I met her at the cafe on the corner. I was waiting at the back of the queue, seventh in line. She was at the counter scanning the board wondering which coffee to choose. It can be a problem, there are twenty-five different coffees on offer – Espresso, Latte, Americano, Red Eye, Black Eye, and Flat White to name a few – it’s not always an easy choice. I don’t have that problem myself because I always order the same – the cheapest, biggest, hottest drink up there – double latte (two shots of espresso with steaming milk). What I’m looking for is something that takes a while to drink. I’m not fussy about the taste, I’m not a connoisseur, just so long as it’s hot so it takes a while to cool down. I can take an hour over the same coffee. I get my money’s worth. She was holding up the queue and the guy behind the counter was getting impatient – as were the other customers. She couldn’t make up her mind so she stood to one side and let the next customer get served. She was still undecided by the time I got to the counter. I ordered two double lattes, paid the bill, and when they were ready I handed one to her.  “Save you from having to choose,” I said with a grin. She was so grateful that she agreed, without hesitation I add, to come and sit with me. Marianne: twenty-eight years old, pretty as a picture, and nearly twenty years younger than me – and I’d picked her up without any smart-ass pick-up line, just a nice gesture and the help she needed at just the right time. We talked for two hours, ordered more coffees – my treat – and discovered we had a lot in common: the films we like, the books we read, our view of the world, our morals and political preferences… A match made in heaven, though we both agreed heaven didn’t exist. The only inconsistency was in our decision-making abilities. I leaned definitely towards “impulsive”, always have. Never thought of why, it just works for me and saves a lot of time and trouble. Maybe it was just practice – over the years I built up a strong sense of intuition that I could trust. I made decisions on the spot and, as it turned out, few had any serious consequences. So I learned not to worry about consequences, and anyway, I had the mindset that believed there’s something to be gained no matter what you choose – it’s a matter of perception whether something is good or bad and I always sought the good in things. And if I ever encountered a difficult choice I just flipped a coin in my head and went with it. Marianne was my polar opposite. She told me she’d always had difficulty making decisions. She also saw the good in everything but that was what made it so difficult, she said, and she’d made some bad decisions in the past – relationships and jobs mostly – and that made her so insecure that it affected even simple decision-making, like choosing what to wear that day, where to go walking, which coffee to order… When it was time for me to leave – which I would have chosen not to but I had another appointment – I gave her my number and said I’d like to keep in touch, but I was leaving the decision up to her. She said she’d think about it. “Or toss a coin,” I said, and she laughed. It was a week later that I got her call. I picked her up and took her to the sea. It was the middle of December and blustery – all raging surf and salty spray. We strolled up the beach, two lovers-in-the-making, close but separated, reading each other sentence by sentence, testing familiarity with flirty remarks and elbow-nudges… walking back down we were already holding hands. I kissed her by the car and she didn’t resist. We shared side-glances and smiles on the way home. I invited her to my place for dinner, she accepted and ended up staying the night. We dated for a year before I asked her to marry me. That’s the longest I’ve ever taken to decide on something, not because I was unsure – I could have easily asked her after that first walk on the beach – but I was truly afraid of the consequences if she’d said no. As it turned out she said yes, and we were married the following spring. Life was easy and fun – we fitted each other like the wedding rings on our fingers. I made all the big decisions in the beginning: new house, what to cook and eat, where to go on holidays, which restaurants, bars, museums, galleries, and shows to visit, channels to watch on tv, Christmas and birthday gifts to buy for relatives and friends. Our circle of friends dwindled as we spent more and more time in our own company – we kept it to a select few and didn’t socialize much, which suited me fine because I was getting too old for galavanting, and she was just relieved not to have to keep choosing what to wear, and when we did go out she’d actually ask me what she should wear and she wouldn’t question my preferences. It sounds like it could have been a recipe for disaster, like she was handing over her independence to me, and if I’d been a control-freak it may have turned out that way… but I’m not. It was easy for me to make decisions so it didn’t trouble me, and over time she got to understand my mindset and learned to adopt it in a way, learned to be more nonchalant about choices and outcomes. I’d give her little decision-assignments from time to time – it was a game, I’d give her a selection of choices regarding something and she had thirty seconds to make a decision, then we’d follow through regardless. Eventually, she got comfortable with it, becoming almost as impulsive as me. It was the morning of her thirty-third birthday when she said it. I was shaving and she was standing by the door watching, her reflection smiling at me in the mirror. “Checking out my ass again?” I quipped. “I want a baby,” she said. Out of the blue. I nearly sliced my face off with the razor I was so surprised. Maybe I should have seen it coming, she was at that age after all, but I didn’t – we’d never discussed babies before. I dabbed my bleeding face with a towel and turned to face her. “Where did that come from,” I asked. “You been thinking about it a long time?” “No, just came to me.” “A bit impulsive isn’t it? Even for you these days. I mean, a baby is a big, big decision.” “I know but I’m listening to my intuition just like you taught me and I’m certain it’s a good idea. What’s wrong, you don’t think so?” “No… I mean… yes, of course, it’s a good idea. You just took me by surprise that’s all.” She came up to me then, still smiling. Took the towel from me and started patting my wound clean. “Hope you’re not getting too insecure in your old age,” she said. “Come on back to bed, I want to start right now.” Old? Was I getting old? Was I getting scared of consequences? I don’t know. But I couldn’t decide right then if I wanted to be a father or not. I followed her to the bed and we made love, and for the first time, I admit my mind wasn’t entirely focussed on her or the activity. She didn’t seem to notice though – obviously I wasn’t yet too old to still please her. We tried for two months but nothing was happening. On a spur decision, we decided to check if there was anything wrong with either of us. We made an appointment with a physician but when we got to the clinic she paused outside the door. “I’m not sure I want to do this,” she said. “Why not?” “I don’t think I want to know. Suppose we find out that one of us is infertile… what then? “Then we deal with it, the way we deal with all consequences. Trust me, it’ll be fine.” I could see she was still hesitant but she agreed to the test when I reminded her that we wouldn’t get the results right away – we could always choose not to know later. The results came in the post a week later. The envelope still lay unopened on the table after another week. And another week. And another. Each time I mentioned it she shook her head saying she wasn’t ready to know. I left the decision up to her – possibly the hardest decision of her life, but I couldn’t make it for her. I would have been happy regardless. I told her if I was the problem she could always get impregnated by a donor and I’d go along with any choice she made because I loved her and I would love the child whether it was my own or not. “But if I’m the problem?” she asked. “Then we adopt. Simple.” She thought about that for another week and suddenly the envelope was gone from the table. She said she’d put it away, unopened. Decided conclusively that she didn’t want to know. Told me she loved me and wanted my baby and no other and if it wasn’t destined to be then so be it. We didn’t talk about it again. We still made love unprotected though, and often, pushing destiny to the limit you could say. Life went on. Five years passed. Everything was fine. I thought. Until I came home one day to find her sitting at the table, eyes red from crying, the envelope open before her. “I needed to know,” she said. “I’m sorry… I needed to know.” I read the results. I was the problem – some hereditary genetical condition, unlikely to improve with treatment given my age. I took her in my arms and she wept on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “Don’t be,” I said, “it’s not the end of the world.” But it was the start of the end… for me at least. We didn’t make love that night. Over the following months, she became moody and distant. I tried everything to cheer her up. I couldn’t mention anything to do with babies though without her tearing up. She lost interest in all the fun things we used to do together. She stopped caring. She stopped wanting. I was running both our lives, making all the decisions again. It wasn’t as easy as before though – I was starting to worry about consequences. She left without notice. I came home to an empty house, empty dresser, empty wardrobe – all trace of her gone. A short note on my pillow saying: “I’m sorry!” and nothing else. I collapsed onto the empty bed and lay there for three days, weeping until there were no more tears to weep. My heart was a black, cold stone in my chest. My mind was a bottomless pit of sorrowful bleakness. A month has passed. I haven’t worked, I haven’t answered any calls or responded to the mountain of messages on my phone. I haven’t left the house once. The food cupboards are almost empty, the sink is full, the house is a dump of strewn clothes and empty beer cans and wine bottles. I sit like an oversized, bearded rag-doll in an armchair across from the window, staring out at a grey sky. Grey has become my colour through and through. I stink. I know I stink because I can smell it myself. I need to wash but I can’t be bothered. I know I should do something soon – get up, clean up, get my life together – but I’ve lost all motivation. I don’t know what’s important anymore. I can’t decide if anything is. I can’t even decide if I should be angry, or sad, or disappointed, or hurt. I don’t feel anything anymore. The flame of life within me has gone out and I don’t know how to light it again. I don't know if I want to. In the past, whenever I felt down or indecisive about something, I’d take a walk. A walk always brought clarity – an answer, an idea, a decision. Simple. Maybe I should take a walk. But that would mean deciding to get up and go out. I don’t want to make any decisions. I don’t want to think. I would start thinking about her. I’m lost. I’m scared. Of life. Of myself. I can’t see the good anymore, only pain and suffering and emptiness, and I’m scared to confront it. I don’t want to confront it. The sky is getting darker. It looks like rain. Walking in the rain would just add to my misery – or wash it away. I can’t decide. I could flip a coin – another decision I don’t want to make. I want someone to make it for me. I decided a long time ago that God doesn’t exist but I find myself praying now – not for guidance or forgiveness but for a decision. I stare out at the sky. “Please God…” I cry aloud, “make it rain.”


