The first day she saw him, he wore a brown cap and navy-blue tie. An oxygen tank sat beside his feet, and his hands trembled ever so slightly. On the second day, his tie was striped, and he ordered their new pumpkin-spice coffee with cream.

On the third day, a dandelion was pinned to his shirt. She smiled, nodding as she poured his coffee. “That’s a very nice flower,” She said, and he met her gaze with a smile. He tapped a shaky finger against the dandelions stem. “It’s my wife's birthday.” He said. She grinned. “You must love her a lot.” She said, and he nodded.

“Oh yes,” He told her, and reached for the steaming mug. “Very much.” On the sixth day, he was wearing a Veterans pin, and she asked him if he lived in one of the Senior Residencies. He laughed some, then raised his napkin against his lips as he coughed.

“Never,” He told her, and when he drew the napkin back to his lap, he was smiling. “I live with my nephew.” She nodded, using her thumb to wipe a drop of coffee off the lip of his mug.

“He must be very handsome, to be related to someone such as yourself.” She hummed, and the man laughed again. He shook his head lightly. “Oh no,” He waved his hand noncommittally and leaned forward, cupping the mug in his hands. “The only family I have is from my wife’s side.”

She asked about his wife on the seventh day. He smiled solemnly.

“My dear,” He said, “My wife has been dead for almost twenty years.” She had begun to apologize when he waved a hand.

“Don’t be sorry.” He advised “I’ve already cherished every moment and more.” Day twelve was slow. The cafe was empty except for the old man with the oxygen tank. The girl busied herself for a few moments behind the counter before pouring herself a cup of hot mulled cider. The man was looking out at the window, he looked up when she cleared her throat.

“Can I sit with you?” She asked, and he nodded, eyes brightening as he straightened. “Please,” He gestured to the chair adjacent and she smiled. She placed her mug on the table and pulled up the chair, crossing her ankles as she sat. She untied her apron and laid it across her lap. The man smiled when she did. He pointed a shaking finger to her torso.

“I hadn’t noticed you were pregnant,” He said. She beamed, glowing as pregnant women do, and crossed a hand over her blossoming stomach.

“It’s still early,” She said, almost humming as she glanced to her middle. She met the man's eyes again as he sipped his drink. “I’m only a few months along.” The man raised his mug, even if only a few centimeters.

“Congratulations.” He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, clinking her mug with his. She smiled. “Thank you.” He hummed as he set his mug back on the table. “Y’know,” He said, grazing his tongue over chapped lips. “My Mother was the first great love of my life.” Her eyebrow quirked, and she smiled over the lip of her mug.

“Only the first?” She mused, and the man's eyes twinkled in response.

“Oh yes,” He said, and leaned forward for a second sip. He cleared his throat afterward and straightened his back along his chair.

“She was born 1916 in Czechoslovakia, only two years before it was founded, during the peak of the first world war. Reina Alexsandra Vartoughi, born premature to my grandparents, Friedrick and Petra. However, as peace settled, the Russian Civil War was just beginning, and my Grandfather passed shortly afterwards. My Mother was barely five years, and my Grandmother just shy of twenty-eight, when a group of Czechs made the move west. Seven widows, with thirteen children between them. "They ended up getting picked up by a French circus as they passed through Vienna. My Mother once told me that she had been terrified; sudden screaming, the sounds of animals and people alike, and my Grandmother, sobbing and pleading for refuge. They were caged and starved for three days; the elder women giving themselves up for pleasure. The circus owner was a vain man, with hats made of feathers and coats made of fur. His wife was even more so—a formerly Austrian woman nicknamed ‘Marie’ for her resembling aesthetic to that of the former Queen of France. She was passing through the circus train one day when she heard my Grandmother sing—like a nightingale draped in silks and other fine textiles—and struck her a deal. If my Grandmother made decent pay in the circus, she and my Mother would be released once they passed through England.”

“What did she do?” The barista asked, an elbow propped between her chin and the table. The old man's eyes shone. “She sang. Day and night. She learned to dance and taught my Mother, and once two months had passed, they arrived in Glasgow under new identities. My Mother's beautiful Czech name, shortened to Alexandra Vaughn. Other women were not so fortunate, and some much more. My Mother once recollected a bearded lady who had whip-marks across her back and shoulders, and later dedicated her teen years to advocating the abolishment of slavery.

"She was eighteen, one evening, and attended a protest that later turned into a riot. A bystander threw himself in front of my Mother to shield her from an oncoming blow, and landed himself in the hospital for three nights. My Grandmother called him a foolish boy, but even she couldn’t hide her discontempt for my Father. My Mother had brought him a poundcake whilst he was in the hospital, and invited him for dinner once he was released.

"They married soon afterward, once my Mother had gotten pregnant for the first time. My Father moved in with my Mother and Grandmother, and they converted the sewing room into a nursery furnished with lilac wallpaper and silk curtains. They lost the baby over the winter, a boy, as well as a daughter two years later. They accepted that it wasn’t time yet for them to start a family, and my Father enlisted in the army. He was deployed for four months before my Mother realized she was pregnant.”

The barista smiled.

“With you?” She asked softly. The man nodded.

“With me.” He smiled, then sighed. “She sent him a letter, but they never heard back.” The barista shook her head. “That’s horrible.” She said, and he shrugged. “Perhaps,” He agreed, and held out his mug with a smile. “May I have a refill?” He continued to come in every day afterward, and they told each other stories when the cafe was idle. On the seventeenth day, he stayed later than he ever had before. The barista removed her apron and dimmed the back lights as the sun began to set. The man was looking out the window when she joined him at his table. “Are you waiting for someone?” She asked, adding a packet of sugar to her tea. He nodded and drew his gaze back to hers. “My nephew,” He said, and she hummed. “On your wife's side,” She remembered, and smiled when the man nodded. “Will you tell me about her?” She asked. His eyes shone with boyish glee and he grinned, nodding.

“My Maybelle,” He crooned. The barista sipped her tea. “I was nearly twenty-one when I attended the University of London. I spent my first three years out of high school travelling the United Kingdom, when I found myself growing more and more peculiar about social work, similar to my Mother. I received word of my acceptance six months after I applied, and my Mother helped move me into a dorm the week following.

"Two weeks into my philosophy course, a fellow student and I struck a debate about equal wage. Things became so heated that she struck me right across the cheek and called me a privileged moron.” The barista tried and failed to suppress a giggle at the lovestruck expression dawning on his face. “Now, before then, I had never thought of myself as privileged, coming from a single-salary household with no father, but to a brown woman in her first year in university, I could imagine the misunderstanding. "I spent the next three days educating myself more on the topic, and found myself to be in the wrong. When I called my Mother to tell her of my predicament, she called me an idiot. So before class the following afternoon, I pulled her aside, presenting her a daisy and an apology. She had flushed, stroking the petals of the flower and stammering an apology for hitting me. I remember laughing, and telling her I deserved it. We ended up sitting together, passing notes back and forth like school-children, and do you know what she said to me at the end of the day?”

“What?” The barista asked. He smiled. “That for future reference, dandelions were her favourite.” He took a sip before continuing. "She was majoring in nursing, and often confided in me how she wished to be a neuroscientist. She was seventeen and a half when she’d applied, listing a recommendation letter from renowned practitioner Gail Heron. She came from a family of five; her mother, father, two brothers, and herself. They lived on the outside of London, in what she used to describe as the Dreary-Fog-Hour, where it was often miserable. Her father was crippled from war, leaving her two older brothers to provide for them, in one of the most discriminatory eras to grace Europe.

"At fifteen, she got her first job filing papers in a medical office, where she met Dr. Heron, who took an immediate liking to her. The older woman soon became something of a mentor to my wife, and I was introduced to Dr. Heron on our fourth date. Three days afterward, Maybelle broke up with me.” He smiled lightly at the baristas awestruck expression and shook his head. “I was distraught, to put it lightly. After only four dates, I knew I wanted nothing more than to marry her.” “But why did she break up with you?” The barista asked. The man gave her a sad smile. “She was raped. She was leaving one of her night classes when two boys from her class wrestled her into an empty classroom. She discovered she was pregnant the night I met Dr. Heron. I ended up reaching out to her after I’d had a few days to process the breakup, and she began sobbing over the phone. She told me she was dirty, and that she didn’t think I’d want anything to do with her once she had an abortion. That was the first time I told her I loved her. I accompanied her to her abortion the following week, perfromed by Dr. Heron. She later told me that was the moment she realized she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

"And she did. I proposed to her one year after she graduated, and we married the following year. She was the second great love of my life, and I’m thankful for every minute I was by her side.” A pair of headlights flashed through the window, and he turned his head. A faded pickup was pulling into the parking lot, and the man hummed.

“Well,” He said, pushing his empty mug into the middle of the table. “Thank you for the coffee.” She had a doctors appointment on the nineteenth day. When she got to work on the twentieth, his eyes lit up. “You weren’t here yesterday,” He said, already pushing his mug to her. She grinned as she poured his coffee. “I had a doctor's appointment.” She said, and the man's eyes faltered. “Are you okay?” He asked, and she smiled gently.

