time to catch me. I hear a metallic snapping noise, and now there’s a switchblade (pressure activated) half an inch from my face, and I can just feel it, even though it isn’t touching me. I never carry weapons, that’s August’s thing. I’m scared of the idea of using weapons on someone, or physically hurting someone. I don’t want to go to court over it. August apparently doesn’t seem to care. “Just take everything I have, I don’t care. Just take it.” Then 4 different sets of fists start pounding down on me. When the crowd dispersed, I had no shoes on. My backpack was gone. My phone was gone. Everything worth taking, gone. I couldn’t make out anyone who was there, but I’m sure it was who I thought it was. August tried to warn me: don’t con people here. I didn’t listen. It had caught up to me. I had finessed one too many people, and they all found out at once. That’s something I’m better than August at. I can con just about anyone. He’s simply not capable. He can do it on a basic level, but not the same way I can, and definitely not to anyone. And now I’m paying the price for it. He warned me this would happen, and I didn’t listen. And he can’t even help me get revenge, because he was confined within the walls of a psychiatric ward. It was a tough two years. I felt very stagnant. It didn’t feel like I got much done, or achieved very much those two years. We could ask August what those two years were like for him, but that conversation would carry on infinitely. I remember walking up to a police officer. I was covered in blood and bruises, and I was limping because they stomped one of my legs. He asked me questions. I mumbled something like “dominion psych ward… not my fault… orange team” and then went unconscious. I woke up in the hospital. I had a concussion. I refused to tell the police who did this to me. It wasn’t their god damn business anyway. Not many other notable events happened in the next two years. I passed 9th grade, and then 10th. When I was in 11th, August came back from treatment. Two years without weed will do a fucking number to you. August was on another planet when I smoked him out for the first time since being in there. He was back to the old “can’t handle his weed” August that he used to be. A cluck and a tweaker, but a fun time to be sure. Fun to laugh at, at least. Then we started planning. “Fuck jobs. I’m 17, and you’re 18. Whatever jobs we get now are gonna suck. Do you wanna work at McDonalds? Becuase I sure fucking don’t,” he said. I agreed. “What about fraud?” “On a large scale, like a profitable one, really profitable, the risk gets too high. We could both go to jail for longer than a rapist.” “We could do another…” “Don’t even bring up the idea of doing that again. I just got out of treatment, I am not going back,” he snarled. “So what does that leave us?” I asked. “Drugs, I guess.” But we didn’t have money to start out with, so that plan was put on hold temporarily. Then August told me about this kid he knows who goes “car hopping.” And that brings us right about to where the story started off. We decided we were going to invest the money we found in some drugs and make more money. It was a maniacal plan if I’ve ever seen one, considering how little actual planning went into it. But, I guess it worked in the end so far, right? Neither of us are in Jail, or the psych ward. As far as I know, I never even heard sirens when we finally did get into that car. I doubt the police ever even did anything. They have other things to avoid doing. After we bought the beer, we each drank some more. August could no longer form a sentence. I was starting to feel tipsy. The weed had worn off for the most part, but the adderall was running strong. It didn’t mix well with the alcohol. I remember throwing up, and waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, and August, snoring on the floor. To this day, I don’t know whose house we were in. I fucking left. I couldn’t think about anything else. I left August in there, with whoever the house belonged to. He could figure it out for himself. Technically we didn’t get in any serious trouble, but the previous night was so intense, that it felt like my brain was at 110 volts, and the idea was almost completely August’s, so I felt vaguely angry at him. I didn’t feel like waking him up. He’d have to find his own way home. I walked outside. It was about 45 degrees, at 7. I was on some block of 7th street I’ve never seen before. The sun was shining bright in my face. Everything felt alright. For the first time in about two days, I felt stable. I had some money in my pocket, and it was nice out. And for once, he was present.


[WARNING: mentions the loss of a child.] Exactly thirteen days have gone by since Cibil had to lay her eight year old daughter, Naomi, to rest since the day she succumbed to her leukemia. For all thirteen days, she remained paralyzed in her unkempt spring mattress, hugging the oversized, stuffed alien plush doll Naomi would prioritize over everything else, even her mother, Cibil. Cibil hadn't stopped crying since the funeral. Even as her eyes swelled, and her head began beating slowly in pain, the tears constantly flooded her eyes from below. Cibil was all Naomi had, as her father skipped town the day he was asked by Cibil to help cover the expenses for Naomi's chemotherapy. It was that same exact decision on his part that lead to Naomi having to live with her cancer as it rotted her from the inside. Cibil blamed every bit of her devastating situation on him, the man who was supposed to fill in the role Naomi praised as "Dad". Every death comes with different feelings from everyone involved, but ends the same. The grieving will grieve, then they eventually move on, accepting what they lost under the assumption that their late loved ones are either in a place a million times better than the dark hole they spent their last days in, or in a place a million times worse if they caused that much pain for their families when they were alive. However, Cibil never reached that acceptance stage because she never moved on. In fact, she developed a new idea, one that could break the world if she's successful at it. "I'm gonna bring you home, sweetie," Cibil croaked to herself, still balled up with Naomi's alien plush doll but no longer shedding tears. The following morning, Cibil tossed a shovel she had placed on the tree in front of the house in the back seat of her card before returning to her job as a microbiologist, not to make an attempt at returning to normal, but to collect samples for her elaborate plan. Since she has a lab of her own, unexpected company wasn't something she was worried about, so she quickly got down to business.