(Content Warning: Fantasy Violence, Mild Language.) Lee Oswald awoke to the sound of a shrieking moan not more than ten yards from his bedroom window. Without contemplation, his feet hit the cold floor running, knowing that his cattle were in danger. Rushing through his cabin, Lee eyed his double-barrel shotgun hanging above his fireplace and grabbed it. The weapon was always loaded for occasions just like this, and for a brief moment, Lee was glad he had it. Wearing nothing but white long johns, he exploded outside, ready for combat. The cool air stabbed Lee’s skin like a thousand daggers erasing any grogginess leftover from his slumber. The thermal underwear provided no protection against the frosty March temperatures, but this was the least of his concerns. Something was attacking his cattle. This was Lee’s livelihood and the only reason he could afford to live on the outskirts of Franklin. Lee ran through the field, allowing the frozen grass to slash at his pajamas like a thousand thorny vines in a rose garden. He paid no mind to the minor inconvenience and continued his search. The moan came again. He was close now, very close. Lee halted with senses alert and listened. He knew this valley well, having spent most of his life here. When Lee was a young boy, his parents, Ben and Martha, moved to Pendleton County in hopes of striking it rich. It was the time of the big gold rush, and everyone had the gold fever . The Smokey Caverns just to the east of Franklin bore huge golden nuggets, which attracted hundreds of eager families and decent folk who only wanted to get ahead. Things were fine for a time, but then the greedy businessmen came to town with their slave laborers and stripped the mines dry. Most people moved away during this time. They had the good sense to know when to get out, but not everyone was so fortunate. Ben and Martha had spent everything they had relocating from Virginia to Colorado, so they had no choice but to stay. Over the next few years, the Oswald’s carved out a nice life by raising cattle and selling them to the local butcher in Franklin. They were not rich by any means, but they made the best of things. Money was scarce, but there was love. Always love. Lee grew up under the stern but loving guidance of his father and learned the ways of the land. His mother taught him everything else, like cooking and how to treat the ladies. Through the years, Lee became so adept at working the land that he knew every nook and cranny. If a cow wandered too far, Lee knew exactly where to find the estranged animal. Martha wished that her son had the same fortitude when it came to finding love. She desperately wanted to be a grandmother, but it was not meant to be. Through the years, Lee had to say goodbye to his parents when they fell ill and died from cancer. The loss was devastating, but Ben instilled in his only son an iron will to carry on, and so he did. Martha gave him the gift of compassion, and without hesitation, he took over the farm and endured. Time is our greatest enemy, and before Lee knew it, those old hands of time had caught up with him. Standing alert in the frozen field, Lee’s heart thundered in his chest, and his ancient bones ached from the sudden sprint. Arthritis bit his nerves like a feral cat gnawing on a half-dead rooster, which is what he felt like.

With steely eyes, Lee scanned the land looking for anything that might be amiss. His gaze fell upon a lonely hill where the soil had been disturbed. Contorting his face with determination, Lee gripped his shotgun and trudged forward. The hill was slick from the frozen precipitation, and Lee cursed his old bones. He made it to the top with small baby steps and peered down the slope. In the pale glow of moonlight, Lee saw one of his cows lying on its side. At first, he thought the animal was sleeping, but the sound of cracking bones and violent convulsions made him think otherwise. The lonely cow wasn’t sleeping. Something was eating it. Lee scrunched his lips and aimed the shotgun. The moonlight shining through the trees allowed a sliver of illumination, but still, shadows remained, and the predator bathed in the darkness. Lee wanted a better look before firing because he needed to know what this thing was for future reference. A good farmer needs to be aware of all threats.

Taking a step closer for a better look, the icy grass crunched beneath Lee’s feet, betraying his presence. The invading creature lifted its head, knowing it wasn’t alone anymore. Hideous yellow eyes stared at Lee, which was the only thing he could make out. “Come out here so I can get a better look at ya!” he yelled. The creature let loose a fierce growl and teetered into a stray strand of light. If by purpose Lee couldn’t tell, but he did manage to get a brief glimpse. The monster looked like a coyote but stood on two legs and had a massive humped back. Lee could see a steady stream of blood flowing from the demon’s maw, and in a panicked fright, he fired. Boom! The monster snarled and took off. It had an uneven gate and looked like a gorilla running through the field. Lee had never seen anything like it before and wasn’t sure if he had wounded the creature. With trembling hands, Lee reached up and wiped the sweat beads from his brow, which steamed in the moonlight. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to allow his heart rate to settle.

After a while, Lee returned to the warmth of his cabin, but going back to sleep was out of the question. Thoughts of the creature filled his mind, and he wondered if he was safe. He knew the world was changing, and change was the only constant thing in the universe. Life is about making choices and dealing with the consequences. The outcomes of those actions bring change whether we like it or not. The results can be good or bad, but we don’t know until we venture down that chosen path. It’s a paradoxical dance that Lee knew all too well. With this demon on the loose, Lee knew that nothing good could come from its existence. How could it? Evil only lives to serve its own intentions.

When the sun kissed the moon goodnight, Lee ventured back into the field and buried his cow. He wasn’t sure if he could even move the animal, but there wasn’t much left to move after the attack. Still, it took Lee all morning to lay the lifeless husk to rest. Lee stayed ever vigilant over the next few days, but he didn’t see the beast again. He scoured the land for any signs of the creature but found nothing out of the ordinary. He reckoned that maybe his shot did wound the monster, and perhaps it ran off to die somewhere like most wild animals tend to do. That night, Lee slept like a baby and awoke early to make breakfast. He had a craving for biscuits and gravy and thus gathered all the necessary ingredients. His joyous mood turned sour, however, after discovering that he was out of flour. Lee cursed his forgetfulness. In all the time thinking about the strange creature, he had neglected his weekly run to the grocery store in Franklin. Lee sucked in his aggression and released his pent-up rage with a deep breath. All the while, his stomach grumbled, wanting to digest food that wasn’t there yet. Dreading the thought, there was no getting around this dilemma. He had to go to town. Grabbing his satchel and some coin, Lee fetched his walking stick and set out for town. The winding road leading into Franklin was nothing to brag about, but the luscious scenery did bring a wry smile to Lee’s face. It’s funny the things you get used to. Most people go about their business and never take the time to look around. Those that do get accustomed to their surroundings and forget the beauty that nature brings.

The town of Franklin was only three miles from Lee’s house. Although he hated the pain that ravaged his bones, walking was a simple pleasure that he enjoyed. It was something that brought meaning to his lonely, isolated life. After all, a simple man could only have so many conversations with cattle before people called him crazy. Lee cursed himself once more for not listening to his mother. He should have married when he was younger. Approaching his destination, Lee cast the thought aside.

One might call Franklin a ghost town for all that remains. After the gold rush fallout, the only thing left in town were two rows of buildings that mirrored each other on opposite ends. The entrance sign read “ Welcome to Franklin ,” but the cruel hands of time had all but faded the carved words. The dry-rotted plank hung on two rusty nails, not knowing when to give up, just like the few unlucky souls who still remained.

Lee made his way to the general store without much fanfare and purchased the flour he needed and a few other choice items. His gaze fell upon a local bar called the Bowery on the way out. Lee rolled his tongue around in his mouth and salivated at the thought of having a drink. He was a sucker for a good whiskey. Strangling the thought into obscurity, Lee decided that ruining a sixteen-year dry spell wasn’t worth it. “Hello, Lee. It’s good to see you out and about!”

Lee turned to see Harold, the local butcher. He was a robust man that didn’t miss a single meal. His white blood-stained apron screamed for release and smelled like fresh meat. “How are you, Henry?” Lee greeted with a smirk. “I’m doing just fine,” Henry boasted. “You still fixing to sell me those cattle next month?” Lee cocked his head and wondered if he should tell Henry about the creature. He decided against it. Once you get a reputation for being crazy, it’s all over. “Yep, those cows are plump and juicy. They’ll be ready, minus one.” “Minus one?” Henry repeated, confused. “Yeah, I lost one recently from a wild coyote, but I shot that sum-bitch, and haven’t had any trouble since.”

“Good,” scoffed Henry. “I’ll be seeing you next month! Aside from killing cows, the only thing worth doing is playing cards, drinking beer, and screwing the local whore!”

Suddenly, a big buxom woman strode over and slapped Henry. “The local whore has a name, you big fat disgusting pig!” Henry’s face turned crimson. “S-sorry, Linda,” he stuttered. “I was only kidding!”

Lee grimaced and walked away. He had what he needed and didn’t see the point of wasting time.

A mile from town, a harsh wind brushed against Lee’s wrinkly skin as he reached up to scratch his white stubble. Out of nowhere, he heard a blaring moan that echoed through the valley. The creature!

Lee gripped his stick and cursed himself yet again for not bringing his shotgun. There was no way he could run all the way home; it was too far. He circled the area looking for any signs of danger, and when he came around, he saw a medium-sized shepherd dog with brown fur and a black nose. The animal had a nasty cut across its left eye and limped around. “Hello, there,” whispered Lee. “What’s happened to you, girl?”

The dog whimpered and nudged against Lee’s leg. Having his full attention, the animal flicked her head toward the Smokey Caverns as if to tell him something. “What is it, girl?” asked Lee. “Do you want to show me something?”

The dog moaned again, wanting Lee to follow her. He reached down and patted her head. Her fur was wet and sticky with fresh blood. Taking a deep breath, Lee uttered, “Well, I guess breakfast can wait.” He motioned for the wounded animal to move on and said, “Lead on, girl. Let’s see what this fuss is all about.”