“Yes,” She nodded, and rubbed a hand over her stomach. “I’m having a boy.” His face stretched into a wide smile. He pulled his mug back towards himself with trembling fingers.

“I remember the excitement,” He mused, and traced his thumb along the lip of his mug. “My favourite part was decorating the nursery.” The barista met his gaze in bafflement. “I thought you said all your family was on your wife's side?” She asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity. The man hummed and waved her to the chair across from him. “Not always,” He said, smiling. “The third and final great love of my life was my daughter. Maybelle and I discovered we were pregnant the year she turned thirty. We both knew there were additional risks to having a baby while ‘older’.” The waitress grinned. “But we were absolutely ecstatic. We spent the next nine months preparing for the baby; decorating the nursery, going shopping, reading parenting articles, and telling Maybelles family. Everyone was thrilled, even Maybelles mother, with whom their relationship had become strained. Things only started going wrong at the beginning of her third trimester.

"Maybelles blood pressure kept rising, and she was confined to bed rest. It was a very stressful pregnancy, but she was worth it. Farrah Alexis Vaughn. Born seven pounds and two ounces, two weeks early, and deaf. The diagnosis took the first three months of her life, and Maybelle had been absolutely devastated for Farrah. We adored her more than anything, and we all cried the first time she got her hearing aids fitted. She was five when we found the perfect pair, and she had already been proficient in sign language. She loved music, and often laid down in front of the stereo to feel the bass.

"She had beautiful caramel skin, and curls that rivaled my own. I called her my Amber, the same gem as her birthstone, and the jewel that would be embedded into a ring I was planning to give her on her eleventh birthday. She was homeschooled up until Grade Six, by myself, whilst Maybelle finally began the neuroscience fellowship at the hospital. She was so bright, and incredibly skilled in mathematics, much like Maybelle. She thrived on puzzles; crosswords and sudoku, solitaire and cribbage.

"She started figure skating the same year she entered middle school, and Maybelle and I were cautious to say the least. We attended every practice, every competition, and every performance. She was like an angel on the ice. She’d never stop, not even when the old pond froze over.” His smile turned sad, and the waitress shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She said, and he waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “I’m not.” He rebutted. “She was a happy girl, even with her disability, and if nothing else I’m thankful she found something she was passionate about.” The waitress hugged her stomach. The man made a humming noise. “Do you have carrot cakes?” Day twenty-three was the last day she saw him, and a caramel toned man entered the cafe a few days later. The old man had passed away in his sleep, and they were holding a funeral at the end of the week. She was invited, and so she went. A kleenex in her purse and her hands cupping the rising bump of her stomach, she watched alone amongst others as a mahogany casket lowered into the earth, and remembered the last thing he’d said to her. ‘Did you ever remarry?’ She’d asked one day, and he shook his head. ‘Most people are lucky enough to have even one love of their life,’ He said. ‘I was lucky enough to have three, and I don’t intend to keep them waiting much longer.’ She arrived home that evening to an empty home, and an even emptier refrigerator. She laid her purse on the floor, curled up on her couch, and began to sing her baby a lullaby.


     It was dusk with a slight wind blowing enough for the tree tops to sway and with bits of garbage floating around. Sue decided it was time to go in. She had to make lunches for her kids, her husband and herself. The kids were already in bed and her husband was in the study putting finishing touches on a presentation he had to present to a new client tomorrow.

         Just as Sue stood up from her chair, she saw a person, or something that looked like a person. It walked like it was a person, but was it a person? It was hard to distinguish what she saw since it was farther down the street and it was now totally dark. Sue couldn’t be sure if she saw anything at all. As she walked into the house her husband noticed the look on her face. “Why so thoughtful?” he asked. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought I saw a person down the street, down by that vacant lot. But with the wind blowing and it being dark, when I looked again, it was gone.  Now I’m not sure I saw anything at all,”  she explains. “Do you want me to go have a look?” Her husband asks. “No need,” answers Sue. “It probably was something blowing in the wind.” “Well, if you’re sure,’ replies her husband. “I’ll just head up to bed. Goodnight.”          As Sue continues making the lunches she can’t stop thinking that maybe she did see a person. She shakes her head as she shuts the lights off and goes up to bed. If she had looked outside she would have seen that same figure walking past the house and it looked like he was carrying something.          The next morning as Sue was leaving for work, her neighbor, Miss Jones, asked her if she say anyone last night. “To tell you the truth” admits Sue, “I thought I saw someone but it was too far away to be sure. It probably was the trees swaying in the wind and also it was almost completely dark.”          Sue’s co-worker invited her to go for lunch with her to the corner café. They go there regularly as a treat from bag lunches. Even though Sue had her lunch she agreed. Once they were seated and had given their order, they could hear talk from other tables. It seemed like the common topic was a stranger. Sue asked Betty, her waitress when she delivered their order what was this talk about a stranger. Then Betty told her that Police Constable Paul Marks found a man wandering around the central park early this morning. Since it was late the constable just brought him into the station and let him sleep in one of the cells. The constable wanted to wait until morning until his superior came to work. No one knows anything more, but you know how things get around, states Betty. I have heard that he is an escaped convict, a travelling salesman, since he was carrying a suitcase, or get this; someone suggested that he was a travelling preacher. So, we will just have to wait.  The constable usually comes in here before his shift; maybe I can ask him. But I did hear that Captain Winters was in a conference with the Mayor, so it must be important to get the Mayor involved, don’t you think? “Like you said,” replied Sue, “we will just have to wait and see. We have to get back to work. Thanks.”          When Constable Marks came in for his usual, Betty made sure she was the one to serve him. “How are things Betty? “Asks Constable Marks. “Not too bad, but there is a lot of talk about the stranger you found. Who is he and what is he doing in town?”  Betty asks. “I really can’t say,” replies the constable. “I have to wait until I speak with the captain about what he and the Mayor talked about.” “I heard the Myer twins talking about offering to let him stay in their garden suite. They think it is the Christian thing to do. What do you think, Constable?” Betty said. “Like I said,” replies the constable. ”I have to wait until I talk to the captain. Have a good day.”

         As Constable Marks walks into the police station, the receptionist tells him that the captain wants to see him as soon as he gets in. Constable Marks knocks on Captain Winter’s door and enters when bid. “As you know Constable, I have been with the Mayor about the stranger you found.” “Yes I know,’ states Constable Marks. “What decision was made?”  “What I am about to tell you is in strictest confidence. Do you understand Constable?” The Captain announces. “Yes, sir, strictest confidence you say,” replies the Constable. “Please close the door and have a seat,” states the Captain. “This stranger, whom I will call Mr. Lord, is not like he looks. He is an educated person who has money and is here on a mission. He is here to perform a sort of experiment. “What sort of experiment?” asks Constable Marks. “He wants to find out how people treat certain people, like how would they treat a rich person or a down and out poor person. He’s writing an article for a psychology journal.” “Where is he now?” asks Constable Marks. “I had an officer walk him to the café,” answers the Captain. There was a knock at the door. “This fax just came in about the stranger, sir,” announces the officer. “Thank you, close the door please. It looks like everything he told me pans out. “Where will he be staying?” Constable Marks asks. “The Mayor suggested that he stay with me for a few days since my wife is away. Mr. Lord (that is his real name) and I will discuss how long he hopes to visit our small town and take it from there.” states Captain Winters.          A phone call announces the return of Mr. Lord. Captain Winters introduces Constable Marks then closes the door for a further talk with Mr. Lord. “How was your breakfast, Mr. Lord?” asks the Captain. “I must tell you, the few people I talked to were very friendly, especially the Myer twins, such lovely ladies. They asked where I was staying and before I had a chance to answer, they thought I would like to stay in their guest house. I didn’t know what to say at first, so I told them I would think about it and meet them tomorrow morning to give them my answer. Can you tell me about them?” asks Mr. Lord. “Yes, the Myer twins are Godly ladies. They believe their calling from God is to do good works, which they do a lot. Neither of them has been married, they thought it would take them away from doing their good works. If you do decide to stay at their guest house, I think it would be a good idea,” answers the Captain. “Great,” replies Mr. Lord. “I will wander around your lovely town and meet you back here about 5 p.m...” “That sounds great,” Captain Winters answers.          During dinner at Captain Winter’s home Mr. Lord regaled him of his visit in their town. “I have had more offers to stay at people’s homes than in any other town,” states Mr. Lord. “I must say, your townspeople are of a special breed. I believe my article will get great reviews. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.” “How much longer do you think you will be here?” Mr. Winters asks. “After I meet with the twins tomorrow and accept their offer of hospitality, I will play it by ear. Maybe they can give me a history of other residents. I will tell them I am looking for a place to retire. Remember I don’t want anyone else to know my true reason for visiting.” “You don’t have to worry about us, my wife and I will keep your secret, but I did tell my constable, you did say that would be alright,” replies Captain Winters. “Thank you,” states Mr. Lord, “but, if you don’t mind it has been a tiring day. The twins want me to meet them at the café rather early so I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.”          Next morning after a quick coffee (tea for the ladies) and a crumpet, the twins take Mr. Lord on a short tour of the town on their way to their home. While walking they gave him a precise history of their town and how it got to where it was today and also who helped get it there. Mr. Lord was quite overwhelmed with information by the time they got to the guest house. The twins left him on his own and would be expecting him to come to the big house for dinner promptly at 5 p.m... After dinner they sat out on the porch and the twins continued to give him more history. They were interrupted by Constable walking past and Mr. Lord excused himself to walk and talk with him. He wished the twins a pleasant evening and he would see them in the morning, at the café.          “Thank you constable, the twins are very sweet ladies, but a person can take in just so much information,” states Mr. Lord. “My pleasure, Mr. Lord,” replies Constable Marks. “That was why I happened to walk by. So, how do you like our little town so far?” It is almost too good to be true,” answers Mr. Lord. “After my conversation with the Mayor and wandering around on my own and now with what the twins have told me, I wish I would have decided to come here sooner.” “Thank you for the walk,” says Mr. Lord. “I’m ready for bed. Goodnight.”          The next morning at the café the president of the bank approaches the table where the twins and Mr. Lord are eating. “Good morning Miss Myers’, forgive my intrusion, but I heard that we had a distinguished guest in town and I wondered if you would introduce me,” states the bank president. “Of course,” states the elder Miss Myer. Mr. Lord this is our bank president, Mr. Jones; Mr. Jones, this is our distinguished guest, Mr. Lord.” The men shake hands and state that each is pleased to meet the other. After a short silence, Mr. Lord excuses himself saying he has an appointment with the Mayor. “Good day to you ladies, as he turns to the twins and to you, Mr. Jones, as he shakes his hands again.”