Before Naomi passed, Cibil was passionate about her job, and used to ramble on for hours about her work with Naomi because Naomi always wanted to know about her mother’s work. However, Cibil’s work freaked out Naomi because she revealed that during a trip in Greenland a few months back, she had found a type of bacteria that could create zombies trapped in a block of ice, but wasn’t sure how. But with very little time to act, Cibil determined that if she wanted to reunite with her little girl, she needed to thaw the bacteria out and revive it as soon as possible, and when the clock struck midnight, what she called “A New Prologue”, had been successfully revived from the ice. Cibil collected the bacteria in a small vial and darted out the door, ripping her car keys off the keyholder in a frantic rush to her daughter’s grave, suffering a cut on her finger from the keyholder in the process. As she crept towards a speed of eighty miles per hour, Cibil took a quick glance towards her back seat, making sure her shovel was still laying across the back seat. As soon as she fixed her eyes on the road, she suddenly found herself violently colliding with a deer, sending the deer flying across the road into the darkness that consumed the trees which vastly populated both sides of the long road. Rather than slowing down, Cibil kept driving at a consistent eighty miles per hour, mostly unfazed by her accident. Finally, she parked in the small but vacant parking lot on the side of the cemetery that shelters her child, at which point she shoves her door open with one arm while grasping the vial with the other before traveling to the back to retrieve the shovel. Cibil knew as clear as day that what she was doing was wrong in more ways than one, but what she knew didn’t matter to her. All that mattered to her at this very moment is bringing her child back at any and all cost. “I told you that I’d be back, my sweet angel,” Cibil whispers with a smile of anticipation and eyes pouring tears all over again. She begins to mutilate the dirt below her, little by little until she sees the coffin holding her daughter. Without a second to spare, she jumps down onto the coffin to pry the upper half of the door, granting Cibil a sight she hasn’t seen in thirteen days; her daughter, Naomi. Cibil hovers the vial over her child’s face like a small cup, leaking the bacteria into her nostrils and mouth until the vial emptied. Cibil then fell back into a sitting position with her hands together, intending to pray. “Please bring her back, Jesus. She is all I have,” Cibil cries out as she waits on the coffin’s lower half. Suddenly, Cibil felt something was off. She noticed her entire hand was burning, and the cut area on her finger was foaming and sizzling, almost like a soda that had been opened for the first time. Before long, Cibil put two and two together and realized that some of the bacteria had fallen into her wound as well. Despite understanding the severity of her error, she didn’t care. She has nothing to lose except sight of her goal, but the way she saw it, one way or another, she was gonna be with her little girl again. As the sun began to rise, Cibil began to fall over, suffering the effects of the infection as it spread throughout her entire body at an extremely fast rate. She begins groaning in agony where she sat, foam and blood aggressively spurting out of her mouth and eyes, and an unknown green-red substance begins to pour out of her ears. Seeing that her daughter still remained where she rested and the bacteria hadn’t worked, Cibil began to sob, forced to accept that she had failed her little girl again. The bacteria proceeded to attack her brain, sending her into a violent seizure and rattling the coffin above her. Suddenly, a series of cracking sounds echoed from inside the coffin, and upon one last glance, Cibil, unable to control her body, watched as Naomi’s eyes began to open, her arms reaching upwards out of the coffin as if she were climbing upward on a ladder, and her mouth releases a foul, painful screech. Cibil did it. She brought her daughter back from the grave, but in the process, she lost her own life, forcing Naomi to return without her mother. None of this matter, Naomi crawled out of her grave, completely mindless but hungry. “Who’s there?” a man shouts. Upon seeing Naomi, he rushed towards her to check if she’s okay, unaware of her undead status. “Naomi! Where’s your mother?” The man exclaimed, pulling the girl into his arms in a hugging fashion. The man notices a woman limping toward him and Naomi, but before he could act, Naomi bites a massive chunk out of the man’s throat, causing him to jolt back as he frantically attempts to stop the bleeding. Horrified, he looks up at the girl and the woman, who he quickly realizes is a dead but walking Cibil. “What have you done to my daughter?” the man gurgles as he begins to lose consciousness. Cibil starts to groan loudly while looking up at her mother as their hands attempt to interlock, and police sirens begin to scream from a mile away.


(Content warnings: Swearing/Mental health issues) It was dark by the time she had regained consciousness. She pried her forehead from the steering wheel and wiped the coagulated substance off with the back of her hand. She cried out in agony as muscles spasmed in her neck. The only source of light was the faint glow from the full moon hovering over the car. She had no recollection of where she was, where she had been, where she was going, or even who she was. All she could tell was that she’d somehow collided with a tree and the older model, two-door vehicle was unequipped with an airbag.      She surveyed her dark surroundings. Although the driver’s door was badly dented, but the passenger’s door had been slammed against a protruding mountain rock . She managed to get her car door open enough to activate the interior dome light; unfortunately, the bulb had burned out, and darkness prevailed with the exception of the full moon above.       She searched the passenger side in hopes of finding identification and a cell phone to call for help. She found a handbag in the floorboard and dumped its contents onto the passenger seat. Even though dimly lit, she could tell what the items were by touch; lipstick, hairbrush, pack of gum, big wad of cash secured with a rubber band, and a flip-type burner cell phone. She opened it, revealing the date and time: Wednesday, October 31, 2020, 12:22 AM. Also illuminated by the cell light was a damaged triangular street sign that read , Curved Mountain Road.       “Just great; stuck on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere, in a wrecked car, on Halloween night with only a burner phone and a wad of cash,” she said, rubbing her temples.        She turned her attention back to the handbag and gave it another shake-down, searching for any form of I.D. What the hell, no driver’s license? she wondered, throwing the empty purse back into the floorboard. A burner has emergency capability; I can still call 911. She flipped the phone open to lighten her dark surroundings; hopefully, she’d find something that might lead the authorities to her whereabouts. I can’t tell them where I am if I don’t know, myself; hell, I don’t even know who I am.        Using the light from the phone, she looked in the glove compartment for identification. Registration papers indicated the 1977 El Camino belonged to Joann Blankenship of Casper Wyoming. Is that me? she wondered. “I can’t just sit here and wait for another car to come speeding around that bend and crush me like an accordion,” she said, looking in the rearview mirror and picturing the worst-case scenario in her mind. “I must have hit my head really hard, cause I’m talking to myself. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, slamming her shoulder against the door. On the fourth and final thrust, she was able to squeeze her slender frame out , landing on the cold, damp cement. Using the door handle, she pulled herself up to a standing position which made her head spin. She stood still until her equilibrium returned. She shined the cell light on the wreckage revealing extensive damage to the front-end; especially, the fender, which was partially embedded in the tree.       “Blood!” she yelled, staring at the dark red substance splattered on the hood and grill. “I probably hit a deer, then swerved into this damn thing,” she said, kicking the base of the tree. The cell light inadvertently illuminated what appeared to be a body lying about fifty feet down the road. "Oh my God! Are you okay?”       She grabbed a hold of a broken but still adhered limb for support, and made her way down the hill, toward the lifeless man in running attire; his body, appearing bloody and contorted. “I’m so sorry; It was an accident,” she said . At least I think it was an accident. Yes, I’m sure it was. After all, I’m not a bad person, am I? she wondered, searching her amnesic brain for a sign that she did indeed have a conscience.