Lee followed the injured dog with great intent and kept up reasonably well. After a few yards, Lee realized where they were. The animal had led him to the top of the Smokey Caverns. The view was breathtaking and showcased the entire valley. He only had a few moments to take in the majestic beauty before the dog led him to the edge of the cliff. There, Lee heard a faint squealing sound. He got on his knees for a better look, and his investigation yielded an unexpected result. Nestled on a narrow ledge just beneath him were four puppies crying for their mother. “Well… would you look at that!” Lee gasped.

Lee’s attention was diverted as he heard the momma dog growling fiercely. He turned and saw the hunched-backed coyote demon snarling at them with hungry intentions. The monster was even more grotesque in the daylight than Lee could have ever imagined. The beast had mangy black fur, long claws, razor-sharp canine fangs, and spikes protruding along its humped back. Most people would flee for their lives, but Lee was beyond running. Without his shotgun, he didn’t know how to fight back. At this fragile moment, Lee was able to piece together what had happened. Momma dog must have come across this demon making its way to Franklin and placed her pups down on that ledge for protection. Then, she fought the monster, who no doubt wanted to eat them as a light snack before moving on to town. Putting up a valiant effort, momma dog must have sustained those injuries and saw me walking along the road and rushed towards me for help.

Rising to his feet, Lee locked eyes with the creature and held his walking stick like a shotgun. He hoped the monster might be fooled by this farce from their earlier encounter. “Runaway, you bastard, before I shoot you again!”

The creature wasn’t afraid. It was fear itself. Leaning back, the demon sprang forward, unleashing its claws for a deadly strike. Before the beast could land a killing blow, momma dog pounced first and knocked Lee out of the way. Lee flopped on the ground and felt every bone in his body crack. The bag of flour in his satchel busted open and blew in the air like a fine mist. The demon now stood at the edge of the cliff and had found its prey. The pups were howling for their momma to save them. Hearing her babies cry for help gave momma dog another burst of energy. She raced away from Lee and bit the hunched-backed monster in the hind heel just as it reached down for the pups. The monster withdrew its claws and howled towards the horizon. Momma dog would not let up. She sank her teeth deeper into the creature's flesh, causing dark ichor to spew forth. Lee grabbed a handful of flour and rose to his feet. He knew he had to do something before the monster could regain momentum. He limped over to the beast and roared, “Breakfast is ready!”

He threw the flour into the demon’s face clouding its vision. The beast was angry, and it slashed the air in a desperate attempt to kill the old man, but Lee was able to keep his distance. Lee reached down and grabbed his walking stick. “Hold it steady, girl!”

Momma dog clenched her jaw tighter and pulled the beast to the edge of the cliff. Lee held his stick like a spear and stabbed at the beast, throwing it off balance. “Let go of it now, girl!” As momma dog released her jaw, Lee put every ounce of energy into his last thrust and jabbed the monster off the cliff. The beast fell with a haunting scream that would no doubt disturb Lee’s sleep for the rest of his days. With the monster dead, Lee reached down and gently pulled each pup to safety. He brought them home with him and discovered a new bond that he had never felt before. Together, they became a family, and as they looked on at a new horizon, they realized that where the shepherd dogs lie is indeed a great place to live.

The End Daniel R. Hayes


The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal. Seated on the blue plastic chairs under the cool white glow of fluorescent lights, I closed my eyes and imagined Trent Reznor sitting backstage waiting to come on. The squirt of water into one of the washing machines added to the symphony, and the increasingly manic whir of the rapid cycle brough the tempo up a notch.

The laundromat was empty except for me and one old guy who was sitting on the opposite side of the room. I doubt he was expecting a Nine Inch Nails gig, but you never know. He wore one of those peaked caps that old Englishmen wear in films, and a collared shirt that was buttoned to the very top, making his neck look all wrinkled like the part of a chicken thigh where it meets the arsehole. Not a typical fan I thought, though his right foot was tapping in time with the washing machine so I could have been wrong. It was hard to tell.

He noticed I was watching him. I nodded and offered that familiar expression that kind of says a polite 'hello' but is also kind of a polite 'fucking leave me alone'. Sort of half smile, half lips pursed together. I looked down at my feet and watched as they tapped out the rhythm of the drier. He wasn’t going to like what was coming but I needed it. I couldn’t find my muse without it. I walked to the washing machine. 17 minutes left. That meant that I had about 12 minutes before Trent would appear. The live performance would go for almost five minutes. The world would disappear, and I would be absorbed in the sounds of the machines around me. The man in the peaked hat would probably leave. They usually did. For now, he simply looked at me with an expression of pure confusion as I applied black eyeshadow. Another man waddled in wearing flip-flops and a singlet that was about a couple of sizes too small. I looked up and gave him the pursed lip look of recognition and he returned the same and shrugged. I bet it was the eyeshadow.

I hadn’t always been a fan of Nine Inch Nails but I’d noticed one night while I was waiting for my load to finish that when I really paid attention to the rhythm of the machines my mind seemed to clear and left room for something else. Inspiration. And it happened that it reminded me of Nine Inch Nails. Trent became my muse. Twelve minutes. Seven minutes to go. Waddling singlet man had decided not to sit next to me or peak hat man, and had instead sat outside on one-and-a-half chairs under the neon laundromat sign. It was time for me to get changed. There isn’t really any privacy in a laundromat. I guess most of the time there isn’t really a need for privacy since most people are there simply to wash the clothes they have worn already. Not me. I hadn’t yet worked out why I needed to get changed at the laundromat but I had tried it a few times and it wasn’t the same. I needed to walk in wearing whatever I had been wearing on that day. I needed to sit and listen to the machines. I needed to wait for the familiar buzz of washing machine number 14 as it reached a crescendo of spinning. Then I needed to get changed.

I stood up and looked at old peak hat man. “I’m really sorry for what is about to happen,” I said, prompting a look of fearful bemusement. I assured him that he was not in any danger and, somewhat surprisingly, he stayed sitting right where he was, pulling his laundry basket just a little closer to his feet. I pulled off my jeans, throwing them onto the floor in front of me, then I reached over my shoulders and lifted my shirt. I saw myself in the mirror to my right and was momentarily embarrassed by the thick coat of middle-aged grey hair on my back. “The show must go on,” I whispered to myself as I threw off my underwear and stood momentarily naked before the old man who was doing an unconvincing job of pretending not to notice what was happening.

My leather pants stuck to my thighs as I tried like a man possessed to put them on as quickly as possible. I danced across the tiled floor, hopping up and down as I heaved one leg up, inch by inch. I almost fell over and steadied myself against the wall. Peak hat was now watching me with his mouth slightly open. I thought I saw him mouth the words, “what the actual fuck?” I got the pants on and then my slightly moth-eaten shirt. I was ready. The drier reached the downbeat of its second last spin cycle and settled again into a rhythmic pulsing beat as the drier maintained a steady hum. “You let me violate you.” I began to sing. Now was Trent’s time to shine. “You let me desecrate you.” Perfectly timed with the beat of the washing machine. “You let me penetrate you.” Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. “You let me complicate you.” Old peak hat man stood and walked out as I danced across the tiles towards the door where w-waddles was sitting. I bent down to and put my face close to his. “I broke apart my insides.” He pulled away sharply and gave a look of absolute horror as “help me” spilled out of my mouth. “I’ve got no soul to sell.” I was in a trance. Up the road I could see red and blue lights. They did not stop me from my performance. “I want to fuck you like an animal”.

Waddles got up and walked, then ran, away from the Laundromat. “I want to feel you from the inside.” I was in my zone when the police officer tapped me on my shoulder and I span around, a man possessed, and spat into his face, “I want to fuck you like an animal!” And then I was tasered. I came to in a watchhouse cell, still in my Trent outfit, sore and a little broken inside. I sat on the side of the small bench on the eastern wall and pulled out a notebook and pen I had stuffed into my right sock and began to write. The ritual had worked its magic. Trent had worked his magic. The rhythm of the dryer reminded me of industrial metal…


It’s been 412 days since the rains last came. Everyone collected as much as possible, and for a while, water was plentiful. Now, the roads are dry and cracked, starved of moisture. Most of the reserves are gone. My canteen is running low, and my wallet even lower. Sweat beads up on my forehead then breaks loose of its hold, rolling gently down the side of my face, teasing me with its wetness. “How much farther?” Ciara asks. I look over at my 12-year-old sister and swallow down the annoyance that’s rising up my throat. She holds her hand up to her forehead, trying to create some shade on her face, her hat long gone. “Stop asking me that,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “I told you, we’re almost there.”

In truth, Portland Town, rumored to be a bustling tradepost in the middle of the Oregon Desert, is a lot farther than I envisioned. We’ve been walking along Columbia Road for a week now with no sign of it. It’s hard to imagine this road was once a river, lined with trees. It’s even harder to imagine that trees ever grew anywhere in this wasteland.

“Annika, look,” Ciara says as we turn a corner. Finally, in the distance I see some structures. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. I’ve been fooled by mirages before, the image of something you want nearby that’s not really there, and I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. “Portland Town.” Relief pours through me like the glass of water I envision buying. “I told you we were almost there.” Ciara’s smile at the sight of the town almost makes the trip worth it. Soon, people are strolling around us, tipping their hats toward us in greeting. They don’t look quite as dirty as we are, which means there must be a way to bathe here.

“Maybe mom and dad are here,” she says, her pace quickening. “Maybe,” I agree, “but don’t get your hopes up.” It’s been a month since we were separated from our parents after a group of raiders stormed our camp site in the Idaho Desert. We were on our way to Cannon Beach, where the Oregon Desert meets the salty sea, and where there is rumored to be a fully functional desalination plant, providing water for all who need it. “They would be almost a month ahead of us, so they’re probably already at the coast.” But even as I say the words, I start scanning the crowd for their faces, and I see Ciara doing the same.