         As Mr. Lord walks towards the Mayor’s office, he decides that he has seen enough of this wonderful town that he has come to a conclusion. “Good morning Mr. Lord,” adds the Mayor. “How is your visit going?” “It has gone better than I thought,” announces Mr. Lord. “So well, in fact, that I have decided to leave on the afternoon bus; but before I do I have to explain something to you. Firstly, I apologize I have not been entirely honest with you about my visit. It is true, I am writing an article for the psychology journal, but that is minor. The truth is I am dying and only have a month or two to live. I have no family whatsoever, so I decided to visit several small towns to experience the people; their friendliness, their pride in their town, their rapport with one another. Your small town got very high marks. I wish to give you this cheque for any town improvements needed. And when I finish my article I will give instruction to my attorney to send another cheque when my estate has been settled. Like I said, I don’t have family and your town made me feel like a part of their family. I am happy and look forward to meeting my maker.”          “On behalf of our town, I thank you tremendously for the donation,” states the Mayor. “It will be put to good use. I am sorry we had to meet under such circumstances. Can I take you to the bus station?” “No thank you, I wish to walk,” answered Mr. Lord.


The man on the horse was an odd one – I could tell that even as he angled his quarter horse into my beams like it was his turn in the center ring. An Easterner, which maybe 10 years earlier might’ve seemed even odder. Little dressier than the average rancher; handled his animal like he knew how but had learned it someplace else. “Saw you from the rise,” the man said. Easterner, all right – kind of horse-faced fella with a government haircut and a big nose that reminded me of the Jew families that’d passed through the dust and winds and Pop’s tourist camp on their way to California. Not that I gave a damn – Pop hadn’t given a shit about God after He’d took Ma in ’32, and so he likewise didn’t give two shits about anybody’s private dealings with The Lord with or without Jesus. No, it was the man’s eyes. Big, calm. Curious. “Do you need some assistance?” My old Nash 400 was running like a top on four threadbare but plump tires, and the trunk was flung open with the jack still clamped into place. And then there was the Indian blanket I’d got in trade for some janitor work at the “last gas” before the next “last gas” on the way to my pot of gold that had turned into a cesspool about two hours ago. Oh, and the shovel lying next to the blanket rolled tight like a Tulsa oilman’s stogie on the dirt under the lip of the trunk. Even without Jesus putting his two cents in, it wasn’t the way I’d been raised. But like I said – it was the eyes, unblinking even in my headlamps. And that slow smile he gave me as I pulled Pop’s old Colt out of my belt and made him a third eye. Like I’d done him the biggest favor in the world. **