She kneeled by the victim to check for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Was it because her fingers were too cold or because he didn’t have one? She searched his pockets and found a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to Dale Blankenship, of Casper, Wyoming. She glanced back at the car. Blankenship was the last name on the car registration. Inside the victim’s wallet, was thirty-seven dollars, a photo of two children, and a picture of a woman with long red hair. She swung her ponytail forward and shined the cell light on it. With pictures in hand, she stumbled back up the hill and back to the car, squeezing herself into the passenger seat. She pulled the visor mirror down and shined the cell light on her face and gasped. Just as she suspected; the woman in the picture and the reflection in the mirror were one in the same.       “Oh my God; if that poor man is, was my husband or ex, these are probably my children,” she said, shining the light on the children’s photo, hoping to generate a memory or at least an emotion, but it didn’t do either. “I’ve got to call 911 and at least report this to the police. I’ll just explain my situation; that I don’t know where I am and that I’ve been in an accident and have amnesia; surely, they’ll understand,” she said, rubbing her forehead.       Just as she started to push the last ‘1’ on the cell, she snapped the phone closed and picked up the large stack of cash that was still in the passenger seat. She thumbed the bills under her nose and inhaled. None of this look’s good. I can’t explain the money or the body. What if I was running from the law and someone has my license plate number? The cops won’t believe that it was an accident and I’ll probably do time for vehicular homicide. Besides, it’s too late to call for help for him because; he’s already dead ,” she said, looking down the hill at the victim lying in the road. And, as for the children, his life insurance will provide for them. Besides, it’s not like I’d be a good mother if I don’t know who they are or who I am, she rationalized, managing to squeeze out a couple of crocodile tears. I know what I must do…        She kissed the pictures goodbye and laid them in the passenger seat. She picked up the wad of cash and stuffed it in her pocket and squeezed back out of the car. She paced along the mountain road, searching for anything or anybody that could implicate her in this being anything more than a tragic accident.        Tiny orange rectangles staggered throughout the mountains represented the windows of the nearby cabins. She prayed that no residents or bystanders would be witness to what was about to transpired. In a fugue state of mind, she meditated. …        I’ll create another identity. It won’t be difficult since I don’t know who I am, anyway. I’ll stage my death. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. No more Joann Blankenship, or whatever the hell, the papers say I am…or was. No one will ever need to know. Hopefully, along with Dale’s life insurance, Joann’s will also care for her surviving children. My surviving children.        She squeezed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. She didn’t know why she hadn’t tried to start it before. Nevertheless, she was surprised when the old jalopy started on the third try. She put the gear in reverse and gunned the engine. The embedded fender made a grinding sound, finally releasing itself from the tree’s hold. She put the gear in park and got out, leaving the driver’s door open. She leaned over the seat, shifted the gear into drive, and backed away from the moving vehicle. It was as if she wasn’t responsible for what the old El Camino did. The car picked up speed as it rolled downhill toward the lifeless man lying in the middle of the road. “Stop! This is not part of the plan, you idiot!” she yelled, while charging downhill toward the runaway vehicle. Was it fate or luck that the car veered slightly to the right, avoiding the victim’s corpse? She sighed with relief. “That was close. Two impacts with the victim would rule out an accident for sure and really fuck-up my plan.”        Using the cell to illuminate her path, she made her way to the edge of the cliff just in time to see the El Camino somersault over the flimsy metal guardrail and disappear into the depths below. She could hear the shattering of glass and the crushing of metal. She shined the cell light down the cliff just in time to hear a loud ‘boom’ and see a plume of smoke, confirming its final impact on solid ground. She smiled. Unfortunately, her celebration was short-lived by the realization of another flaw in her scheme. Her disappointment echoed throughout the mountains. “Dammit, there won’t be a body to recover!”        A sudden splashing sound was music to her ears for it was the welcome confirmation that both, the El Camino and its owner, had made it to their final resting place –the flowing river below. She shined the cell light down into the abyss, illuminating the tangled remains, drifting downstream. She smiled. No worries: the authorities will assume that Joann Blankenship’s body was carried away by the current .       Without warning, a dark shadow ran toward her, finally taking on the shape of a man. She shined her cell light on the image standing in her presence, then on the road where the victim had met his demise. The body was gone. “No, it can’t be, you’re dead!” she cried, covering her eyes with her hands.       “Melanie, it’s me, Johnathon,” the man said in a calming voice.        “Dale, you know I’m Joann, but the fact that I’m still alive is a secret,” she whispered, making a shush gesture. “What is this, a Halloween prank? she asked, wiping some of the gooey substance off his face.        “You’re scaring me, Mel. Your blood sugar must be getting low, let me get you something to eat.”        “Stop calling me that. What is it you want?” she asked sternly.        “I just want you and I want you to be okay, that’s all,” he said, his voice cracking. A paranoid expression flashed across her face.       “I know what you’re after,” she said, pausing to reach in her jacket pocket. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked, waving the wad of money under his nose. “Well, you’re not getting any of it; it’s mine, every fucking penny!” she yelled, backing away until her rubber sole shoes teetered on the edge of the cliff.        “Mel, stop!” the man yelled, grabbing her jacket, and pulling her into the safety of his arms.        “I don’t want the money, it’s not real, anyway; I just want you,” he said, still holding her tight. He waved his arms to get attention. “Zac, need help over here; there’s something really wrong with Mel.”        A bright light engulfed her in its celestial-like presence as human-shaped silhouettes descended upon her. The muffled sound of their voices harmonized in her ears. She could see the man she called Dale nervously hovering over her, but she was not afraid as a warm and peaceful feeling encompassed her soul. She closed her eyes, smiled, and asked. “Am I in Heaven?”       Although she received no answer from the Divine Creator, a loud human cue came from behind the bright light…        “Alright, that’s a wrap!”