When we hit the main road in town we start passing stores, mostly selling dried food and canned goods or medical supplies.

“They’re selling water!” Ciara calls out pointing at a nearby shop. It has a sign on the window saying “bottled water available.”

“Let’s go.” I grab her hand and we walk inside. The shelves are only lined with canned goods of course, it would be too risky to leave water unlocked. I approach the woman working behind the counter. “How much for a bottle of water?” I ask. “A hundred dollars,” she says. “A hundred?” Bottles were closer to fifty last time I tried buying one in a store instead of trading for one.

“You can look elsewhere for a cheaper one, but you won’t find it,” the lady says. Ciara puts on her best sad face, but it garners no sympathy. I only have a hundred and fifty left in my wallet and we need some food and supplies too. I still have half a canteen so I’m not sure it’s worth it. “How far to Cannon Beach from here?” I ask. “About two days walk. Water isn’t any cheaper there.” A half of a canteen won’t last us two days. We can live without food for that long, though. I reluctantly hand over my hundred dollar bill in exchange for the bottle of water. I pour it into my canteen and hand her the bottle back so she can reuse it. Ciara and I mumble thanks and walk out. At the far end of town we come across a large warehouse with a sign reading “workers needed.” “Maybe I can get some work,” I tell Ciara as we walk up to the man out front. He’s large and towers over us, his muscled arms threatening to rip his shirt. “Hi, I’m Annika, what work do you have? I’m available.” “I need unloaders to move boxes from a shipment we got today. It pays one water bottle per day.” “Can my sister work too? She’s strong.” He furrows his brow at me. “How old is your sister?” “She’s thirteen,” I lie, “but she’s stronger than she looks.” Ciara flexes her arm muscles to show him, which makes me laugh, but he doesn’t even look at her. “I don’t hire kids.” “Ok, just me then.” I show him my ID which proves that I'm nineteen.

“Straight through there,” he says, pointing inside. “Ok, just one sec, I’ll be right back.” I take Ciara by the arm and we walk over to a nearby bench under a tree, where I sit her down. “Wait here for me. Close your eyes and get some sleep, and when you wake up I’ll be done.”

She nods and curls her backpack up under head and lies down on the bench. I hurry back inside the warehouse where I see an assembly line of workers moving boxes. I jump into the line and start hauling boxes from the carriage onto the shelves inside. The weight of the boxes quickly slows me down, and I can’t keep up with the speed of the men around me. “You,” a man not in the assembly line says to me. “Come here.” I get out of the line and walk over to him. His button down shirt looks freshly washed and there’s only a hint of dust at his temples. “You’re slowing everyone down.” “I’m sorry, I’ll pick it up.” “No, come here.” We walk to a storage room. There are boxes on the ground filled with mason jars of various pickled items. “Unpack these boxes and line the shelves with the jars. If you steal anything, you go to jail. If you break anything, you don’t get paid for the day, understand?” “Yes, no problem.” “As soon as you're done unloading this room you can come see me for your water bottle.” He turns and leaves and I exhale. This is much easier work. After I have two boxes unloaded, its contents neatly lined on the shelves, I hear a voice. “Annika!” I turn and see Ciara rush into the room next to me. “What are you doing here? I told you to wait outside. How did you even get in here?” She shrugs. “I snuck in. I got bored. Can I help?”

I hesitate, but two can finish this a lot faster than one. “Ok, but be careful not to drop anything. If you hear anyone coming, hide in one of the empty boxes.” She smiles and my heart mends, as it does little by little every time I see that grin. Together, we make quick work of the job and before we know it all the boxes are unloaded, and all the mason jars are lined neatly on the shelves. “Ok, can you sneak out without anyone seeing you?” I ask Ciara.

“Yep, I know how.” “Ok, I’ll get our water and meet you back by the bench.” She takes off and I go to find the man that gave me the storage room job. He inspects my work carefully and then produces two water bottles. “Here, take two,” he says, crinkling kind eyes towards me. “You look like you need it.” “Thank you so much,” I say, staring at my new treasure. Two bottles will make all the difference. “Come back if you need more work.” He shows me out and I run to the bench where Ciara is waiting.

“He gave me two bottles! We have enough now, we can start heading to Cannon Beach.”

“And find mom and dad!” She throws her arms around me. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get her this far. Mom and dad always told me if we ever got separated to meet them at Cannon Beach. It hasn’t been easy slugging the kid through the desert, but we’re so close now. Two. More. Days. I spend the evening getting some jerky and new socks with the rest of my money, and with my last dollar I pay for a salt-water bath; a luxury only coastal deserts have. We set up camp under some trees nearby, and at first light we start the last leg of our journey.

I use the compass and the map I have and head west. Ciara doesn’t say much. The anticipation of our arrival and reunion with our parents is too great at this point. There’s nothing left to say. We walk 15 hours the first day, stopping only briefly for lunch. It should leave us with less than 8 hours to go. We camp under the stars that night, giggling and taking small sips of water here and there. We’ve learned how to ration it. I can’t wait for Cannon Beach, but I’ll also miss having this alone time with Ciara, time we normally don’t ever have together. As the sun peaks over the horizon, our eyes shoot open. “We’re gonna see mom and dad today!” Ciara exclaims. We pack up our camp and hit the road as soon as possible. We practically run the remaining distance. By late afternoon, the roads start getting busy with travelers. They’re cleaner than any travelers I’ve seen in quite some time. By the beach, you can take salt water baths for free whenever you want. We cross one last hill and the sight of the never ending sea sprawls in front of us.

“It’s not a mirage is it?” Ciara asks. “Just a vision of what you want?” I take a deep breath and smell the salty air. “You can’t smell a vision.” I grab her hand and we run into town, smiles plastered on our faces. Our eyes start frantically searching the crowds as we shuffle through the now-busy streets. How are we going to find them? The dirt beneath our feet starts changing to sand. We’ve reached the beach. It’s lined with tents up and down the coast as far as we can see. Just past them, waves, beautiful watery waves, crash on the shore. No wonder everyone here is so clean with so much salt water at their fingertips. Ciara and I start walking up and down the rows of tents, searching all the faces. “Annika?” I hear a voice in the distance. Was it calling my name? “Annika!?” I turn, my eyes darting at a speed faster than my quickening heart rate, when I see them. A few tents away from us my mom and dad emerge and start running towards us. “Annika!” They call. I sprint towards them, Ciara at my side, until we are nothing but a mess of arms and hugs and tears. Finally, they pull back and my mom cups my tear-filled face in her hands. “I can’t believe you made it. How did you get here?” She asks. “Ciara helped me.”

Her eyes crinkle with worry as she drops her hands from my face, looking to my dad for help.

“Honey,” dad says. “Ciara’s been dead for years, you know this.” I look down at the spot beside me where Ciara was standing, but of course she’s not there.

“I know,” I say. “Mirages aren’t really there, but sometimes they can help you get where you’re going anyway.”

They look at each other again, their brows furrowed.

“Come inside, honey,” mom says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “We have some water for you.” THE END


“You gotta be careful with that acid on account of you can do it, and then, you could have a flashback like ten years could pass, twenty years could pass, and then, you get a flashback. So I thought...well that sounds like a good deal.” Norm Macdonald Flashback

It’s Christmas five years ago. His wife isn’t there but he’s not alone. She called earlier in the day to let him know she’d come up the second the snow cleared. That was before the power went out. He’s staring outside his cabin window, staring at the cloud of snow, contemplating the worst possible outcomes. *** He wakes up in the middle of the night. He had a dream about that Christmas five years ago. Again, the snow has cut the power and blocked the roads. Again, he’s plagued with the same panic he felt that same night. Again, his chronic hyperventilation makes him gasp and grow hungry for air. Again, he feels like he has no control over anything. This time, however, his wife is by his side and his daughter sleeps in the other room. He feels strange. A strangeness all too similar to that regretful night. He feels like he’s hungover, but he didn’t drink last night. The ceiling looks like it’s a mile above his head. He looks down. He’s afraid the fall from his bed might kill him. *** The woman he’s with is fixing drinks in the kitchen. He needs to talk to her. To tell her this a mistake. That this can’t happen. His hand shakes. It takes him five tries to light his cigarette. He’s rehearsing the lines in his head. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. He hears the sound of sugar being muddled in an empty glass as the woman sings Baby, It’s Cold Outside softly to herself in the kitchen. *** He sits up straight and touches his bare feet to the cold hardwood floor. The feeling is painful at first, but quickly, his mind fixates onto new pains. He puts on his slippers and quietly, so to not wake his wife, slides his feet upon the wood panels to exit the room.

He’s in the hallway. He flips the light switch. He remembers the power is out. He wonders why his legs feel so flimsy. Like the bones have slid right out of them. He grabs for anything on the walls to help support him as he makes his way towards the kitchen. *** The woman that isn’t his wife returns from the kitchen. She sets two drinks down on the living room coffee table. She sits herself down next to him and leans into his reluctant arms.

“I’m sorry...but...this probably shouldn’t happen.” He’s ashamed that he just butchered his own lines. “You don’t expect me to leave...now...during a blizzard...do you?” “You can’t be here when my wife gets here.” She grabs his chin with her fingertips and gently turns his head to look at her. “I won’t be. I promise.” She reaches for the two glasses on the coffee table and hands him one. “Let’s just enjoy the night...shall we?” “What’s in it?” “Brandy...Seven Up...and lots of sugar.” He takes a drink. “Mmm...good.” *** He’s forgotten about his legs entirely. His unquenchable thirst is the only thing on his mind now. He’s making himself a drink in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what he’s pouring. Something brown. Something to take the edge off. Something to help him finally forget five years ago. It won’t work. Nothing ever has. As he pours, he contemplates the reasons why the torture is so much more unbearable tonight than all other nights. *** He finishes his drink and sets it on the table. He breaths a sigh of relief. His mind is clearer and in a better place now.