I’d settled in Espanola a couple years after the Depression ended. Though or maybe cause I’d helped the town undertaker put a number of such folks under the shifting Oklahoma topsoil for a few pennies a body, I’d sought out someplace a little more off the path of men desperate or stupidly hopeful enough to drag their wives and young ones through the Valley of Death to a pot of gold that didn’t exist. But everything shrinks as we grow, my pop once said, and it wasn’t too long until they started to trickle south off the California trail into the desert. College types -- engineers, they said. Easterners. Jews, I heard, and more than a few foreigners who weren’t fooling anybody with names like Henry Farmer and Nicholas Baker. Now, I’d never been out of Oklahoma before Pop’s lungs finally gave out and I dug one last grave this time for free, and I’d sure as shootin’ never met any Germans. As at the time we had an ax to grind with Mr. Hitler, I was a sight more than nervous about the funny voices with the funny names sidling up beside me at the local watering hole on a Saturday night. Didn’t help that the government’d bought out the ranch school and put me out of the first steady work I’d had since sorting the dead from Pop’s barely paying guests. The school and its high-flown Eastern teachers and rich folks’ kids playing cowboy seemed a bit silly to me, but groundskeeper’s pay was decent, and the Pondses treated me right. Felt no desire to stick around afterwards, even with the new jobs the government and their “engineers” were bringing to the area. What the Easterners and foreigners specifically were doing may have been the best-kept secret in the Southwest, but the tighter you keep the lid on the pot, the bigger the mess when things boil over. All anybody could guess was it had to something to do with that aforementioned scrap with Der Fuhrer, but folks got rattled with the Army and the federal suits “cleverly” watching every move the locals made. Bad enough they were keeping Nazi prisoners and Japanese folks from California on ice down south at Fort Stanton. Seemed passing strange we weren’t rounding up Germans and Italians who could blend right in at any military base or shipyard, but my two cents wasn’t going to buy me anything but trouble, especially these days. The Denver and Rio Grande Western had ripped out the “Chili Line” and pulled the tracks from Espanola in ’42, but the town was hanging on between the nearby farms and the new government jobs 10 miles to the west. I was a handy sort with nowhere really to go, so I hung on, too, in what passed for the middle of nowhere. ** If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. I think that’s in the Old Testament, or maybe some tourist dropped that pearl on me on their way to the New Promised Land. As I now headed the opposite direction, back through Espanola and north past Taos into the mountains near the Colorado border, I could feel God’s jeering presence. Poor time to get religion, with two bodies stuffed in the trunk and a ticket to Hell waiting at the station for me. When I think about it – and believe you me I have – maybe that’s precisely the time. I put them deep in the Carson Forest. It was a skill I thought I’d put behind me, but even the dead can surprise you. I was in my bed a few hours before dawn, contemplating and shivering on the bare mattress. It was sheep country – I could get a new blanket in the morning, though at this moment, I wasn’t sure of the need. Barring rattlers, the horse was the only one got off free that night. ** Hitler willingly gave up his ghost in the spring of ’45, and his pal Mussolini got a date with a firing squad and a public showing strung up like the day’s catch outside a Milan filling station. It took close to three more years to rein in Hirohito. After destroying the Japanese Navy and taking a string of Pacific islands, hemming the Empire in nice and neat, we rained fire down on Tokyo, Osaka, Hiroshima, and Fukuyama. I say “we” although I spent most of my stint with the 124th Transportation Battalion in Luzon, up to my elbows in axle grease and sweat. I’d signed up two months after that night in the forest, reasoning only more blood would wash away what was on my hands and my soul. I was pretty much nobody in the middle of nowhere, and when no GIs or Eastern-looking fellows in suits and badges showed up on what passed for my doorsteps, I figured Uncle Sam had chalked things up to Nazi spies or an unlucky turn on a dark plateau trail or maybe Junior, as I’d come to call him, just bugging out. It was those goddamned eyes. He seemed like a man looking for a back door out of Purgatory. Wonder if the sergeant at the Santa Fe recruiting office spotted anything like that in my bloodshot brown eyes. See, thing with being nobody, having nobody in the middle of nowhere is the company you’re forced to keep. Nobody was ever likely to find the bodies, and nobody was likely ever going to spill a tear over the man who’d soiled my good blanket. But every time I listened to the bodies piling up on the radio, I wondered how many others I’d buried. Just what was it that midnight horseman had been up to at the old ranch school, with his army of eggheads with phony names and their army keeping the whole town under wraps? And why did most of the lot just pull up stakes a few weeks after? “Had t’be some kind of secret weapon, blow the krauts and the Japs off the map, my guess.” For one bleary moment, I thought my brain had contracted TB and an Irish brogue, but it was one of the Denver and Rio Grande Western’s gandy dancers who’d lost a knee and his toes and the works in between to a 3 p.m. coal car maybe 15 years ago. It hadn’t broke him of the whisky. He read too many of those cheap detective magazines with the gumshoes and masked crusaders and flying saucers and half-naked women about to be sawed up or worse, and I’d had my wits about me, I’d have heard him creaking down the planks and cleared my stool. “And what makes you think that?” I asked, ‘cause it was the noise I needed. “My sister’s boy, he does some plumbin’ and odd jobs for them mad scientists down the road,” the old man wheezed. “Seems like everybody’s in an uproar over the boss fella gone missin’ a few weeks back. Seem to think there’s spies all about – nazzis or commies or some-such. Young Danny happened down the wrong hall, and the soldier boys there grilled him near t’medium well.” “Boss?” My voice went up a couple notches, but he was too stewed to notice. “Some Jew scientist from California sposed to be grand muckamuck of the whole operation. Jingleheimer, Wisenheimer, sumpin’ like that. Summa the talk is, this Jew might be the spy.” He leaned in on the half-leg and grabbed my sleeve as a thick cloud of coffin varnish sent me reeling back. “Now, you think about it, boyo. Why you think every man-jack’s knickers are in such a knot, less somethin’ big was in the works? Y’ever hear of atoms? Y’know, the stuff what we’re all of us made of? Well, I hear tell Hitler and his boys have found a way to split them atoms, to just rip all a’ creation apart. Unless we get there first and blow the fella to Hell first. Little wonder them nazzis would wanna rub out Dr. Jingleheimer.” He then toppled from his stool. I caught him halfway to the floor, jostled him back into place, and made for the door. Crisp desert night outside, the moon too close and stars scattered across the black nothing like atoms torn asunder. I jumped in the Nash, somehow made it alive back to my shack, and packed for my penance. ** “Recently leaked revelations allege the U.S. Defense and State Departments largely falsified published reports that Nazi Germany and Russia were on the verge of harnessing atomic fission as a potential weapon against America and its European allies, purportedly to spur allied physicists to escalate development of such an ‘atomic bomb’ to bring about a speedier surrender by Hitler’s forces. “That effort, referred to as the ‘Manhattan Project,’ was conducted under a nearly impenetrable cloak of military security on the site of a former boy’s academy near Los Alamos under the auspices of preeminent theoretical physician J. Robert Oppenheimer. Without revealing the nature of his work, Oppenheimer’s mysterious disappearance late one night in 1944 sparked a massive manhunt and rumors the eccentric scientist had collaborated either with the Germans or the Russians, given his wife and brother’s ties to the American Communist Party. The case remains open to this day, and the Manhattan Project ended shortly after Adolf Hitler’s suicide and the effective fall of his Nazi regime. Amid the loss of one of its most brilliant minds and fears of further security breaches, the remaining physicists of Los Alamos declared the project a failure. “Or so we thought. I talked this week with Isidor Isaac Rabi and David L. Hill, former Manhattan Project researcher. In a 60 Minutes exclusive, Rabi and Hill reveal for the first time that they and other project scientists concerned about the long-range implications of atomic warfare conspired to conceal their findings from the military.” RABI: “Dr. Oppenheimer himself voiced doubts about the sanity of releasing such a force into the world. But he was under intense pressure to beat Hitler, beat Stalin to the punch. None of us knew we alone held the keys to a Pandora’s Box, but without Robert’s ‘zeal,’ we reached a hard but crucial decision. There are questions which illuminate, and there are those that destroy. I was always taught to ask the first kind. The only answer to the question of the day was destruction. If not merely the instantaneous vaporization of entire cities and the then-unquantified aftereffects of ambient radiation, then the geopolitical stranglehold an atomic arms race between the U.S., Russia, perhaps even the former People’s Republic of China would impose upon the human race. And imagine if such a weapon were deployed. There would be no defense, no deterrence – only annihilation.” “Rabi was awarded the 1944 Nobel Prize for his discovery of nuclear magnetic resonance – a major breakthrough in medical imaging and diagnosis, and his work in microwave technology revolutionized military and commercial radar systems and led to the introduction of the home microwave oven in the mid-‘1950s. Meanwhile, following the dissolution of the Manhattan Project, project team member David Hill headed up the Federation of American Scientists, later to become the Global Federation of Responsible Scientists with the overthrow of Joseph Stalin and subsequent collapse of communism across Russia, Eastern Europe, and Northern China. Under Hill’s leadership, the Federation worked with the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission and other international agencies to design virtually failsafe atomic reactors which have all but replaced coal-fired power facilities and have been credited with greatly reducing air pollution around the planet. We reached Dr. Hill at his Santa Fe home. Hill continues to defend Oppenheimer’s patriotism and loyalty as he has since President Truman branded the missing physicist a traitor in league with communist factions.” HILL: “The consensus was that the specter of atomic warfare and destruction would come to eclipse any prospect of science in the public interest. We’ve harnessed the power of the atom to save lives and provide clean, safe energy. I posit we’d never have put men and women on Mars nor developed a seamless worldwide web of satellite communications and technology had we created a world occupied solely with averting global apocalypse.” WALLACE: “Not everyone concurs with your assessment. Ret. Major General Boris Pash, who headed up the investigation into Oppenheimer’s disappearance in 1944, argues you and your colleagues withheld vital scientific information that might have ended the war four to five years earlier, saving, in his words, ‘countless American and civilian Japanese lives.’ And to this day, Pash believes Oppenheimer was complicit either in your deception or acts of espionage. He’s pushing the Justice Department to bring formal charges against what he called ‘the Manhattan Conspirators.’ Your response?” HILL: Mr. Wallace, I’d invite you to imagine a football stadium filled to the rafters with all those American, British, Australian, Russian, Japanese casualties. Then imagine dropping a bomb that would wipe out an area five, 10, 100 miles around that stadium. Then look ahead at the radioactive wastes that would linger in the air above that area for months, possibly years, that might carry across hundred, possibly thousands of miles. Multiply that by as many bombs as it might take to prove we mean business. As for Dr. Oppenheimer, you have to understand the exhaustion and stress we were all under. Robert’s way of dealing with that pressure, his doubts about the work and its consequences, was to ride the mountain trails around Los Alamos, through the Sangre de Cristo and the Jemez Mountain Ranges. He loved New Mexico, and he loved his horses. We were on the verge of a key breakthrough at that point, and he vanished shortly after supper. Most of us knew where he’d probably gone, and when they found his horse wandering around the plateau about three miles off, we figured he’d met up with some kind of misadventure. Dr. Oppenheimer would never have let that animal to languish in the wilds. That was something General Groves and his men would never understand.” ** It was a small item on the Sunday news feed, but the Taos byline had caught my eye. A massive flash flood had uncovered and a trio of hikers had discovered what looked to be the skeletal remains of two adult males, one wrapped in the shreds of a decomposed wool blanket. A couple ribs shattered by one bullet, another bullet found rattling around in his companion’s punctured skull. They’ll surprise you, all right. And with ‘em, the rest come surging back. The soldiers, the flyers, the privates and colonels and generals, the moms and dads and sons and daughters caught in the spitfire, the moms and dads and sons and daughters snared in limbo merely for being the face of the enemy or a fair enough approximation. The odd horseman with the tortured eyes who’d suffered such indignity and injustice for taking a midnight ride. I’d taken a single souvenir that night in the forest. Secreted it away to the Pacific, on the second great California migration to find that golden pot in the airplane plants and the aeronautics trade. Tucked it in a bedroom drawer through a marriage, two sons, a funeral and two graduations. Buried it deep packing for that one final job far but not far enough away. Now, it seemed, was the time. It’d been a tough week in the field, and I’d hoped to catch the satellite feed of 60 Minutes and maybe Columbo , but this finally seemed the time. I set the yellowing badge – No. 76, I guessed how the brass kept track of their college boys – on top of the TV monitor, trying not to look in those damnably damned eyes this time. Bye, J.R. Then I wrote this for you, whoever you wind up being. You can see the right people get it. Then I think I’ll step out for a bit of air. The desert is beautiful at night, especially in the high beams of a double moon.


Lindsey likes to talk in code. She sets the vase of irises down onto the overbed table. The mushroom cloud of purples block my view of the hospital room except for the visitor space on my right where an anaemic-pink armchair sags against the wall. She takes a seat on the edge of the cushion. A nurse attends to her routine of adjusting the pipes, tubes, and bleepers that keep me fed, watered, and alive. Soon it will be just Lindsey and me.

‘Your brother’s a fighter, he is’ I watch the brunette nurse from my paralysed perspective; her smile is comforting, stretching into her crinkled eyes. ‘Really inspirational chap, isn’t he? Read all about him in the papers’ She looks over the irises to my sister. I blink twice, trying to catch her attention with my eyes, her hand extends across my chest to twist the vase around. ‘That’s better’

No it’s not .

‘Like a saint’ Lindsey takes my lifeless hand in her cold one and copies the nurse’s smile in her own bland, unsatisfying type of way.

‘Aww’ The nurse is pretty but not when she’s acting. She doesn’t need to act, I’m a witness too. ‘Well, I better be leaving the pair of you to it then’ A nod to Lindsey, a wary look to my slack face and she exits the room, leaving me in the awful company of my sister.

The door suctions shut and the room becomes a tomb of silence. I blink,

wait . An anxious click from the heart monitor pings in my ears. Lindsey swallows her nuclear smile, my mechanised lungs labour to drag a breath into my body. A thin whistle sounds as it exhales for me. I want to throw my hands at her but my muscles are frozen stiff. The way she looks at me, grey eyes filled with half pity, half envy. They slink over the collection of ‘get well soon’ cards on the dresser, the tubes, and back to my elastic face. Livid with the signs of care in the room.