As my fingers curl around the grip of the small revolver in my jacket pocket, I notice there isn’t as much pulsating anxiety driving through my body as the first time. Still some anxiety. But not the type that leaves me near paralysis. Armed robbery is bound to cause a little anxiety for anyone. Unless you’re some kind of a psychopath. But no psychopath am I. This is simply an emergency solution to a temporary problem. Rent went up, can’t hold a job, just lost my car to the finance company after they repo’d it. Not that I didn’t try to prevent that from happening. I hid that car at friends’ houses for a good month-and-a-half. But those bankers just wanted it more, I guess. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be here, doing this sort of thing. But I’m not hurting anyone. Yeah, the gun’s loaded just in case, but I have no intention of murdering anyone. I just need to get a few more bucks and clean out a bank account or two, maybe get some cash advances with a credit card. Just to get through this little rough patch. And I’m not targeting the most vulnerable. Not people like me. I’m going after rich folks that can afford to be a little lighter in the wallet. What I’m saying is that I’m basically a modern-day Robin Hood. Give me a good century or two, and I expect there to be a Disney movie featuring an anthropomorphic fox or some such similar animal lauding my exploits. And I just found my mark. Nicer navy-blue suit draped over his middle-aged body. Balding, with love handles to highlight his out-of-shape physique. And most importantly, a bulge in the back pocket where he keeps his wallet. I find a pace that leaves me traveling a consistent twenty feet behind my mark. The mark glances over his shoulder, but I don’t think he’s looking at me. Maybe checking traffic before crossing, I don’t know. The mark turns and heads east down Carson Avenue. I trace the same route and see nothing but a ghost town up and down the street. That’s what I expected this late at night. It’s showtime. I pull the revolver out and feel a slightly less than firm grip as a film of sweat my autonomic nervous system saw fit to produce coats my palms. Picking up my pace, I close the gap between me and the mark. “Excuse me,” I say in a voice meant to be commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. The mark stops. He turns and Mr. Peak Middle-Aged Male faces me. He has warm eyes and a slight upturned smile. “What’s up?” he replies. Then he catches sight of the revolver in my hand. I expect the same response I got from the first sucker I tagged a week ago in these same parts. And that’s what I got – for a second. A flash of surprise from the mark was followed by a grin that then grew into an outright smile. I see a glimmer – actually more of a sparkle – in his eye. Okay, now I’m feeling that anxiety. But I’ve got to stay the course. Summoning the most authoritative voice I can, I say, “Make it easy, man. Take out your wallet and phone, throw them down, and lie flat on the ground!” The mark just keeps smiling at me. Now he’s gently shaking his head side to side in a vaguely paternal manner – the demented but disappointed Father Knows Best. “I feel bad for you, but you’ve got to admit this is awesome,” he says in a voice that is commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. This is not good. “I’m not fucking around here!” - my voice cracking despite my best efforts to avoid it. With a disconcertingly jovial manner, the mark maintains his smile. “Neither am I. I’m seriously happy.” His voice isn’t cracking. In fact, I find myself fighting from being drawn in by the mark’s easy confidence. Before I know what’s happening, the mark makes a seamless gesture with his right hand that flips up the rear of that navy-blue suit and somehow leaves him holding a knife with a blade stretching to at least nine inches with the kind of serrated edge that screams, “No one here is getting out alive.” I make a move to cock the hammer of the revolver, but the mark speaks and I freeze. “You heard of the twenty-one steps? I take it by the look on your face that you haven’t. That’s alright. It’s just this theory that if I’m within twenty-one paces of you with an edged weapon, doesn’t matter if you have a gun because I can close the gap before you fire.” I want to cock the hammer, but I’m locked in place by some breakdown of my fight-or-flight mechanism. The mark keeps talking in this calm and steady voice that sends a crawl through my core. “Can I thank you? Seriously. I never thought this moment would come. I’ve been waiting for this for so long. And to have it be like this, with a built-in self-defense claim!” I remain at an involuntary standstill. I want to run, but the phrase “twenty-one steps” keeps running through my mind alongside imaginings of what that terrible blade could accomplish. “Not a man of many words? That’s alright,” the mark continues in a steady but chilling tone. “I’ve thought about this for so very long. Endless nights, really.” I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a passerby that might ward off the mark and give me room to escape. The streets remain devoid of human life. The mark gives me a once over. “I’m jealous – you’re going to get to experience what it’s like when your life leaves your body.” “Wha-” is all my vocal cords can muster. “Hey, take it easy. No pressure. I see you’re tense, and I’m truly sorry for that. I want this to be a life-affirming experience for both of us,” the mark says to reassure me. We stare at each other, my face in a grimace and his still sporting that easy smile. He is the first to speak after several seconds of silence. “One question before we get started. What do you think your insides look like? I’m betting kind of a blackish-blue, not red at all like in movies. What do you think?” His voice is now one of uncontained glee. Another pause and the mark speaks again to comfort me. “You’re really nervous, huh?” His soft eyes lull me in for a moment. “Don’t be, friend. It’s all going to be okay. This is going to be the ride of a lifetime.” My body finally registers something close to a survival instinct and my thumb moves to draw back the hammer of the revolver after all these interminable seconds conversing with the mark. Twenty-one steps are closed as quickly as the mark proclaimed when I first halted him. The blade cuts easily into my belly before exiting my body and reentering in the chest cavity.


The red Jeep Cherokee was flying on the I-90. She was curious about the future in the new town. She was so open to start a new life after her awful divorce. His voice is still in her ears: "You are nothing without me! We will see how fast you will be back on your knee, asking to be with me again!" -No, I will more likely die than back to the slavery life with no voice! Helen was a 40 years woman, but she looks so young that most people would say she is 25. She was born in a big city in Ukraine and raised by a free woman. It was even so hard to understand how she could be so submissive for more than 20 years.

Now it is over. The woman is free and starting a new life in the small University town. She was excited to get a new job and an opportunity to write. Her dream was always to write, but he still kept saying: "It is a stupid thing! It is not a talent neither a profession!" She got her place as a columnist-writer in the local newspapers. Most people would say it is not a big deal, but not for her. Helen was happy like in her childhood when she was living with her grandmother, and it was allowed to be herself. She missed those feelings so much. She was so tired of following other people's rules, society's rules.

-Fuck everybody! I am a free woman! I can do what I want! It is my life - her hands fisted the steering wheel.

Through the University building, she started to recognize the apartments. It was not as pretty as in the picture, but they seemed so cute for her. Helen stopped the car and went out. She saw a couple walking around with a little boy. She waved at them, but they did not answer. They were staring at her with fear in the eyes. Then a woman grabbed a boy's hand, and they hot-footed from her. Helen was confused, but maybe it is only because of this shitty new virus. People are afraid to be close to each other.