“Feeling better?” the woman asks. “Much better. Thanks. I needed that.” “Well...you’ll be feeling a lot better in just a few minutes.” “Thanks...but...I’m sorry...but this shouldn’t...this should not happen!” “Not what I meant,” she says as she shakes her head sadistically.

“What do you mean then?” “Well...let’s just say I put a little something extra in our drinks. Something to help take the edge off.” He stands up. His chronic hyperventilation sets in. His face goes flush from panic and anger. “What did you put in my drink?!” “Just a little LSD.” She grabs his trembling hand, “Don’t worry...you’ll thank me later. Let’s just sit back...relax...and enjoy the trip together.” He struggles for air like he’s breathing the last bit of oxygen on earth. No matter how long or how deep he inhales, his lungs stay deflated. He’s going to faint. Going to fall and bash his head against the corner of the coffee table and leave a pool of blood on the living room floor. A pool of evidence. Evidence of his infidelity. She lays him down on the couch to prevent the worst. He uses every last breath he can spare to shout out his wife’s name over and over again until he sails off into dream.

*** He sits down in the living room chair with his drink in hand. He grabs the TV remote with his free hand and presses power. He remembers again that the power is out. He looks at the TV. Colors and people appear on the screen. He sees his wife standing in the corner of the living room. She’s watching her husband share a drink with a woman that’s not her. She bends down and her daughter appears by her side. She whispers in her daughter’s ear, “Daddy doesn’t love us anymore.” He falls to the floor crying silently. He’s trying to remember how to breath. *** He wakes up in the same place he had passed out the night before. He doesn’t see anyone else around. He finds his belt on the coffee table. He takes the belt in his hand. Bent in half, he squeezes it tight. The belt widens and then flattens as he presses his forehead into the crease. He sees a note just to the left of where the belt was. The note reads: Thanks for the great night! Hit me up whenever you’re back in town. You know where to find me. Love, Zoe He runs to the sink and throws up. He can’t remember anything. Not after passing out at least. He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He wipes the excess vomit off of his lips with his hand. His wedding ring reflects sunlight from the window and calls his attention. He stares at it. His thumb rotates it around the base of his finger. He recalls how the previous morning he looked upon the ring with pride. He walks over to the light switch. The power is still out. He checks the window. The roads are cleared. A blue SUV pulls into the driveway. It’s his wife and newborn daughter. He turns around and grabs the note from off of the coffee table. He crumples it up and discards it into his pocket. He puts his belt back on, missing a loop in the process. He goes to open the door for his wife and child. *** He’s hearing the words over and over again in his head. This time they’re spoken by his wife: I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. I’m sorry...but this can’t happen. Did it happen? Did anything actually happen? For years he’s agonized over whether or not his paranoia was rooted in delusion. What if that night began and ended the second he passed out? It’s possible. Maybe likely even. He has to know for sure. He can’t go on like this. He pulls himself up off the ground. He grabs his hat and coat and walks to the door with nothing on his feet but his slippers. He remembers that Zoe’s house is only a few blocks down the road. He gave her a ride there during the blizzard five years ago when he saw her struggling in the snow. If only she had gotten out of the car when he dropped her off that night. If only she hadn’t convinced him to take her with him. That she couldn’t be alone for the night. Things would’ve been different. He promised himself he’d never talk to or see her again. He has to break that promise. It’s time to know the truth. He pushes the door open. He’s trudging through thick mounds of snow to reach the highway. He’s holding his hat down so a gust of wind doesn’t blow it off. His other hand shields his face from the snow. He trucks over a snowman he had made with this daughter earlier that day. It was covered to its waist in snow. He carries on. He’s at the road. He can tell its been plowed within the last couple of hours. The snow covering it is matted down and slippery. Nothing he’s never walked on before. He just has to be careful. He slides down it like he did in his curling days. One foot at a time. One ahead of the other. His legs are numb. They’ll be warm again soon. His feet are in the early stages of frostbite. He’s had worse. His face is flushed. His breathing tightens. He’s exhaling more than he’s inhaling. He stops. Hands on knees. Defeat. The wind rips his hat off his head. He sees it land about twenty feet up the road. He slides his feet towards it and slips on his way there. He army crawls the rest of the way. He reaches the hat and takes it in his hand. He sits up straight and beats the hat against his thigh to shake off the snow. He looks up ahead. He sees two yellow lights approaching in the distance. The lights illuminate a thick white cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. He jumps to his feet to get out of the way. He takes one step to the side of the road. He slips. The lights illuminate a red cloud of snow as it churns everything in its path. The roads are cleared but the power remains out. *** His wife walks into the house carrying their daughter. He kisses both of them. “How was the drive?” he asks. “Good!” she says. “Really good. I think we picked a good area to buy this cabin. They don’t wait around to plow the roads here like they do back home.” “That’s great!”


Cynthia was unusually quiet as she and Millie walked home from school. They weren't neighbors, Millie live a couple streets over,  but Millie always walked Cynthia home to make sure she got there safe. A while back Millie had asked why Cynthia walked home from school alone instead of taking the bus. Cynthia wouldn't say. Millie only wanted the best for her, and liked her company, so she offered to walk with her from then on. "Did your chemistry exam go ok, Cynth?" Millie asked as she kicked at some loose asphalt on the road. "Eh, it went alright." Cynthia replied solemnly, her backpack weighing down on her slouched shoulders. Millie brushed her chocolate brown bangs out of her eyes as the breeze tugged at them. She knew something was tugging at Cynthia's heart. She just didn't know what. "Did you get to talk to Tasha today about the history project?" Millie asked, trying to hear a glint of positivity in her friend's voice. "Mil, I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to her, I was studying in the music room." Cynthia replied a little forcefully, Her blue hair falling out of it's messy bun. Millie could tell that Cynthia was getting a little defensive. Millie remained quiet for a while as they got closer to Cynthia's house. As they walked up her porch steps, Millie stopped her friend. "Cynth, I'm really sorry if it felt like I was being controlling back there. I just want to make sure you're ok. Are you?" Millie looked at her friend with sympathy in her eyes. "No." Cynthia replied and dropped her backpack. Millie watched as she walked slowly to her porch swing and sat down. Millie followed. "Do you want to talk?" As she sat down on the swing, she noticed that the frown that played on Cynthia's face was becoming more common these days. "My life doesn't have meaning, Millie. I'm useless." Cynthia groaned. "Oh, Cynth, don't say that!" Millie gasped and grabbed Cynthia's hand. "I mean, no one cares about me. No one talks to me. I'm depressed." Cynthia muttered. She laid back on the porch swing made of cherry tree wood. "I care about you!" Millie exclaimed. Cynthia's blue hair fell into her eyes. Millie brushed it away. Cynthia crossed her arms. "You're not enough!" She whimpered. Millie wanted to take it personally, but she knew Cynthia's heart. "I'm not the only one who cares about you though." Millie sat back onto the swing. "My parents left me with my grandma who is too busy to care, no one but you talks to me, I can't do anything right, and no one cares if I stay or depart this planet! Who would care about someone like that?" Cynthia screeched. Millie was used to Cynthia's outbursts. It was hard to remain friends with someone so negative, but she remained. She knew she was a sweet girl inside. "Your Father cares." Millie replied as she pushed off of the concrete porch to make the swing go higher. "My father left me! He doesn't care whether I'm alive or not." Cynthia shouted. Millie shook her head. "Not that Father." "Oh, is this another one of your 'Jesus talks' ?" Cynthia's tone made Millie wince. "Cynthia, just listen. Your Heavenly Father created you and knew you before you were even born. He sculpted every detail- every part of you. He put you on this planet for a reason and He has a plan for you. He loves you. You are His child." Millie laid her hand on Cynthia's. Cynthia jerked her hand out from under Millie's. "Why would he do that? There is no plan. The plan is for me to live a painful life and die in vain. There is no God who loves me like you say." Cynthia huffed and turned away from Millie. "He-" Millie started. "He what?" Cynthia interrupted. "He doesn't care about how I live or what I do! I don't even believe there is a 'He' at all! If He loves me as much as you say, and He's in control of the whole world, why doesn't he give me some relief?" Tears started to slip down Cynthia's flushed cheeks. Millie knew her pain. She sympathized with her, and only wanted to help her. Only God could help her though. "I think you could relate to Jesus, Cynth. When God sent His Son to earth to be crucified for all of our sins, Jesus prayed and asked his Father to let the cup pass from Him. In other words if it was not necessary for Him to face this trial could God please save Him from it? But He also added at the end of His prayer, 'Not my will be done, but yours.' Because God did not let the cup pass, and Jesus was crucified and endured all that pain, the sins of the world are forgiven. And if you believe in your heart that Jesus is your Lord and Savior, and repent from your sins, you can go to heaven with Him when you die." Millie took a breath. Cynthia was silent. Millie knew she was listening. "God is using the pain you are going through to refine you, not reject you. Even if you were the only person on earth, God would have still sent His Son to die for you, and He still would have died on that cross." Millie squeezed Cynthia's arm lovingly. "You are forgiven, not forgotten. You are loved, not left behind. You are wanted, not wandering. You are chosen not forsaken. You don't know your worth, my friend. You are loved so much that God's Son died for you and me! Can you believe that?" Millie shook Cynthia's arm. "Can you believe that?" Cynthia looked up, tears dripping from her chin. "Really? He did that for me?" She asked shakily. "Yes, Cynthia, He did!" Millie smiled and wiped the tears from her dear friends face. "I believe." Cynthia whispered. Millie pulled her into a tight hug. Millie let her go and stood up. "Oh! You like reading right?" Millie asked. Cynthia nodded, confused. "Then you'll love The Book I'm about to show you."