Why are they not at all directed at her?  There is a sick itch eating away at my sister like a parasite extracting sweet jealous nectar.

‘Not so handsome now with those burns, are you?’ We make eye contact. A memory of her white face in the black plumes of house fire smoke assaults my mind; the aftershock of a scream, dad’s limp arm aflame on the floorboards.

Bitch .

She takes out a cigarette and a lighter like a Bond villain, ‘You mind?’ I blink twice,

Yes . Could she get more

pathetic ? ‘Perfect’ A grin. She adjusts the blinds to the glass overlooking the hallway then moves to the window. I look at the irises again. Didn’t Van Gogh paint the same ones in his asylum? A gust of springtime air cools my face; an indirect, unknowingly granted gift. Lindsey returns to her seat. ‘You missed their funeral, not much to bury though’

She flicks the lighter. A searing pang of hatred lights my throat ablaze, I feel my face grow hot again. I wish my pain was a noxious gas that would leak from my pores and poison her, make her skin blister and eyes melt from her sockets.

The flame dies and her cigarette is still unlit, drooping from her lips. She takes my hand again and this time positions the lighter in my fist so that I’m holding it with her support. With my thumb, she forces me to light it. She puffs, my hand drops over the side of the bed, the toasted scent of fresh nicotine floats over my head.

How I want to pull out these tubes and suffocate her with them .

‘Cheers… I brought your favourite’ She motions to the vase.

These are mothers favourites, not mine. She would’ve been celebrating her 60th in twelve days. They are too bright and sickly as if the petals were moulded from cheap fondant. Sweet enough to choke me. Irises, springtime, April. A month of pastels and plastic things. I think of cheap yellow chicks on dry cake and hollow eggs. The irises are the senile colours that old women wear; jaundice yellows and purpura purples, insipid pinks and vapid blues.

My eyes follow hers, she flicks her cigarette and kicks the ash away. Her foot catches on something and there's a rustle as she picks the item up. It’s a newspaper, a blown-up image of my college portrait takes centre stage on the cover. The title reads ‘House Fire Leaves Model Son with Life-Threatening Burns’. Like looking into a mirror that shows you a better, dated version of yourself I’m reminded of how much I’d taken for granted. Lindsey throws the paper to the corner of the room, she scoffs. What could she possibly be mad at? She broke the boy in the newspaper that she resented, now she’s jealous that he’s broken and still made the front page. I know to which frequency the machine of her mind operates. Her fuel is envy and greed, then greased with an indulgence of self-pity.

‘Don’t you want to scream, hit me?’

Finally got something right .

She takes the last drag from her cigarette and looks over me once again, ‘God, you were always

such  an attention seeker…’ Her eyes light up with something ferocious and she moves forward, stubbing out the butt on my arm. She looks for a reaction, there is none. I don’t dare shut my eyes. I still feel it, every pinch. ‘You don’t feel a thing do you?’ I blink,

yes I do . ‘The doctors are wrong, you’re a complete vegetable’

I feel a sense of accomplishment. Despite being locked away behind the prison bars of my skin I can still control what Lindsey knows and doesn’t know about my condition.

‘You’ve never been so easy to talk to… I enjoyed this, let’s do it again’

She collects her coat from the floor and leaves the room with a bounce of satisfaction in her step. I stare at the irises, the irises stare back at me. Locked-in and rattling my cage of bones, I am bristling and alive inside. I have something I never had before; a master's key to my sister’s thoughts. Every locked room and hidden attic of her brain is free to explore as long as she returns,

let’s do it again . I won't be paralysed forever and when I walk again, I promise to return the favour. I will make it my goal, precise, an ordered plan, no loose ends. A perfect conclusion to a putrefying plotline. Done for mum and dad; once for her, twice for him, thrice for the order of the iris.


There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision.

She had arrived in town yesterday afternoon. She was on her way to a scientific convention, when her car had decided to give up. It was an old red car, gifted to her by her dad. He had used it for years as a detective, and she had kept driving it despite all its rumbling and fits of nerves. It was almost a human being at this point. But she couldn’t stop herself from giving it another chance each time. She was so attached to her little red queen, especially since her father had passed away two years ago. The engine had started to act up a few miles back. Whether it was the gearbox or something else, she couldn't tell. The car had broken down right after passing the town sign. She had tried desperately to restart it a few times, without success. “You better wake up tomorrow” she had muttered, casting a furious glance at the car as she walked past it with her luggage. The country road led her straight to the town center. She saw an old, square building with a flag hanging above the door. The engraving beneath it was almost completely worn away, but she guessed it was the town hall. The church bells rang half past four. “I hope there’s still someone inside,” she thought as she walked towards the entrance.

A person greeted her behind a counter. The place was rather dark but the air was fresh, a relief during these hot summer days. “Coming to stay at the Ambrasio Hotel ?” the person asked. Sophie was startled, she didn’t expect such a straightforward question. “Maybe, I don’t know yet,” she replied, “My car broke down near the town sign. I wasn’t planning on stopping here. Is there a mechanic that can look into it today?” “Oh, I see! I see!” the odd fellow kept repeating. “We have the best car mechanic in the country here!” proclaimed the short man, with all the hubris of a small-towner cut off from the rest of the world. “His name is Ygor. His garage is on the street adjacent to the church, you can’t miss it.” The man picked up the phone and placed a call immediately. She thanked him and left, rolling her suitcase behind her. She soon reached the garage, a ruined warehouse contiguous to a tiny home-shelter. Noise came out of the warehouse, so she decided to walk straight in, her rolling luggage growling louder and louder. It must have been what tipped him off, as a stocky man in blue overalls was already coming towards her. “How do you do?” he asked with a smile, his mustache all excited at the sight of her. “Well… Hi,” she baffled, “My car broke down near the town sign, and I have to…” “My, my, don’t worry, ma’am,” he interrupted her. “I’ll fix it for you in no time!” His confidence, however, did not reassure Sophie. “That’s very kind. I have to be on my way tomorrow, do you think…” “Tomorrow uh ?” he interrupted her again, “Well I’ll see what I can do, but first I have to inspect it. Now which sign did you leave your car at?” “The one towards the town hall, I suppose,” said Sophie. After noticing a few crease marks appear on the man’s forehead, she added where she was coming from. “Ah! The one near the old tree! It’s almost time for me to close, but since you have to leave tomorrow, I’ll start working on it tonight after closing. You can come tomorrow morning first thing, but I…” he kept saying when suddenly someone yelled. “Hey boss! Mr Ambroise is here to pick up his car!” It was one of the mechanics, holding the door of the contiguous home opened. This meant her mechanic was the garage owner. “Excuse me” said the owner, while walking towards the door. Sophie decided to follow shortly after.

“... Yes… Yes… Everything in order”, she caught the owner saying, followed by “On the house.” Mr. Ambroise was a rather tall man, looking quite well for his age. As she walked in, an awkward silence followed. His eyes were fixed on her, and no words were spoken, as if time had frozen. “Huh… Her car broke,” said the owner to put an end to the silence, “I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.” “Do you know where to sleep tonight?” he asked, without even introducing himself nor asking for Sophie’s name. She couldn’t help but notice the straightforwardness of the people in this small town. “I… hum, the nice fellow at the town hall told me there was a good Hotel here. Ambrasio, I think. I guess I will go there for the night…” “Ah, the Ambrasio,” exclaimed the tall man. “It’s a fine place, but I hear they don’t have any more rooms available,” he continued, “they’re doing some renovations this summer.” “I see,” said Sophie. She felt a little fear growing inside her. Her stomach pinched her belly. “I will still want to go to see, just in case.” “Ma’am there’s really no point in wasting your time,” interjected the mechanic, “Mr Ambroise is the owner of the Hotel Ambrasio.”

“I can host you for the night,” said the rich man, “It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it would be my pleasure.” While Sophie agreed, she felt as if she had just sold her soul. *** Mr Ambroise’s car was very old, yet very luxurious. The kind of cars you usually see in the movies. For a moment, she felt like an actress.

The sun was now painting the sky in warm orange and the clouds in lavender blue. Soon the houses were behind them, and the car was speeding amongst the fields. They slowed down and turned right, on a road leading to a disproportionate mansion. “This is my family house, the Ambroise estate,” he said, in a calm voice. It was only when they parked in front that she realized how gigantic the building was, with its columns and ten-feet windows. A man came dressed in a suit and took her luggage. He did not look surprised to see her. “Which room?” he simply asked, as if out of habit.

“The one,” Mr Ambroise strangely replied. “She’s here only for one night, I want her to have the best possible stay.”

“Very well,” acquiesced the man, “dinner is ready and will be served at seven in the second dining room,” he continued, and off he went, pulling her luggage behind him. Sophie was curious about his family history and the place. When asked, he was very evasive. He explained that his family had lost a great deal during the wars and that there was once a vineyard on the estate that he used to enjoy in his youth. He was the last heir. After dinner, he proposed to accompany her to her room. “I don’t want to tire you more than I have already,” gracefully declined Sophie.