-At least you could smile and wave me back! Fucking idiots! It looks like the virus makes people sick not only physically, but mentally too.

She was unpacking her car when she felt cold eyes on her back. She turned back and saw an old lady; she was staring at her over her sunglasses. The woman has a small spitz on the lash, which was staring at Helen too. Helen smiled and waved at them. The old lady grabbed her dog under her armpit and ran to her car. -What is wrong with people here?! - Helen slapped her forehead - excellent start, man.

She came in and fell asleep after 5 hours of driving. The noise from outside woke up her. The air in the room was hot and dry. She could not breathe, trying to get some air like a fish thrown by the ocean to die.

-Gosh, no oxygen!

Helen moved to the window to open it with the hope of getting some freshness. She opened the window and saw two boys were playing outside basketball. She waved at them, but they looked at her like she was a witch from the fairy tale and wanted to cook and eat them.

-Nice town! At least people have the same opinion about newbies; she smiled ironically. Keep being positive, Helen! She took her dirty clothes and went to the public laundry. The laundry was no way special. It was an old building with little erased letters on the window about working hours and prices. -$2 per wash, are you kidding me? How I'm supposed to pay $2 per wash if I have $40 per article. Assholes!... Keep being positive An old wash machine started its annoying song. Helen could not keep listening to this awful noise; she went outside and saw a local newspaper box. She came to the box and tried to pull out one. It was a shitty quality paper with awful gray pages. The smell of the paper was like the smell of the rotten cabbage.

-O my gosh, I think it is the worst newspaper I have ever seen in my life. Awful paper, awful wash machine, horrible people…. Be positive, Helen, everythin will eventually be great.

Helen heard a car stopped near a laundry building, and an old lady got out of the vehicle. She was looking so lovely. Her hair was in order, looking perfect. Her dress was slightly blue, and a string of pearls on her neck was perfectly matched with the dress. Helen was staring at her like she was hypnotized. The lady was looking as the lady from the tv show advertisement. Helen imagined her with the cake in her hands saying: "The cake in our restaurant is like your grandmother's cake!" Suddenly the woman waived to Helen. Helen was so confused that she waived back only after a couple of minutes. -See, not all of the people here are bad. Such a nice lady! Helen paid for the newspapers and went back to the laundry. She opened the door and lost her speech. The lady has put all her clothes accurately in the box.

-Hi, Thank you so much! -Aw, do not worry, my darling! We help our guests here! -I am not exactly a guest! I will live and work here. -You decided to change your life, honey? -Kinda.., I am divorced, and I want to start over here in the friendly and small town. -Of course, I know… I am divorced too. I know it is a hard time, but it will become better every day. You will be free and young. I do feel free and young! -You look so great and young. I love your dress. Helen was so happy to talk to this nice lady. She was feeling like she was talking with her mom. This woman was looking in Helen's eyes with love and understanding. Helen relaxed and started telling the lady her story. Suddenly, the face of the woman changed completely. Her face became dark and some fear pictured on it.

-Tell me honestly, my dear, are you a Russian spy?- asked the old lady. Helen stopped talking and got confused for a moment. She tried to understand the joke part, but the lady's face was serious and compressed.

-Is it a joke because of my Russian accent? - starting Helen with a smile. -No sweety pie! It is because we know you are a Russian spy and want to know all of our secrets! -Your secrets? What types of secrets? What kind of secrets can you keep in this small town? - Helen started laughing, still thinking it was a joke.

-Holy- Moly, miss Brenda was utterly right about you! She said, you are a spy! -Who is miss Brenda? I have never met her in my life, how can she know anything about me?! - Helen's face becomes serious too.

-She was right! You have already asked me tons of questions! After those words, an old lady ran out of the laundry, and Helen only heard the car's sound.

-Charming place! - said Helen and walked to her car.


“Ugh, I’m bored.” Chase moaned, sprawled on a beanbag in her treehouse. She was accompanied by her best friend, Nico, who was also laying on a beanbag and futilely trying to fan himself with a couple of coloring pages that had been left on the treehouse floor. The treehouse was stuffy from sitting in the hot sun all day, the tree's leaves doing little to deflect the sun’s rays away from the wooden structure, and both kids were racking their brains for ways to cool themselves down as well as entertain them. “We could… turn the treehouse into a tropical island.” Nico suggested lamely, mopping sweat his brow with his shirt sleeve, making his bangs stand messily. Chase looked at him out the corner of her eye. “How would we do that?” She asked, slightly intrigued. Her enthusiasm was inhibited by how sluggish she felt. Each move she made reminded her how her clothes stuck to her skin, and how uncomfortable the claustrophobic heat felt to breath in. “I dunno, I guess we can’t have any electricity up here. I was thinking we need a fan, and like, a mini fridge with popsicles would be cool.” Nico sighed, his head lolling back as his eyes closed with exhaustion. Chase, however, had an epiphany. “No wait - that’s a great idea! Nico, run back to your house and grab some beach stuff or whatever. Whatever you think will fit up here. I’m gonna go grab some stuff from my house. We can create a tropical island here!”

“Whatever.” Nico groaned, grimacing as he unstuck himself from his beanbag. “I need a break from here anyway. It’ll be nice to be in air conditioning.” “Be back here in about an hour at least.” Chase said sternly as she watched him climb down the ladder. As Nico trudged back to his house, Chase threw the bean bags and the rug on the treehouse floor from the hatch and onto the ground below. She then followed them by climbing down the ladder, jumping the last three steps and landing on the bean bags. She took a minute to drag them away from the ladder and store them in a bush nearby before turning towards her own house. Chase entered through the screened backdoor with a loud bang, her blond hair swishing around her head as it looked around wildly. “Mom!” She shouted into the house. She listened for a minute with pursed lips, and when no one answered, she sprinted towards her mother’s study. Chase stopped her momentum on the doorjamb, peeking into the study. There her mother was, typing away at her computer, surrounded by reference books and stacks of paper alike, an open notebook resting between her arms. “Hey Mom,” Chase gasped, gulping for air for a minute from her haste. “Is there an extension cord that can reach the treehouse?” Chase watched with waning patience as her mother typed for a minute more before turning around in her chair to look blankly at her daughter through her round rimmed spectacles.

“I’m sorry what?” She finally asked, unable to process her daughter’s request. Charlie blew her hair off her face with exasperation.