Hell yeah. I love *Groundhog Day*. *The clock switches to 6:00 AM. “I Got You Babe” plays. Sonny & Cher.* Classic song. *Phil slowly rises from his bed. “It’s groundhog day!”* Classic line. Who voiced the radio guys? I should Google that. Every year I watch *Groundhog Day* on February 12. Ten days after Groundhog Day the holiday, but right on the release date of *Groundhog Day* the movie. I love Harold Ramis’s direction. People don’t appreciate him. Revolutionized the comedy-fantasy. Funny yet poignant. Seriously, A+ work. Neil, my roommate, says *Palm Springs* handles the time loop-gender politics better than *Groundhog Day*, but I don’t care. I just love *Groundhog Day*. “Want anything from the store?” Neil shouts from down the hall. “Nah.” No distractions today. I turn off my phone. Ned Ryerson’s intro scene is on. ————— *Finally free from his time loop, Phil wakes in bed with Rita.* Perfect ending, perfect movie. I watch through the credits. I bet IMDb trivia had something on the radio guys. I hit the red X to close Netflix and— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”. Phil Connors is doing the weather.* Weird. I’m still in my bedroom, but it feels like something jolted me. For some reason, Netflix is playing Groundhog Day again. I close out— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* It’s like I’ve been thrown back in my chair. An intense feeling of deja vu. Holy shit. Hand shaking, I move the mouse to the the red X…. *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up. “A Harold Ramis Film”.* “HELL yeah! YES!” Noise in the hall. Neil knocks on my door. “Everything okay?” “Better than ok! I’m in a Groundhog Day!” Neil walks in, laughing. “You’re in a time loop? Or what? You think there’ll be two more weeks of winter?” “The time loop one.” “Sure. Prove it.” “You need to go the store later.” “I guess. To get what?” “Dunno. Didn’t ask. Tell me now, what do you need?” “Uh, eggs, vegetable oil, and, uh Greek yogurt.” “That’s enough!” I close my laptop— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* I’m alone in my room again. The clock’s gone back two minutes. “Neil!” ————— Neil is lying on my bed. I usually don’t like dirty clothes on my sheets, but it’ll clean itself on the next loop. “What’s the quickest way to prove to someone you’re in a time loop?” I turn. “Oh, like ways to show that I’m not crazy and I’m really in a time loop?” “Yeah, exactly. How long did it take to get enough info to prove it to me?” “Like, 6 or 7 loops. You really wouldn’t believe me.” “Why would I? I still don’t, really. It’s insane.” “Fair point.” I think for a moment. “Saying what they ate for breakfast?” “That could just mean you’re stalking them.” “Hm. Street they grew up on? Childhood pet?” “Are you stealing their credit card? Stupid.” “Dream from last night?” “Not everyone dreams.” Neil and I think for a moment. I clap. “Saying something’s gonna happen, just a moment before it does.” “Yes. *Yes*. That’s fucking it.” Neil sits up. “I’m checking through Twitter now.” “Find the biggest news stories and celebrity tweets. One for every one hundred and one minutes of Groundhog Day. For anyone I meet.” Neil puts his phone down. I’m confused. “Neil? C’mon. Start researching.” Neil leaps up and walks over to me. “It’s your time loop. Do the research yourself.” Before I can stop him, Neil grabs my laptop and closes it— *Columbia Pictures logo. Music fades up.* Alone again. “Shit.” As *Groundhog Day* plays, I start scrolling. This’ll take a while. “Hey, Neil! Buddy! Can you help me with something? ————— I’m alone in my room again. *Groundhog Day* plays as I try read a book. I found I can’t turn the volume off all the way, or I loop back to the start. Pausing also makes me loop back. If I keep the noise but hide the video? Nope, loop back again. Leave the room as the video plays? Loop. Fully turn away? Loop. *Groundhog Day* is an hour and forty-one minutes long. Proving I’m in a time loop to Neil takes me nine minutes, at the fastest. He’s pretty stubborn about believing in linear time. On one loop, through some unfortunate-but-necessary violence, I made him tell me a secret. Revealing that secret saves me three minutes a loop, but’s it’s always an awkward conversation, so I avoid it when I can. Exploring the outside world was hard, since I have to carry my laptop with me, and our wifi craps out once I’m past the door. But Neil, always creative, thought of something. If I downloaded Groundhog Day on my phone and timed it exactly with the laptop, I could switch to the phone. Time loop on the go. With our wifi, downloading Groundhog Day to my phone takes four minutes and eleven seconds. My last-gen iPhone dies after playing fifty-five minutes of Groundhog Day, which I think is planned obsolescence. If I charge my portable charger for fifteen minutes, that’s enough charge to keep my phone alive for the full movie. I shouldn’t have started watching the movie during rush hour. Driving downtown takes a while, especially on a route where no cops pull me over for watching Groundhog Day and driving. That means I have to rush visiting museums and seeing segments of movies. By the way, I’ve noticed no one likes the guy in the theater who’s also watching Groundhog Day on his phone. ————— But you’ve seen all the time loop stories, you get the gist of what I did. Ate all the best food in the area. Did all the drugs. Learned a few instruments. Well, tried to, but I’m not made of time. The cello is a bit of a headache. I talked to my mom a lot. Funny enough, she’s been watching *Russian Doll*. She’s says it’s a pretty tight time loop story, and that Natasha Lyonne is a “revelation”. I checked out *Russian Doll*. Gave me the idea to look for other time loopers. Couldn’t find any. I even found a group of people who started watching *Groundhog Day* the same time as me, but none of them were loopers. They were pretty impressed though. I hooked up with one of them. It wasn’t great. I never tried Groundhog Day’s “kill yourself to escape” method. But I mean, it’s hard to kill yourself while still watching Groundhog Day. Also, what am I getting from it? A world where I’m dead? Seems like a major hassle. Trying to escape with time loop story methods didn’t help as much as you’d think. In *Edge of Tomorrow*, Tom Cruise gets time looping from alien blood. The loop ends because he… gets a blood transfusion. I think? Well I got a blood transfusion. Still looping. Other time loop stories end when you fix something - solve a murder, end a war, find love. Problem is, there was no murder. I can’t end a war in an hour-forty. And I broke up with my girlfriend a couple weeks ago. I’m happy I did! Plus, using time loops to find love seems a little creepy. And maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I like that everyone lives the same kind of life, growing older while changing nothing, and I get to do something different. I don’t have to grow old. I don’t have to move on. I don’t have to like new things. I can do whatever I want. As long as I’m watching *Groundhog Day*.


“It was me!” Jim exclaims as soon as he sees what is piled on the Deans desk. He knows what he’s saying, knows the consequences even before the words leave his mouth. There is no moment of disbelief or doubt in his mind. There is no question that Jim is going to do this. He will take the fall for this because if he doesn’t, the consequences will be unbearable. His friends stop shuffling in front of the Dean and freeze in shades of confusion and guilt as the prefects shove them to attention in their pyjamas. Adam turns his head to look at him out of the corner of his eyes, face pale in shock. Dave trips over his own foot, coordination a pipe dream in old joggers and a tee, no shoes on his sock-clad feat. He almost pulls Ian down with him as he tips over. He might or might not have done better fully dressed and in daylight, though Jim can't judge. The Dean misses none of this, her clear dark eyes flowing over them with barely hidden derision as Dave and Ian manage to get back to their feet. Her eyebrow and her lip quirk as the two teens struggle to keep each other on an even keel. She gives them a moment to collect their barely extant dignity before turning her attention to him. “ You are at fault?” The Dean asks, her tone doubtful. She crosses her sweater-clad arms and tilts her head, just so, and he knows she doesn’t believe him. Even in her casual clothes and bare face, she sees right through him. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter that she is right to disbelieve him. Who’s going to prove otherwise? Adam was his first friend here, the first that hadn’t laughed at him, hadn’t called him by a girl's name. Dave and Ian, on account of no longer being the only queer kids, had declared him one of them. Friendship had come after solidarity, after shared slurs in the halls and the odd threat at recess. None of them have his academic standing, and he can't bear to know what would happen if Ian's parents found out about this. “Yes, Ma’am. This is all my fault.” Jim reiterates, absolute in his conviction. He meets Adam's eyes past the Dean's shoulder and tries his best to indicate that he should back him up. Adam frowns. Dave and Ian share a look, though only Ian seems to understand what he is trying to do. “Don’t be stupid, Jimmy,” Ian interjects. “You had nothing to do with this.” The Dean releases a frustrated huff as Adam and Dave look at Ian in disbelief. Jim looks from Ian to the Dean and to the scene of the crime, then back to Ian. Jim may have been lying, but claiming that he wasn’t involved at all was stretching the bounds of credulity. It might have helped if Ian hadn’t slurred his words. One of the prefects snorts inelegantly. Jim turns and glares at the boy, then remembers that pissing off a prefect probably won't help the situation at all. “Shut it,” he hisses at Ian instead, who hisses back wordlessly and rolls his eyes.