“Alright, up the stairs, go to your right. When you reach the end of the corridor, it will be the door to your left. Joseph will wake you up before breakfast tomorrow, after which I can drive you to the garage to check on your car.” *** The bedroom was splendid and almost circular. She went straight to the bathroom and took a shower. Everything was clean and layed out for her. Wrapped in two towels, she reached for her luggage. She bent to unlock it, but the towel wrapped around her hair fell on the floor. While picking it up, she noticed a paper under the bed. She took it. It was a plane ticket, supposed to depart last month, for a person named Felicia Pearsons. “A previous guest,” she thought, while a creepy feeling grew inside her. She thought of calling Joseph to inform him, but refrained from doing so. Instead she locked the door and kept the key in the lock, just in case. That didn’t make her sleep better that night. Sophie was already dressed when Joseph knocked on the door the next morning. At breakfast, she decided best not to mention the plane ticket. Perhaps this Felicia was a close relative. It wasn’t her business after all. As promised, Mr Ambroise drove her to the garage just before the opening. The air was still fresh at that time of the day, and the birds chirping from every corner. The owner greeted them with a wide smile. “Ah you’re back! I know what the problem is ma’am. It’s your engine. You see, two injectors have stopped working. That’s why your car dances the Cossack when you try to turn it on.” He told her he didn’t have the spare parts for this model, but had already ordered them last night. “It can be ready early tomorrow if I get the parts before closing tonight, but not today”. “Could you inform me if you haven’t? I can still reach on time if I leave tomorrow morning, but otherwise I won’t be able to attend the convention.” “Will do,” he replied, this time staring at Mr Ambroise, expecting him to add something. “I could drive you there,” started the rich man, “Unfortunately I have matters to attend to at the Hotel, matters that cannot be delayed,” he added, his piercing gaze pointed at the mechanic. “I understand. I guess I’ll have a tour of the surroundings to pass time. Anyplace you would recommend?” “You should start with the Mabrosie Café, it’s on the main street,” replied the garage owner. Sophie had forgotten that these places usually have a ‘main street’ that concentrates all the life and businesses. She thanked them and agreed to come back to the garage at closing time, after which Mr Ambroise would drive her back for what she hoped would be her last night here. Despite the summer vacation, many residents were going about their daily life. A few kids were playing with the pigeons near the fountain. People were giving her the look, the kind of look that makes you uneasy. “They must know I am a stranger,” she thought. When the aroma of fresh coffee reached her nostrils, she knew she had reached her destination.

*** A few men were seated on the terrace, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes while reading the newspaper. She sat at one of the tables far from them. Not that she didn’t want to mingle, but Sophie didn’t smoke, and she couldn’t stand the smell of it. A bald man resembling a bear clad in a white apron came to her. “Hello Miss! First time I see you ‘round, ya?” It was more a remark than a question, “What can I serve you?” “Good morning,” she replied, forcing a smile, “a cappuccino would be great.”

“Sure! Do you want the newspaper with it? It’s only one extra.” Sophie nodded and thanked him. He was already on his way. The drink came crowned with a cloud of milk, filtering the vapors of coffee from underneath it. She took a sip and started reading the newspaper. Suddenly, her heart stopped. She didn’t catch it immediately, but here it was. The name on the plane ticket she had found, Felicia Pearsons. She had gone missing for a month. Then, the most horrendous thought crossed her mind. It couldn’t be. Mr Ambroise had been so nice to her. Or had he? Had he been nice to Felicia too? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She didn’t want to believe it. Maybe she could ask him? Something had stopped her from calling Joseph last night, maybe her instinct was right? Her dad had always told her to trust her guts. She felt the terrace giving up under her feet, her chair steadily floating as in zero gravity. “Poor girl, what a shame what happened to her,” she heard someone say over her shoulder. It was the waiter, but he didn’t seem very upset about it.

“Oh that, yes, tragic. I hope they find her,” she replied. “We’ll see, we’ll see,” concluded the man while walking back inside, with a confidence that sent a chill down her spine. She left as casually as possible, trying not to raise any suspicions. She felt like an animal in a zoo, a million eyes on her, analyzing her, mocking her, or perhaps preying on her? Something was not right, the article never mentioned what had happened to the girl.

There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision. She started to walk faster, having made up her mind. Sometime after, she found what she had been looking for. She had grown too suspicious of the locals to ask her way around. The police station was near the corner. She checked her purse, and found the plane ticket she had kept. The most valuable evidence. Her feet shakily brought her closer to the station, as if her body and mind were not aligned on this. She was about twenty feet away when she noticed something strange. It was Mr Ambroise’s car parked on the street opposite the police station. Wasn’t he supposed to be at the Hotel? At that moment, she saw a police officer get out of the car. He approached the driver’s window, nodded in agreement, and then crossed the street back to the station, carrying an envelope. She turned and waited for the car to pass. It was Mr Ambroise, smiling from ear to ear.

Was she getting paranoid? Did the police know about the missing girl? Best not to risk it, she thought. As a detective, her dad had made connections within the police over the years. She knew exactly whom to contact. She retraced her steps and walked towards the fountain, where she had seen a phone booth. She felt as though everyone was watching, and briefly feared someone might leap out and try to stop her. The kids were still annoying the pigeons. Ignoring them, she entered the phone booth. In her wallet was a card with important phone numbers. She pulled it out and began dialing when, suddenly, she heard a knock on the door. It was… it was just a kid, making a funny face. She almost had a heart attack. She smiled as gently as she could, and returned to her phone call.

“Lieutenant Raymond speaking, who is this?” said a man in a hoarse voice. “This is Sophie, Sophie Mayfair, you knew my dad, Rob Mayfair,” she replied in a stressed, hurried voice. He must have sensed her panic as he immediately asked “Are you ok? What’s going on Sophie?” She explained the entire situation to him, including the locals' attitudes and her gut feeling that something was off. “I knew your dad, and I knew his guts. If you have half of what he had, my guess is that you are onto something,” he went on, “I’m contacting the police of the nearby town right away. Where exactly are you now Sophie?” “Sophie?...” She was not listening anymore. A tall man was standing in front of the door, but he wasn’t waiting for a call. It was Mr Ambroise. “Already bored of this place?” he asked, with the same piercing gaze she had seen him throw at the mechanic.

“I.. hum, no… I just wanted to inform the people at the convention… that I might be arriving a little late,” she answered. Her mind was carbureting faster than her car’s engine. He may as well have seen the gears spinning behind her eyes, as he immediately took her by the arm and pulled her out of the booth. The kids saw the powerful rich man drag Sophie. Their young minds blocked all memories of the scene afterwards, as they returned to their pigeons. The men at the Café did not even look. They kept reading their newspapers, expecting another snippet to appear in next week’s column. Not a word was spoken in the silence that followed, after Mr Ambroise’s car had departed. *** The police arrived around noon. They localized the phone booth and found the plane ticket on the floor. It must have been dropped in Sophie’s struggle, or perhaps she did it on purpose. An investigation was opened. The investigation would later reveal that the Ambroise family owned most of the small town. The Hotel had undergone multiple renovations over the years. The police found many bodies buried in it, including Felicia Pearsons. This had been going on for decades.