“Is there an extension cord that can reach up to my treehouse? Nico and I are trying something.”

“Oh! Yeah I think there is a heavy duty extension cord in the garage. Just be careful of the car and your dad’s stuff, okay?”

“Awesome! Thanks Mom!” Chase grinned before dashing off to retrieve the extension cord. The garage was even worse in the heat. It was dark, and extremely dusty, which made the sticky heat even worse for Chase. She coughed and choked as she waded through all the tools, until finally she spotted a coiled up orange cord. After shimmying her way around her dad’s car, she grabbed the extension cord and slung it over her shoulder. Squinting, she looked around the garage to see if there was anything else she needed before she left.

Suddenly, Chase’s eyes widened as she saw her old inflatable plastic pool. “Oh my god this is perfect!” She whispered to herself excitedly. She grabbed the dusty pool as well, and then exited the garage into her backyard. After dumping the inflatable pool and electrical cord in front of the treehouse ladder, Chase headed back inside, this time walking upstairs quietly. She didn’t necessarily have permission to enter the room of her sister, Amber, but Amber had some items that Chase felt were necessary for her tropical treehouse.

Chase stood outside of Amber’s bedroom door for a couple of minutes, trying to discern if her sister was inside. Then she remembered that Amber was at the pool with a friend for the day, and hurriedly barged into the room. The room smelled like too much perfume and a scented candle. It wasn’t bad, it just made Chase a little dizzy if she stood in there too long. Trying to get out of there quickly, Chase first grabbed the mini fan that sat at the end of Amber’s bed and unplugged it from the wall. Then, by making trips, Chase emptied all of her sister’s masks and creams from her mini fridge into the fridge downstairs. She then unplugged the mini-fridge, and after placing both the fridge and the fan in the hall, closed the door to Amber’s room as quietly as she could. On her way back to her treehouse, Chase grabbed a box of popsicles from the freezer in the kitchen and some scissors from a drawer and shoved them into the fridge she was holding before kicking her way through the screen door. As she walked out, Nico was sitting on the grass in her backyard. It looked like he had brought a really long hose, which would be perfect for the pool, a large bucket, and had changed into swim trunks and a muscle tank. He was also holding a box of ice cream sandwiches, making Chase’s stomach rumble as she considered his superior frozen treat. “Hey. I figured you wanted to do something with water.” Nico gestured to the coiled black hose at his sandaled feet.

“You were right. Also help me get this fridge up there so we can cool those sandwiches.” Chase said, handing Nico the fridge before turning to plug in the extension cord into the side of the house. The sun had started to cool down considerably since when they had started the creation of the tropical treehouse, but the kids were too determined to see their creation through to give up. After the fan and the fridge had been plugged in, with the extension cord in a taut wire leading from the house to the treehouse, Chase had Nico blow up the pool while she figured out how to get water and some lawn chairs Nico had also brought into the house. Eventually, they figured out a pulley system using the large bucket, a piece of rope, and the window of the treehouse, and before long the kiddie pool was inflated and filled. After working so hard to collect all of their equipment and set it up, Chase and Nico were finally able to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Nico had even nicked his older brother’s iPod, so as they cooled their feet in the kiddie pool and ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches alike, they could feel the breeze from the fan on their face and listen to the tunes of some reggae singers that Chase didn’t know the names of. Nico swore it was the perfect music for their tropical theme though, and she privately agreed. Content and smiling, Chase said with a sigh, “Well done Nico. Thanks for coming back to help.” “This was totally worth all the work honestly. We should do this all summer. You can keep the bucket here and we can just refill the pool when I come over.”

“Yes! Tropical treehouse, all summer long!” Chase declared, raising her sandwich over her head. Suddenly, they heard the screen door from Chase’s house open with a slam.

“CHASE!! WHERE IS MY FRIDGE?”

“Uh oh.”


The real difference between you and me is your incessant inane questions. What is my name? What, really, is it to you, when you often just end up catching the next whim floating in your head and christen me just that? I am whatever you decide to call me. I have been Mindy, Luna, and Talia. I have been that mousy sound you make with your mouth, or that imperious clicking of your fingers. I have been Marbles, Cupcake, and Lipstick. Why ask if you don’t care for my answer? Where do I live? You think because you close the door at night and stay within the confines of your same routine that I should be the same. I live. Could the same be said of you? ...................................................................................... I liked that she didn’t like me right away. We spent the first few weeks staying in the periphery of each other’s existence, but never out of it. We had a mutual interest in something else – the squawky feathery meatballs she was determined to befriend and feed, and that I was determined to feed on. Then, without the uhming and aahing they usually do, she named me. “Marbles, please don’t eat the lorikeets. I really like them.” She was leaving out a small plate of sausages for me while saying that, so an understanding was forged that I wouldn’t try to hunt them where she could see. I watched her often from across the road, and she eyed me from her balcony. I watched her attempts at petting every bird that came her way, and heard her yelp when the cockatoo she named Squawk nipped her finger. She had named everyone by the time I approached her door for the first time. Of course I picked the night she would be home alone. Unlike her, I know every nook and cranny of that house. I have been the only constant in that house while families move in and out in a whirlwind around me. I don’t remember all their faces or all the names they give me. The impasse at the doorway lasted only seconds. She closed the door behind me as soon as I strode in to inspect the place. It smelt different, but it always does with each new family. She apologised for the lack of sausage but offered me water. The beak-shaped scar on her finger offended me as she made no attempts to pet me in any way. I don’t generally like having strangers’ hands all over me, but this was a woman I have watched pet everyone within reach. Her reaction to my purring was one of, oddly, bewilderment. She sat down, cross-legged on the floor as I easily stepped onto her lap. She gingerly patted my back the way you would a crying acquaintance, but the worry in her voice was unmistakable. “Are you okay Marbles? Do you need help? Are you choking on something?” More awkward pats on my back. I buried my face in the warmth of her woolly sweater. She must not be too smart, but I liked the smell of her. The purrs echoed off the walls of her house. She did eventually figure it out, and in stories relayed to visitors to the house later, I found out mine was the first purr she had ever heard. I was, in fact, the first cat in her life. I had accidentally staked a claim on her, and her on me, while I was trying to move back into the house that belonged to me. ................................................................................. These days my name is Callie. I don’t visit that house very often, unless the children are having dinner. The family that came in after her had a cat of their own, so I was happy to let him pretend he owned the place. He couldn’t, not really. Not without smelling my scent in every nook and cranny of the house. I don’t dwell too much on the ones that have come and gone, but sometimes I get a whiff of her scent lingering in that house. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers those lazy Sunday mornings, of me lying on her chest, of her gently smoothing the hairs of my back. I liked being Marbles. ..................................................................................... Author's note : This is fiction, but not quite. This is a tribute to that time in my life Marbles picked me to be hers.