“Are you boys quite done?” The Dean states, clearly indicating that they are, even if they disagree. Jim and Ian disengage their staring contest to look at the ground at the Dean's feet instead, chiming in with Adam and Dave when they reply in the affirmative. “Frankly, this is the stupidest waste of an evening I have been subjected to, and I don’t really care that much who did this.” She says, indicating the incriminating pile on her desk. “I understand that you are teenagers, and I understand that a certain amount of mischief is to be expected, but there are limits.” Jim isn’t sure how far past the Dean's limits a few ‘suggestive’ zines are, never mind that he is pretty sure they are on loan from Adam’s mom. Mrs Ghetty claimed that they were age appropriate when Jim’s dad had called her with his concerns. The Dean picks up the top copy, a relatively low-quality print of a pencil drawing, depicting two men holding hands under a black and white rainbow. She leans against the desk as she thumbs through the yellowed paper, then throws it back on the pile. “This is nothing.” The Dean says, tone stern and suddenly Jim realizes that she isn’t looking at them this time. She is looking at the prefects, Thomson and Frank, two boys a year up, assigned to patrol the boys' dormitory. They had burst into the room Adam shares with Ian and crowed at finding the four of them together, Jim not in his assigned single room, well past curfew and reading ‘illicit’ and ‘inappropriate’ materials. Thomson frowns in confusion from behind Ian, then strides forward and grabs a zine off of the pile. “But it’s porn!” he exclaims, not bothering to open it, just thrusting the paper at the Dean, barely holding on to it as if it might infect him with prolonged contact. The Dean turns an unimpressed eye on him, takes the paper from his hands and opens it. Inside there are pictures of queer couples, yes, but none of them are naked. The most contact they have is on page five. One man hugged another from behind in an intimate embrace, both fully clothed. They are standing in front of a house that looks like it might be in the countryside, and smiling. It is a good picture. Dave had needed to wipe at his eyes when he had seen it, had given it a long and still look, had turned and held Ian’s hand tightly, as they read the accompanying text. “ ‘The Queer Guide to Queer History; We’re still Here’,” she reads off the title page, then flips it back on the table. The Prefects shuffle behind them, suddenly unsure of the situation. Jim shares another look with Ian, equally bewildered. “You four,” she starts, pointing at the pajamaed boys with a wave of her hand, “can’t be meeting past curfew like this. Detention for all of you, and don’t do this again. Come see me in the morning for the particulars, and to pick up these zines once I’ve reviewed their appropriateness.” The Dean says in a clear dismissal, then rounds on the prefects as Jim grabs Adam and follows Dave and Ian out of the office.

“Now, you two, on the other hand…” is all Jim hears as the door closes behind them.


When, late at night, I heard commotion from my son's room, I thought I'd find him jumping on the bed again. My telling him off never did seem to stick. What I did not expect to find as I swung open the door was the Tooth Fairy, standing on the bookshelf near my son's bed, holding the Elf on the Shelf that normally resided on said bookshelf in a vicious headlock. In the Elf's hands was clutched a tooth, the same one my son Carlos had shown me with so much excitement during the day. "Oh my God," I said. "It's happening again." The Fairy had the Elf in a headlock with one arm, the other was clamped over his mouth. "Sshhh," the Tooth Fairy hissed. She nodded to where Carlos was fast asleep. "As soon as I let go he screams," she said. The Elf grunted, as if to say, *damn right*! "Okay," I said, thinking fast. "Okay, here." In one swift motion, I stepped across the bedroom to where the Tooth Fairy and the Elf struggled and gingerly scooped up the pair. The Fairy's wings, like that of a gossamer butterfly, shimmered with what I knew to be anger. "Well what else am I supposed to do?" I whispered. I took them to the living room and set them down on the coffee table. "One sec," I said. I popped over to the kitchen and grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard. Then it was over to the fridge, where I filled it to the brim with cold water. "Elf," I said, approaching the coffee table, glass in hand. "mmpph!" the Elf said, struggling feebly against the strength of the Fairy. "If you scream," I gestured to the water. "You get dunked. You feel me?" The Elf gave a big shudder, then nodded. "Okay," I said. "Let him go, Sienna." The Fairy gave me a long look, then stepped back from the Elf. The Elf dropped the tooth, then fell to his knees, gasping. Rather melodramatically, I thought. Fucking *Elves*. "So," Sienna said. "You remember me." I did. And she looked much the same. A tiny, beautiful ballerina with shimmering wings that glowed blue. She was clad from head to toe in black clothing, complete with a hood. A tiny ballerina moonlighting as a ninja. "Of course I remember you," I said. "I mean, of course." Her response was unexpected. Her wings flushed from light blue to a light pink that climbed near to the edges, and she flit across the table away from me. "Right, of course," she said, and I couldn't see her face. "Some don't, that's all." The Elf took this moment as his time to bolt. He scrambled across the table and dove over the edge. I caught him easily. "You!" the Elf cried. "You sick, sick man! I'll take your teeth! Every last one!" He clawed wildly at the air as if to make good on his threat. I dunked him in the water. \~\~\~ "So," I said. "They're coming for Carlos now." I sat on the couch, leaning against the armrest. I'd fetched a blanket, and coffee brewed in the kitchen. I figured I wouldn't be getting anymore sleep. "Yes," Sienna said. She sat on the back of the couch, her eyes on the coffee table. The Elf lay there, his face and hands duct taped, a pool of water having formed beneath him. He seemed to be playing dead. *Elves*. "I should've known better than to get one," I said, nodding towards the Elf. "I just thought...well I thought it was over." "It's never over," she said bitterly. "The Elven King will never stop seeking the teeth of children." *The Elven King*. I remembered, and shuddered. "But, that's why you're here, isn't it?" I asked. "To do as you did with me. To take Carlos down the Fae Path to face that bastard." Sienna was silent. From the kitchen, I heard the coffee brewer finish. "Hold on," I said, and left her there, returning with two mugs. One, the regular size you'd see in anybody's kitchen. The other, a miniature, the size of a thimble. Both steaming with hot coffee. "Look," I said excitedly. "It's your size." Sienna looked surprised, then her expression morphed into something I didn't understand. She looked away again. I set both mugs on the coffee table. That startled the Elf, but after taking in his surroundings again, he flopped back onto the glass to continue playing dead. "No," Sienna said softly. "No?" I asked. "I'm not here for Carlos," she said. "We got a tip. Elf activity in this area. And I...recognized the name." "Oh," I said. Then, touched. "You came for me?" No response. "Sienna, that means so much. Thank you." I was smiling, I couldn't help myself. I lay back against the couch and sipped my coffee. "You know, after you left, I told everybody I knew about you." Sienna scoffed. "As if they'd believe you." "They didn't, of course. I remember being so frustrated. As if they'd never been a kid. Like, don't any of you remember not being believed? Anyway. That didn't stop me from talking about you. I told everyone stories about my new 'imaginary friend'." "Really?" Sienna said, and I heard the ghost of a smile in her words. "What kind of stories?" "Oh, you know," I said. "How Sienna and I faced the Tremor Queen in the Whittlewood. How we rode eagles over the Lake of Myth. Stories." "I remember," Sienna said. She lay back to stare at the ceiling. Doing so made her hood fall, and white hair spilled out over the back of the couch. "Did I ever take you to see the Star Sea?" she asked. "No," I said. "I don't think so." "It's beautiful," she said. "I wish we'd gone." "We saw plenty," I said. "And I saw...enough, I think. Thank you." Sienna was silent for a long while. I finished my coffee and set down my mug. "You could take Carlos," I said. Sienna sighed. "I was afraid...you'd ask that." "It's what you need, isn't it? The Elven King, he wants their teeth. But the realm. It just needs to see their wonder." "I just..." she trailed off. "You really don't remember, do you?" "Remember what?" "It wasn't all adventure and wonder for you. You got hurt. Remember?" And then I did. How had I forgotten? I'd had to learn how to use crutches. The kids at school had made fun of me. My mother had been feverishly overprotective for years after, terrified that her boy would wander off again and come back with broken legs, or worse. "Yeah, I do now," I said. "It's funny the things you forget." Sienna sat up, looking pensive. Her wings glowed violet. "I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to risk it again." I was confused. "It's been years, Sienna. Surely you've taken other kids?" Sienna paused, then shook her head. "I see," I said. "I failed," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "I couldn't protect you." "I barely remember," I said, smiling. "It was just pain. I didn't die." "What's that supposed to mean?" she said, and her wings flushed red. "You didn't die? Are you serious?" "Kids get hurt, Sienna," I said. "And you protected me from worse. You were amazing." "Are you kidding me?" Sienna said. "You should be furious. You could've--" "I didn't," I said. "I'm right here, talking to you. And I'm grateful." "You're grateful," she said flatly. "I am," I said. She scoffed and flew off the couch, settling onto the coffee table next to the Elf. "I've got to get this idiot down to processing," she said. She dug around in a dark satchel at her waist and pulled out the tooth she'd wrested from the Elf. She examined it, then pulled from the satchel a ten dollar bill, which she set on the table. "My regards to your son," she said. "Sienna," I said, ignoring the fact that she'd just set *ten dollars* on the table, a standard for tooth exchange that I'd simply never be able to live up to. She paused, then turned around, arms folded, wings extended, pulsing blue and red. It was an intimidating sight, even if she was six inches tall. "I would do it again," I said. "I'd do it all over again." "Then you're an idiot too," she said. "And still quite possibly a child." "That's not fair," I said. "You'd put your own son in danger? You'd risk everything?" "I'd put him in your care," I said. "And I'd trust you to protect him." Sienna stared at me, then slumped, looking exasperated. "Why?" she said. "Because you showed me a wonderful, wonderful world," I said. "And you were my best friend when I needed it most." The Tooth Fairy wavered. The red faded from her wings. "You got hurt," she said. "Because of me." "I am who I am because of you," I said. "You loved me and you helped me grow up. That's all we can ask of anybody." Sienna sank to her knees, and lay her hands upon the glass on either side of her. With her hair falling on either side, and her wings glowing blue, she looked exactly as I remembered her. Ethereal, like a little angel, sent to protect me against the night. "He'll have to face the Elven King," she said. "As all mortal children do." "I know," I said. "And you'll show him how to win." Sienna tilted her head back, staring through space. Then she looked back at me, and her face broke into a smile. "If he's anything like you, I'll have my work cut out for me," she said. I laughed. "Don't worry, he inherited all my worst qualities." The Tooth Fairy stood, and her wings fluttered. "I'll take this Elf in," she said, as if preparing a mental checklist. "And then..." "You'll show my son the Star Sea," I said. "And you'll keep him safe.