Turns out the whole town was complicit, even the police. The garage owner had already started dismantling Sophie’s car for parts. The town hall employee had placed a call to the garage and to Mr Ambroise the minute she had stepped out of the building, and Mr Ambroise’s car never needed any fixing in the end. *** Sophie never made it to her convention. Upon arriving at the estate, she was taken to the now-empty wine cellar and locked in before Mr. Ambroise’s return that night. As the sun cast its last rays of light, she heard a key turn in the rusty lock. Expecting her captor to barge in, she took refuge in the darkest corner she could find. Instead, she was greeted by Joseph, a half-smile on his tired face. He told her she had done what he was never brave enough to do. He had left the plane ticket on the floor, hoping she would find it while evading the scrutiny of the evil man who inspected the room each time. She left him with a kiss, before running in the direction he had pointed. Sophie ran like never before, tears streaming down her cheeks. There weren’t two ways to go about it. At this moment, there was only one way to go about it, and one way to run to.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Rainy Day** **“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” - Roger Miller** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Rainy Day’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #Feedback on the Micro Monday feature If you have not yet filled out the feedback form, please take a moment this week and fill out . Thanks in advance!   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #Spotlights - - Submitted by u/Badderlocks_ - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/ATIWTK - - Submitted by u/Lexistential-Crisis *Thank you so much for all the votes!* ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Robert had seen a scary movie that wasn’t really intended for his age. The movie was rated at 18+ and he was only 10. “What will happen if I go to sleep after watching that? Will I get scary nightmares about monsters?” He said with a scared voice, trembling in fear. “It will be fine sweety, just don’t think about it at all. Just think about how today was fun!” His Mother said is a soothing voice to calm down his anxiety. Robert calmed down after some time, and went to sleep just to get the night over with. Tik Tok. Tik Tok.What was that? Tik Tok. Tik Tok. Where is it coming from? It stops right after the fourth tik. *DING!* Robert jolts awake, and feels like his heart is pounding, trying to get out of his chest. “What was that clock sound? Where was it coming from?” He nervously thought. As he looked around his room, he fell right through his bed. After falling for what seemed like hours, he hits the ground. He gets up, and looks behind him. A very big silhouette appeared behind him. “AHHHHH!” he screams out of fear. He starts to run the opposite direction, but as he is doing that, he hears a very faint sound. Tik. Tik. “That sound!” Tik. Tik. “Where is it coming from?” He stops, and turns around, to see the silhouette of the man from before behind him. “What do you wa-”. Before Robert can say anything else, the man opens his jacket. Robert cannot believe what he saw. He closes his eyes in fear, as the silhouette of the man starts to approach him. He opened them, and saw a giant clock, ticking, just ticking. It starts to tick even louder than before as it starts to get to the 12. Robert runs away, as the sound to him is unbearable, but it doesn’t get any quieter. He slips, and falls off the edge, and the clock stops ticking. *DING!* *DING!* "It is indicating that it is midnight.” He jolts awake again, thinking that the dream is over. He looks at his clock. 12. He gets up from his bed, and goes to his door to open it. “Should I?” he thinks. He has this irresistible urge to open it, but he feels that he shouldn’t. He opens the door, and all he sees, is the same silhouette of the man from before. “How? How? How can you be here rig-” The man jumps in front of him. As the silhouette does that, Robert covers his eyes out of fear. He opens his eyes, only to be stuck in a room, with clocks. “How am I here? HOW AM I HERE!” He keeps repeating those words over and over again to drown out the sound from the clocks. He looks around for a possible exit. There! He found a hatch. He crawls over to it, and opens the hatch, only to be swallowed in darkness. “Hello?” he says in a quiet voice. “Hello?” No answer. “Hello!” he says in a scared, loud voice. “Hello!” No response. He curls up in a ball, and starts to cry. “It is okay little one.” A voice said from the distance. Robert looks up with his face covered in tears. “It will be alright” The man said. Robert is now in an alleyway, with a man in front of him, just standing there. How did I ge-. The man spoke again. “Are you okay?” It starts to rain. Robert looks down, to see himself covered in mud, and his clothing ripped up. “No.” Robert said in a scared, trembling voice. “No, no I am not okay” he starts to cry, not knowing where he is, or when this will end. He wakes up in a cold sweat. Eyes wide open, scanning the room to find nothing in sight. He looks over at the clock. 7:30AM. “Is this still another dre-” His mom opens the door, frightening him. “Honey, it is time to get up you will be late for school.” “Okay” he yells out to make sure his mom can hear.


The Wyoming Winters When Jeffrey and I watched the television show Longmire , we were immediately inspired to travel to Wyoming. It had quickly become my favorite show, and Jeffrey enjoyed it too. We left on November 29 and knew it would be cold, but we couldn’t begin to fathom how cold it would truly be. We got to the lodge around lunch time, where we were greeted by a very friendly woman who introduced herself as Sarah. She told us this was her father’s lodge, and that he would be back soon, more than eager to meet us. She took us to our room and told us dinner would be served at 5:30. We got settled in and unpacked since we planned on being there for a week. After we unpacked, we decided to go skiing. We went down to the front desk to ask Sarah where we could rent some skis.

“It's about to snow pretty heavily here soon, and I’m sure the roads will be cleared tomorrow so you'll have fresh snow to ski on.” Sarah responded. We decided to sit in the parlor of the lodge, which had a giant fireplace with glass windows beside it. It was lovely to relax in and watch the snow start to fall. We sat there for hours, talking to different guests from all over America. We met another couple, who introduced themselves as Zach and Lacy from West Texas. They said they flew up to Wyoming to see the snow, since they do not get any where they live. We became fine friends in a mere matter of hours. It was soon dinner time and we all decided to sit together. Sarah's father came to introduce himself before dinner and hoped that we would enjoy the food. They served an amazing 3 course meal beginning with an appetizer of spinach dip. For dinner, they presented us with grilled chicken with mashed potatoes and asparagus. For dessert, they served an amazing brownie with vanilla ice cream and caramel drizzle. We ate so much food it felt like we were in a food coma. Afterwards, we decided to go back to our rooms and rest a little. Jeffrey and I got back to the room and started to flip through the TV channels.

“We have incoming news on a very dangerous snowstorm coming into northwest Wyoming. Wind speeds will be up to 120 miles per hour. Residents may lose electricity in their homes, so do not forget to turn on your backup generators.” the weather man said. “That doesn’t seem too good. I hope this place has a generator.” Jeffrey said as he looked out the window. The snow began to come down harder and harder and trees started swaying in the wind. Eventually, we couldn't see anything outside of the window. After a few hours it started to get a little colder. Suddenly, the power went out. Jeffrey and I went downstairs to see what was going on. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, we saw everyone panicked and huddling together to keep warm.

“What happened?” Jeffrey asked. “The power went out and the back up generators haven't kicked in yet.” Sarah explained. Jeffrey and Zach started to think of reasons why the back up generators did not turn on. They mentioned that it could have been from the age of the generator. If the generator was as old as the lodge, it could have faulty wiring and signals for when it needs to come on. They came up with a plan to go to the shed where the generator was and fix it while Lacy and I kept the fireplace going for everyone. After a while without Jeffrey and Zach coming back, Lacy and I started to get worried.

“Have you tried calling them?” Lacy asked. “I don't have any signal and the wifi isn't working since the power’s off.” I replied. We started to get more and more worried as time passed. Lacy and I started to talk to Sarah and asked here where the generator was.

She said they kept the generator outside in a shed in the back of the lodge. Even though it was not a very long walk, the blizzard made it impossible to get there. With the winds being so strong and the snow coming down like crazy, Jeffrey and Zach could have gotten buried alive.

“What if they need help?” Lacy asked. “I’m sure they found the generator and are just trying to fix it.” I said, still worried about the possibilities. All of a sudden the lights turned back on and the TV’s were working again. A few minutes later, Jeffrey and Zach came back inside. They took their coats off and went to the fireplace. Lacy hugged Zach and told him how worried she was. I gave Jeffrey a big hug and told him how much I appreciated him. We all sat down next to the fireplace and started watching the news. “The snowstorm turned into a blizzard!” the man said. “Make sure you keep your generators on and fireplaces going because it's going to be a cold night. However the snow should die down by the time the sun rises tomorrow.” “Does that mean the slopes will be open in the afternoon tomorrow Sarah?” asked Lacy. “Yeah, the slopes and the roads should be open by at least noon.” Sarah said. We all made plans to go skiing the next day. When we woke up, we saw beautiful white snow outside our windows. We could not believe how much there was. We went down for breakfast before heading to the slopes. We filled up on pancakes, fruits, and coffee. Zach, Lacy, Jeffrey and I all went to the slopes and spent the day together. For the next couple of days we spent most of the time with Zach and Lacy. We went shopping, to dinner, and to see shows. We made lifelong friends we never knew we would have had and after all it turned out to be a great vacation, even though we got trapped in a lodge with no electricity or phone service.


That’s the thing about this city—it looks like it’s made all of glass. The city seems so big and hardy, full of stretching alleys and ever-expanding secret holes and infinite dim-lit streets. And at night the skyscrapers, glassy and poignant, are the only things marking the path to the sky. There is the big one Mom and I called the Keyhole, because there is a gap at the top that some huge god-sized key might unlock. To where we didn’t know. Narnia, probably. Heaven, Mom always said. “El cielo.” She is like that.

She loves the city. It is Dallas, basically the biggest city in the state, but the surrounding wilderness—the Trinity river, the Cedar Ridge area—has always seemed intent on creeping in. You can see it at night. Vines growing up apartment building corners. Big cedars and live oaks shading small unlit houses in the M Streets. Grass pushing through cracked Lakewood asphalt.

When she could still walk, Mom went walking through alleys. She brought a gun with her, too, and had since she’d gotten the license the day after she got her visa from Venezuela. Small dark-haired woman, small dark alleys, small dark gun. I never went with her. I stayed under the blankets, praying she would come back.

After work I visit her in the hospital, at about four PM. Her small white hospital room smells of tangy soap and is quiet, except for a woman’s voice singing from the radio by her bed.

El amor que una madre tiene por su hija , the voice sings breathily. Es más fuerte, más fuerte que las montañas

Sí, mas que el viento de montaña…

Mom calls me chica and kisses my hands with her cracked lips. The fat IV bag dangles beside her.

“You look…” I say and hesitate. She looks so weak. She is so thin and small, so vulnerable, everything about her is weak except that which is hidden inside. But it is buried deep. Mom tries to smile when she sees me hesitate, though I know I have hurt her inadvertently. “You look beautiful,” I say finally. “I am not lying.” She smiles genuinely this time. My eyes fill with tears when I have to leave; on the way out she asks if I know that there will be a blood moon that night.

“No,” I say, though I do, and lie because she would have urged me to walk to a park or something to see it and I am too afraid to do that.

It is five PM when Medical City Hospital calls me.