“The Burgh” That’s the thing about Pittsburgh, it seems like the last place anyone would build a city. It’s three rivers flowing through steep hills and deep ravines and surrounded by even higher hills. Any sizable tracts of level ground are scattered among steep terrain and along the edges of the rivers. Whoever that first person was who stood there, looked around and thought it could ever be anything more than a small military outpost must have been a true visionary. I thought about that as I drove from the airport in a stripped down Nissan Altima, the last available midsize that Enterprise had. The woman at the rental car counter told me to take the Parkway to the tunnel and then over the bridge but the word Parkway was not on the map she’d given me. In fact there was a lot of information missing from that little map. The highway sign read Route 376 Downtown and it was the only road I could see from the rental parking lot so I took it. I drove for about fifteen minutes and the impressive view of the city straight ahead of me didn’t offer many clues about what to expect. I didn’t know anyone in Pittsburgh and the little I knew about the place I’d learned from seeing aerial shots during the Steelers games on TV and from doing a couple of Google searches. It wasn’t much to go on but enough for me to know it was worth a closer look. I’d had enough of upstate New York small town living and a major lifestyle change was in order. I was eager to explore a large city and sample all that it had to offer. Through my online searches I’d learned that there were over four hundred bridges, four tunnels and two inclines that people used to navigate the city. It sounded confusing but the closer I got to my downtown destination the more intriguing it had become. The overhead signs on the highway were the first clue that a driver had to pay close attention to what laid ahead. The rental car woman said to stay on the Parkway and it would take me through the Fort Pitt tunnel so I did what she’d instructed. When I came out of the tunnel there was a sign for Route 279 but not one for Route 376 and with a huge bridge over the Monongahela River looming in front of me all I could do was stay in my lane and follow where I thought it would lead me. That was my first lesson: Pittsburgh roads didn’t all enter and exit in any consistent way. The main highway appeared to curve to the left but a sign told me that I should exit right to remain on 376. I’d have to exit to stay on the road I was already on. Unfortunately I was in the center lane and the traffic wouldn’t allow me to get into the right lane to exit. Moments later I was headed north on Route 279, over another bridge over the Allegheny River. I could see the tall buildings in the center of downtown receding in my rearview mirror. As soon as I’d crossed the second river I began to look for a place to pull off the road. Because my rental car didn’t have onboard navigation and my cellphone signal was erratic among the tall buildings, the rental car map was my only link to any hope of getting downtown. I’d rented a room for two nights at the Renaissance Hotel and planned to walk around the city and get to know it from street level. At that moment I was seeing a whole other part of the city through a windshield and feeling a little nervous. I saw a small retail plaza ahead on the right and quickly pulled into it. Sitting in the parking lot trying to make sense of the map wasn’t easy. The rivers, bridges, tunnels and major public attractions were labeled and except for a few major streets not much else was identified. Heinz Field was visible a few blocks away and signs for the Warhol Museum but nothing about how to get myself downtown. When I got out of the car and stood facing south. I could see the tall buildings and the part of the city I wanted to get to but had no clue of how to accomplish it. After a few minutes I got my bearings and found where I was on the map then got back into the car and pulled out into the traffic. There was nothing to do but keep trying. Any small feeling of confidence I might have had left in me faded quickly when I read a large overhead sign that read: 6 th Street Bridge 7 th Street Bridge 8 th Street Bridge Ahead . I remembered from my last glance at the map that all three bridges crossed back over the Allegheny River but it didn’t note which ones connected to Canal Street which was the street I was on. As it turned out none of them did. All I could do was look down and to my right and see three bridges that could each take me in the right direction but that I couldn’t get on. My frustration was slowly turning into anger. After a few blocks in thickening late afternoon traffic I saw a sign for Route 579 Downtown and my spirits lifted. That is at least until I got to a cluster of multilevel roads and saw that Canal Street only went under 579 but didn’t connect to it. Once again I’d seen another bridge that could take me toward my destination but couldn’t get on to it. I was angry and thought to myself, “How do people get around in this town? How will I do it?” It was another six blocks of driving before there was a way for me to turn around and at least head back in the general direction I wanted to go. With so many unlabeled streets on the map, reading the street signs was pointless. I stopped at a convenience store, hoping to find someone inside that could give me directions. That turned out to be my second lesson: Pittsburgh people spoke a strange, local dialect unique to the city. I walked in and saw a sturdily built woman in a red smock restocking shelves of gum, candy and all kinds of things a healthy person shouldn’t ingest. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m trying to get downtown and I’m kind of lost. Can you help me?” She turned and looked at me. “That depends. Dahntahn’s a big place. Are yinz goin’ some place special?” Her dialect was strange but I understood it, sort of. “I’m trying to find the Renaissance Hotel. It’s on 6 th Street.” “Then ya’ need to take the 6 th Street Bridge.” “Well, I was going to try that but it didn’t connect to the street I was on.” “You aren’t from around here, are ya’? “Uh, no I’m not. So how else can I get downtown?” She thought for a moment then answered, “Well, all I can say is that yinz need to get on the 579 and go over the bridge.” Which bridge, you have so many?” “Vetrins. It’ll take you right to the convention center.” “And then where do I go?” “Sorry, I can’t help you there. I don’t get downtown much anymore.” I didn’t feel a whole lot better but hoped her strangely spoken directions would at least get me closer. “Okay, thanks, but how do I get back to 579?” “Ya’ turn left out of the parking lot, head on down the hill and turn left again after the Jine Iggle.” I hesitated, trying to decipher what she’d said. “What’s that?” “It’s the supermarket, the drugstore n’at.” It took me a moment to realize she was referring to a Giant Eagle store. “Okay, got it. Thanks again.” I hoped her directions would be easier to follow than her side of the conversation had been. It was like she’d spoken a whole different language. I drove back down the hill, saw the supermarket and turned left. A sign reading Veterans Bridge to Downtown hung above the road and I immediately felt some relief. That was lesson number three: Never let yourself feel comfortable about finding your way around Pittsburgh. The entrance ramp on to 579 was wide and easy to access. I accelerated into the traffic and crossed