I wrote this in 2019 and haven't touched it since. Let me know what you all think. I haven't came up with a title yet either. Chapter One In the beginning there were a few jobs that you did, you either worked in the mill, logged in the woods, or were in the transportation business. Let me tell you everyone was struggling. Healthcare and most stores were ran by the government, and the stores that weren’t were owned by the timber company. Prices of everything were through the roof and wages were low despite the prospering export prices of plywood and lumber. By the time you got your paycheck it was mostly pennies due to having such a big account at the local store and gas station. That was okay for the most part since housing was provided by the timber company or government and as long as you worked housing was free. No one was particularly happy with the way things were going, but we all woke up and did our jobs. But it’s been that was since shit hit the fan in 2020. Things were really heating up in big government between the Republicans and the Democrats. We all knew whoever one there would be trouble. That was 8 years ago, but it feels like yesterday. Let me explain to you what happened in the shortest way that I can. We were watching the voting come to an end on Fox news when the screen went blank briefly then this lady came on air, she said “due to the way things are heading with government we are taking control of America”. Then the screen and power went out. Cell service diminished. Everything was black and cold. Now I always thought the government was just a big puppet show ran by a higher power and now it seems I was right. In the coming weeks power came back on and troops of some sort in all black uniforms moved into the city. A curfew was enacted and you couldn’t go anywhere without permission. People were dying and those that survived, including myself, were about to start living in hell. America was then divided into areas by what was produced the west coast, Alaska, Washington, Idaho, Oregon, and northern California were the timber producers all owned by operated by one company. The southern half of California along with Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Montana, and New Mexico were all for testing, what they were testing no one knew. Texas, Oklahoma, the Dakota’s, Wyoming, Louisiana, Alabama, and Georgia were cattle and oil. The Midwest states were farming areas. The rest of the states either fell or were used for God knows what. It came to be know that most everything we knew as Americans was a façade and was owned by an elite group of people. That group of people only had one thing on their mind and that was money. We all worked for pennies while they padded their pockets and lived well in DC, we were all required to watch a programming at the beginning of every shift that outlined how well our economy was doing. It angered everyone, but we took care of business and did what we needed to do to care for our families. Chapter Two It was a Tuesday morning, I started my morning routine as I always do, poured a cup of coffee, let my dogs out, and went sit in my lazy boy. I pulled out my book as I started going through my plan, there were about 5 of us who were planning a rebellion. We planned this out during our hunting trips we took once a month. We were all tight knit as we ran the big boilers that powered the West Coast Lumber mill. We knew we could bring it to it’s knees if we shut the steam valves and caused an explosion. We knew that if we tripped the fire alarm, then told people to run we could get everyone out of there before the whole thing hit the critical blowing point. So that is the plan we enacted. I triple checked my list as I laced up my boots, I pulled the pistol from it’s hiding spot and tucked it into my waist band, today was the day. I kissed my wife good bye and knelt down and petted my dogs and told em I would see them later. God only knew if I’d make it home. I walked out the front gate and threw my lunch box inside and fired up that old truck. As I backed out of the driveway I was praying that this plan would go right, and that no innocent people would get hurt. We had already spread the word for many people not to show up and hoped they would listen. The mill should be mostly deserted anyway since it was a maintenance day and only the boilers would be running. I stopped by John’s house and picked him up, we didn’t say much as we knew what needed to be done. 9:15 A.M I walked over to main steam valve and started closing it, the plan was in place and this was the first step. Brad was walking around silently telling everyone to walk out, get in their rigs and leave. It would be a big blast. Brad came to me around 9:45 and told me the place was deserted, we knew at 10A.M some big wigs that controlled everything would be in a meeting 100 yards from the boiler building, those 10 people were the only lives that would be lost that day. We were sending a message to the corporate Giants that we wouldn’t live this way any longer. I told John, Brad, Dave, and Harold to get out and I’d over pressurize the boiler, as soon as I knew it was ready to blow I’d meet them at the cabin where our families were waiting. 10:15 A.M the boilers were hissing so that was my queue to leave, I locked out the controls and high tailed it to my pickup at the bottom of the stairwell, I looked over at the office building and said a silent prayer for what was about to happen to the assholes in that room. I fired the truck up and pulled out of the complex. 20 miles away from the top of the ridge I watched as WCL exploded in a firery mess. The deed was done and the 5 of us would soon be wanted men.


(WP) Evil Lives Here When the Gavindales lost their oldest child, a young woman named Diana, the neighborhood banded together to find her, her parents and brothers praying that they would find her alive, unharmed. The search for one of the community’s brightest stars continued for more than a year, and eventually, everyone lost interest, distracted by the latest instance of scandal. But the family had never healed from their loss; Mrs. Gavindale held a press conference, begging whoever had taken her little girl to return her to where she belonged. Milk cartons, a special on the local news station, radio talks; everything they’d tried hadn’t worked. But still, they refused to give up. “I know Diana is out there, alive. I don’t know how to explain it,” Alicia murmured to her friends, still a beauty even after two years had passed. “She will return to us, I know it.” \*\* Mrs. Gavindale was on the porch, indulging in her after-dinner cigarette, when a police car pulled up in front of the house, lights painting the young woman’s face blue and red. An officer in uniform stepped out of the car, and a shadow followed, hidden by the man’s bulk. “Good evening, ma’am. Is this the house of the Gavindale family?” “Yes, officer,” The housewife replied, her face obscured by a thick, gray cloud of fragrant smoke. “Is everything all right?” “I bring your family good news, ma’am. It’s your daughter, Diana. I’ve come to give her back to you. The poor thing was as cold as death, and we fed her a meal and had her take a shower before she came home.” Diana stepped into the light, silent, staring at Mrs. Gavindale. “Mom… I’m home.” \*\* The silence of my night was shattered by the sound of the front door closing with a bang; I was engrossed in a book I was reading, and dropped it on my bed. “Heather! Heather, your sister’s home!” My mother’s joyful shriek hung in the air, and it took me a moment to process what she said. Diana? Diana was home? After two years of God knew what? I didn’t know what to think. “Heather, come down here!” “I’m coming, Mom!” I called back, exiting my room and walking down the stairs. There was no denying it, now that we were face to face. This was indeed my sister, the one I’d worshipped and admired my whole life. But when she looked up at me, her eyes were holes boring in my face, and her dark hair was in a long, sleek braid, her olive skin bruised around the wrists. When she noticed I was looking, she anxiously pulled down the sleeve of the thin jacket she was wearing, despite the cold. Mom, meanwhile, was busy brushing tears from her face, smiling benevolently. “I always knew you would come home to us. Where have you been all this time, Diana? Why didn’t you call us? We… We thought you were dead!” “I… I met someone,” Diana replied, and she smiled at our mother; her eyes darted to me, and they flashed bright red. “And I got distracted.” “We can talk about where you’ve been later.” Mom said, brushing away the weak excuses like she was swatting at a particularly bothersome fly. The night seemed to pass in a blur; though Diana had eaten already, and had said as much, Mom insisted on cooking dinner for us, and she refused to let either of us out of her sight until close to bedtime. Diana snuck out of her room and stood at the threshold of mine, peering in with eyes that were curious, even hungry. “Long time no see, sis,” She said, smirking at me. “How have you been doing these past couple years? Got a job, a boyfriend?” “You’re the one who decided to run off to God knows where without telling anyone, Di,” I replied, on my guard. I wasn’t sure why, but this was not my sister; an impostor, somehow, but I didn’t dare say it, not until I had more proof. Diana shrugged. “So a girl isn’t allowed to grow up? Come on, Heather.” Her sleeve slipped upwards again, and she frowned, her brow knitting. Before she could grab her sleeve, I spotted a bright green four-leaf clover on her wrist. “Do you have a tattoo?” I asked her, incredulous. That cemented it in my mind; this was not my sister. Diana had always hated tattoos, and hadn’t been shy about making it known, either. “It’s none of your business, Heather. You’re a kid. You wouldn’t understand.” “You’re so full of shit, Di. You may have fooled Mom, but you can’t fool me.” “Not exactly the warmest welcome, little sister. I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me.” “I would be, if you were really my sister.” I shot back, walking over to her and looking down at her; I felt a bit of spiteful pride, that I was a few inches taller than she was. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but you’re not Diana. My sister hates tattoos.” There was a tense, pregnant pause, and then the thing taking my sister’s body for a ride smirked so widely that her eyes became mere slits. “What do you know? A human who actually pays attention. Messing with you will be fun.” I’d never believed in things like angels, demons, or God; they were distant, arbitrary ideas that had little to do with me; our family was not religious. But for the first time, a dark, cold flame was born in my heart, turning my blood to ice. “Well, good night, little sis. And remember… This is our little secret.” The monster put my sister’s hand to her lips, and my throat closed up; I was unable to speak.