I am sick the day Mom dies, ten years after diagnosis and three weeks after admission to the breast cancer ward. I walk to the hospital, teary eyed and pockets full of used tissues that I feel like I need to burn. They hand me papers and her new slicker and the shoes I’d given her for her fiftieth birthday, all of which I accept numbly. I say yes to an autopsy and no to organ donations and no to cremation; we are both Catholic and she would have wanted a traditional funeral. They call me a “cool customer” and pat my back because I did not cry and scream and demand to see her body. Then I walk home, with more tissues in my pockets than before, arms full of the last clothes she had ever put on, crying from both frustration and grief. Some part of me knows I am being pathetic.

It is a warm, bright Monday evening. My feet ache. When I get in the door I take off my shoes, pushing the heels off with the opposite toes, and kick them into the corner by the door. I drop Mom's things on the ground to think about later. My face feels tight. I haven't quite understood what just happened. The floor is warm on my bare feet. It is bare and swept clean as I stand on it, looking at my feet. I swallow hard. I am a cool customer because I don't know how to cry about her yet. The sun is pulling itself down behind the Reunion Tower, which I can just see if I tilt my head the right way below the railing on my little tenement balcony. I let my purse clank to the ground and pour myself a glass of water. I can’t take anything stronger past five. Whenever I drink a mimosa or something I think of Mom, with half a glass of hard cider at nine PM, her bare feet on the railing, watching the night flow by the city.

I get two ice cubes from the freezer, drop one on the ground, and look around as if anyone was there to tell me off before putting both cubes into the glass. I open the balcony door and settle myself in a wicker chair and wait for night to fall.

Mom had a honey jar once, one she’d brought from Venezuela. It was the color of amber, perfectly round and seemingly weak, made of tempered glass like the rest of Dallas. It was little but strong. I dropped it several times when I was little, putting it away from the dishwasher or on the breakfast table, but it never broke. Mom would look up, eyebrows high, when she heard it clunk on the linoleum, and then down again when I’d call “All good!” She knew it wouldn’t break.

Like she knew she could keep herself safe at night, like she knew the night was safe and good. Like she loved the city. She was a little, strong woman.

The first night birds sing in the live oak branches down in the street. Their sound is so familiar that it takes me a while to realize they have begun to sing. Mom told me, once, when I was still little and believed everything, that the night birds’ song is always the same, even between Venezuela and Dallas. She told me that exactly one year before cancer happened to her. Well, it wasn’t surprising, I think to myself, sitting alone on a lonely balcony on a lonely street. I’d had it before her. I got breast cancer at age eleven. I was the only breast cancer patient at MD Anderson for about a week, and then a little white-haired grandmother came all alone, sick and coughing and Mom was the only one who could translate her Guatemala-accented Spanish for the doctors to understand she had Stage Two. She joined me in the breast cancer ward and told me stories about La Llorona. Mom brought us honey in her amber jar to sweeten our hospital food. That unbreakable amber jar. I lean my head back and the sun soaks my eyelids as it disappears for the day. The glass sweats cold water onto my palm as the city night slowly envelops me.

When we first came to Dallas from Venezuela I was just seven, didn’t speak English or even read Spanish. Mom would walk from place to place in the city, from job to job, her face hard-set and shoulders back as the stars glinted above her. The breeze would be as cool as in Venezuela.

“You don’t know a city until you have seen it at night,” she would say, and she didn’t mean its nightlife. “Not just the big skyscrapers but the little, little houses in the neighborhoods. Where people sleep safe at night. The hogares . That is how you know a city.”

It was how she loved it, too. The night air cools around my shoulders. I relax a little bit; I’m safe up here from the dark streets. The glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the concrete balcony floor. I jump up, startled and gasping, and then lower myself back down.

“It’s nothing,” I mumble, though it seems to represent something I don’t want it to. I feel like that glass, old and broken, now that I know Bed 34 is empty in the Medical City Breast Cancer Ward. I sit there, my head beginning to throb on my small balcony with wet glass shards at my feet, as Dallas falls into darkness. I start to cry. I never knew the night, so I never knew the city. Or Mom. It is nine PM now and my tears are only just drying. When I walk inside to get ready for bed I pause. Something is broken on the floor. I hadn’t heard it crash, so it must have been there all day, I think.

I have swept up the dark glass shards and am about to throw them away before I realize it is Mom’s honey jar.

It has finally broken.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week There were so many great stories on the thread this week, as is every week. First, I would like to highlight u/Poelarizing and u/Thetallerestpaul for the wonderful feedback they provided on so many of the stories on the thread. Each of you went above and beyond and I really love to see that. Now, story spotlights! - - Submitted by u/stranger_loves - An immortal faces the reality of his choices. - - Submitted by u/mattswritingaccount - A story about saying goodbye.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I never knew I would make such a terrible decision. It wasn't my proudest moment of my life, but just a portion wouldn't do it justice. Well, I might as well tell you the whole story. I was young and naive. My higher education in accounting was in progress. My female peers gushed over my chestnut locks and sparkling emerald eyes. I was irresistible, at least, for a time. That was until my inevitable downfall. It was the end of my third year, and my abilities were undefeated. A few scholars, including myself, were on our path to showcase our skill. The overall trip included a terribly long bus drive, another college, and a glaringly loud timer. We were expected to complete a multitude of tasks within a set time. "Good afternoon students," the moderator boomed. "Your tasks will be assigned shortly. In the meantime, converse with your peers." Our competitors scrambled to produce their plan of action. My team members decided the more logical course was to keep our voices low. "Why don't we split them evenly?" one asked. "We should split them based on skill," another answered. Two more members nodded in agreement. As the discussion of the other team came to a close, assistants stalked down to the tables with our tasks. Before the packets could touch the tables, they were snatched by a team member. We rushed to distribute our packets. Glancing over my primary packet, a glimmer catches my eye. Attempting to not get distracted, I shake my head and keep my eyes on my packet. I manage to complete a few questions before a blindingly shiny object catches my attention. Upon closer inspection, a realization strikes that the object in question happens to be a phone. "Do you see that?" I ask the member beside me. They follow my line of sight and spot the cellular device. "What do you think we should do?" they question. "We should do something similar," I whisper back. My ally shoots me a terrified look, scrunching their brows in horror. "What?" I question. "If they can do it, so can we!" They shrugged, surely giving up to return to their packets. I grasp at my device, hoping no one spotted it. Opening the apps, I check my surroundings in case of extra surveillance. With a lack of rising suspicion, I proceed to open my advanced calculator. The calculator in hand, the questions ease into simplicity. To ensure my use of assistance goes undetected, I must constantly keep an eye out.*

I happen to finish all but one of my packets as the timer chimes. We pass our work to the judges to be graded. Shoving my phone in a jacket pocket, I pray no one saw it. "Alright students," the moderator shouts. "I have an announcement to make. One of the judges spotted something awfully peculiar during your working period." I gulped, my lunch hopping around in my stomach. " Oh my god, they know ," I thought. As if by some outside force, my seat began to push me away. My thighs grasped onto the seat, not appreciating my readjustments. "One noticed a cellular device in use," continued the moderator. "Be honest and come forward if it was you." A member of the opposing team stood, one after another, until two out of the twelve members remained. "Neither of us did anything wrong," one stated. The other nodded, closing their eyes entirely. "Alright," muttered the moderator. "Since they used a device, the whole team is disqualified. The team from Dallas wins by reason of disqualification." My team cheers and high fives in celebration. We've been working our tails off just to get here. "Go home, get some rest, and we will see you soon," the lead judge said. My team and I eagerly ran back to the bus. Clambering onto the bus, we begin to settle for the long trip home. "Y'all, we need to talk," shouted our teacher. Silence overcomes us as we attend to listening. My chest tightens, squeezing my pounding heart. In doing so, my chest forces my heart to beat in my ears. "Did any of you happen to see the other team use their phones?" our teacher questions. Four hands, including my own, are raised to be presented. Our teacher nods before scribbling something on their notepad. They stumble into a seat and grab their phone. "Why do you think they asked us that?" another student asks me quietly. All I could give them was a shrug, and that would have to suffice. My stomach continued to rumble and shake violently. The body I obtained at birth proceeds with its assault using guilt. Face burning and arms surrounded by ice, I force myself to stare out the window. When we arrive in Dallas, we gather our items and wait for our rides. We all stand or sit outside, no one making a peep. I text my twin sister, so she can drive back to the dorms. "How did it go?" she asks when I get in. "We won," I answered. "That's great!" she cheered as we screeched to a stop at a red light. "We only won because the other team used their phones," I mentioned. "Oh well," she sighs. "At least you won." For a while, we sit in absolute silence. "I'll need to email the professor," I tell, breaking the uncomfortable confines of the lack of noise. My sister nods, not wanting to talk to me. I turn to face the window, and tears rush to my eyelashes. Comfort is found through listening to the radio static with closed eyes. Once we arrive at the dorms, I grab my satchel and rush to the solemn room I call my own. Jumping onto the freezing bed, I remove my phone from my jacket pocket. I unlock the device and gain some composure. I open the emails and pour the details of my crime into an email. Upon finishing my email and sending it, I set my phone aside. I slam my face onto my pillow and quietly sob. My career came to an end, and I've been paying the price ever since. *Keeping an eye out for Selener.