the Allegheny River for the second time. The highway was elevated enough for me to look out over the downtown area. Somewhere in the midst of all the traffic and buildings was the Renaissance Hotel. It was a somewhere that I’d hoped would become clear soon because I was in need of a bathroom break. When the highway crossed over Liberty Avenue things really got confusing. There were exit and entrance ramps to the left and right and street signs that were of no help whatsoever. I was looking for some sign that read Sixth Street but that was wishful thinking. The exiting and oncoming traffic created a roadway choreography that demanded my total concentration. I knew I had two choices, take an exit somewhere and try to find my way on rush hour surface streets or stay up on the highway and hope a sign or clue would reveal itself. I chose the latter. After about ten more minutes of driving I realized I should have exited somewhere when I’d had the chance. A sign over the roadway read Liberty Bridge/Mount Washington and I’d just passed my last chance to exit. When I saw another sign reading Liberty Tunnel m y anger returned stronger than ever. For the first time I was rethinking my plans to move to this unnavigable city. Being trapped on a highway leading me further away from my destination was bad enough but when I began the downhill slope to the bridge and looked down I saw that I was crossing over Route 376, the road I’d come in on from the airport. “God dammit! I shouted. I was starting to think I’d have to drive over all four hundred freaking bridges in that city before I got to my hotel. My hands were getting cramped from gripping the steering wheel so hard for so long and they only got worse as I drove through the tunnel under Mount Washington. When I exited into the fading sunlight I decided to pull over at the first chance and try once again to figure out exactly where in the hell I was. And I really had to pee. The exit to the right put me on Route 19 and a fairly large commercial strip appeared on the right. My priority was to find a restroom and fortunately a Shell station gave me the relief I sought. At the end of the small plaza I saw a restaurant and decided it would be a good place to sit for a while and get my bearings. I relocated my car to a parking space near the entrance, grabbed the map and walked in. Seeing that they had a bar gave my mood an instant lift and I settled on a stool at the far end. I would have felt more comfortable drinking at the bar at the Renaissance so I wouldn’t have to do any more driving but I’d had a stressful day. A vodka and tonic was in order, drive or no drive. “Hi there, what can I get you?” An attractive young woman slid a coaster and menu in front of me. “Well, let’s start with a Stoley’s and tonic.” “Sure. Interested in looking at the menu?” Her smile was distracting. “No thanks, I’m trying to get downtown and I guess I’ll wait until I get there to find dinner. That’s assuming I get there.” “What do you mean?” “I mean I left the airport around two-thirty and I’ve been driving all over the place but I couldn’t figure out how to get to my hotel downtown.” A well dressed man two stools down turned toward me. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. So you’re having trouble getting downtown?” “Trouble doesn’t begin to describe it. I’ve driven a complete circle around it but couldn’t find the right way to get there. How do you people find your way around this place?” He smiled. “Well, I guess it depends on where you live and where you work. Lots of people refuse to drive in the city because the streets are so winding and narrow. We have the T-System and lots of buses but the schedules are confusing. You have to allow extra time for transfers, and the constant street closures can drive you nuts.” “So if I decided to move here what advice would you have?” The bartender set my drink in front of me and said, “I’d advise you to keep a vodka tonic nearby at all times because even the locals get lost.” The man laughed. “Yeah, there’s kind of a common feeling that you don’t go downtown unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I looked at both of them and asked, “How do you handle it all?” The man said, “I live up here on Mount Washington. I take the incline down the hill to Station Square. That’s where my office is. My wife and I do everything down there or up here on the hill.” The bartender nodded. “Yeah, Pittsburgh was never laid out like with a master plan, it just kind of grew into a city. It’s like a big patchwork of neighborhoods and that’s kind of how you live, close to home.” I took a sip of my drink and sat for a moment before saying, “By the way, I have to ask you something. You both speak normally. I mean you don’t talk like this woman I talked to this afternoon. She had this strange kind of accent or something. What’s that all about?”” They both laughed at the same time. The man leaned toward me. “That’s called “Pittsburghese” and I have no idea how it started but you’ll hear it all over town.” He grinned and asked, “Do yinz understand that?” For nearly an hour the two of them and an occasional patron joining the crowd at the bar filled me in on the real Pittsburgh. Not the sanitized hype from the Chamber of Commerce ads but the things only a local would know. The places to visit and the places to stay away from. The best places to shop and dine and the few easy places to park if you absolutely had to be downtown. They even warned me to stay away from the Northside when the Steelers were playing a home game because there’d be no place to park or find a seat in a bar. I was starting to get a clearer picture of the city but I couldn’t figure out if that picture was positive or negative. A glance out the window quickly brought me back to the moment. It was dark outside. If I couldn’t find the Renaissance in the daylight I’d never find it at night. “Well, folks, if you don’t have a hotel close by I’ll be sleeping in my car tonight.” The bartender said, “No problem.” She pulled a pen from her apron and began drawing on a napkin. “There’s a Sheraton down at Station Square. You turn right when you leave here, go two blocks and you’ll see a sign for incline parking. You take the incline down the hill and you’ll see Station Square. It’s within walking distance. You can’t miss it.” I thanked her, shook the man’s hand and paid my tab, then sat in my car wondering if a map hand-drawn on a cocktail napkin would be any more useful than the lousy one from the rental car counter. But I knew I had no choice. In less than a minute I was back on another Pittsburgh street trying to find my way somewhere. To my delight the bartender’s map was spot on and five minutes after I’d parked I was having my first trip on an incline. Five minutes after that I was walking toward the Sheraton. And half an hour after that I was sitting at the bar with dinner and a drink in front of me and a head full of thoughts about the stressful day I’d had, thoughts about the people I’d met and mostly, thoughts about Pittsburgh. Sleep didn’t come easily that night. The next morning the woman in the ticket booth at the top of the incline gave me directions to follow Route 51 to get back to Route 376. It was a short drive along a winding, tree-lined road and when I came around a bend into an open area I saw it, the final punctuation to the story of my trip; a large, green sign that read Route 376 Airport Left Downtown Right. I took a deep breath and clicked on the turn signal.