I am sitting at my desk, alone, surrounded by empty bottles and cigarette smoke. I can feel the start of a headache growing deep within my forehead, so in a futile attempt to distract myself I try glancing through my books picking volumes out at random turning from philosophy to self-help books, from poetry to financial manuals, all to no avail. Eventually, after becoming bored of being bored, I pick up my pen, turn on some music, and start writing. I cast my mind back to sitting outside in the heat, staring at the scenery, and forcing my fingers to type some book review or another that I was meant to be working on. In the distance I hear a car accelerating, then I see Julian’s BMW pulling up in front of me, and I see Tom get out and walk towards me. “Hey man, can I bum one?” Said Tom sitting down in the chair next to me and running his hands through his hair. “Sure, why are you in Julian’s car?” I asked handing him a cigarette and my lighter. “Oh he lent it to me… What are you working on?” He said from in between puffs of smoke. “It’s nothing important just a review of some book for the magazine.” I said. “Any good? The book I mean.” He said. “No. I it’s actually the worst thing they’ve made me read so far. Take a look at this shit.” I said pointing to a black paperback lying on the table. “As far as poetry goes it’s fucking pedantic and that title, *The Dark between the Stars,* I know that poets are pretentious but… Jesus!” “Jesus… what do you think happens after people die?” He broke in suddenly, his eyes darting around first from the book, to me, to the car, to other houses, back to me then starting the whole cycle over again. “Well… I mean… Ok as far as I can tell a priori, from books… It’s impossible to completely do away with the notion of a god as it’s impossible to prove something doesn’t exist. However I do think that all the religions we’ve managed to come up with are wrong, Christianity in particular is nothing more than a bad plagiarism, but probably after we die our brains stop functioning and so do we.” I said. “Don’t you think that there’s any hope that people, loved ones, that we get to see them again?” He said. “That right there is one of the worst aspects of religion. You see it plays on our worst anxieties, mines its way into the depths of our mind just because we want to see the people that we like again.” I said. “Can I ask you something serious then? About life?” Said Tom. “Life is much too important to talk seriously about. Besides it’s early and I’m far to sober for that kind of discussion.” I said. “Quoting Oscar Wilde really? How old are you?” He said. “Hey! I will defend my right to quote Wilde no matter how old I am.” I said. “Whatever.” He said leaning back and staring out at the suburban expanse in front of the house. “No come on don’t be like that. What was it?” I said. “You like the existentialists right? I’ve been around many a late night discussion that you’ve undertaken about them.” He said. “Yes although I prefer absurdism over existentialism if only because I like Camus more than Sartre.” I said. “Outline the concept of bad faith for me. No seeing as you like Camus how about the absurd?” He said. “Well… hang on let me think for a second… ok the main thing that Camus was concerned about was the human desire for meaning in a meaningless world. The Catch-22 of existence, we require purpose to function but no purpose is possible.” I said. “And when confronted with that proposition what is a person meant to do?” He said. “If you’re Camus like five chicks at once.” I said, smiling at him as one does when they think that they’ve said something witty but still needs approval on whether or not to laugh. “NO! Be serious!” He yelled. “Ok… um faced with the inherent absurdity of the world Camus thinks that we should carry on anyway. To be so free that our very existence is an act of rebellion. Not to suppress any part of yourself.” I said. “That last part, not suppressing any part of your nature, if say purely hypothetically there was a Cannibal who by his nature had to eat people. By Camus’ logic that Cannibal should be able to eat as many people as he likes despite any ethical dilemmas.” Said Tom. “I think that you’re talking more about Sartre there, he was more inclined to natures and bad faith and stuff... But yes I would have to admit that based on Camus’ logic the Cannibal would be able to eat as many people as he likes. However based on just human morality, no people shouldn’t eat each other.” I said by now we had become much more animated and relaxed as the conversation progressed. The sun was starting to set. “Another hypothetical then say there was a man who had a wife and that wife was pregnant. And that man loved his wife, what sort of man wouldn’t love his wife, but that wife decided to leave that man… and ran off to his friend’s house. What should that man have done?” He said. “I’m not really sure what the point of that one was.” I said, hesitantly. “Ok… do you remember that play that you read and then couldn’t shut up about for a whole week, Faust? Well I picked up a copy the other day and you were perfectly right about how good it was, there was this one bit that stuck with me. *I am the spirit that negates. And rightly so…*” He said. “*For all that comes to be deserves to perish wretchedly*. Mephistopheles.” I said. “I killed Grace.” Said Tom. “And Julian. And…” It is difficult to convey silence in a work of prose. And it is especially difficult to convey the kind of silence Tom and I experienced then. I can’t quite remember what I said next and looking back now I’m not sure what anyone would be able to say next. However I do know that after the silence Tom explained how he had snuck into Julian’s house to find his wife, but instead of talking like he had planned, strangled her. Then he had killed Julian, stole his car and drove here. After such an explanation he pulled out a handgun… on second thoughts I’m not going to write this after all.


As he transferred the paper into the final chemical bath, Edmund held his breath for a moment. He thought about what it could mean, if he had actually managed to capture a photo of the strange creature he had been seeing in his peripheral vision for so long. Firstly, it would mean that he wasn't going mad. He pushed his held breath out past his lips. That would be a large measure of relief, even though he had told himself over and over that he had very definitely witnessed it affecting items; it knocked over a bowl on the kitchen counter, and it also turned the water off and on. And also, he'd seen that his cat, Dorcas, ran away, whenever the creature came too near her. These facts made it impossible that it was just a figment of his imagination, didn't they? He used the tongs to agitate the paper in the tub and waited on the developing image. He dared not be too hopeful. He still found it difficult to believe that the thing could be real. How could it be?

He removed the paper from the final tray and hung it on the line above his work area. There it was! The creature was there on the right (of course, on the right). The arm of the velvet chair was in front of it a bit, but otherwise he could clearly see the entire creature. He took off his gloves and sat down on the stool by his work table. He'd never seen anything like it. Never! That strange silver-colored body made him feel a bit queasy. Where had he seen that color before? In an insect maybe? A fish? No. It was unlike anything else. He realized, suddenly, that even though he was now looking right at the creature in the photo, that he could still be completely insane. He needed to show this photo to someone else. Or it could still be a product of his own sick mind. What would he do, if he showed the photo to someone and they didn't see it? “Why, there’s nothing there, old man! Nothing at all.” Well, he would just have to cross that treacherous, ice-covered bridge when he got there. If he got there, he corrected himself. It seemed that he now had some proof! Who should he show it to? He didn't have very many friends. He lived alone; well, with Dorcas, and his family had all died years ago. Was this thing always with him? Perhaps this creature was the reason his life had not gone wholly as he'd hoped. Could it have even caused some of the tragedy he'd gone through?

He looked at it again. Wait. Wasn't the chair arm in front of it before? He put his hand on the table to steady himself. Yes, he was sure that it had been in a slightly different position when he looked at it before. Well, the red light of the darkroom was probably playing tricks on his eyes. "Or perhaps you are insane", a voice whispered in his head. "Stop", he said aloud. He took the photo and went out into the sitting room. He sank down onto the settee and examined the photo again. Now the creature appeared to be looking out of the photo, its thousand spiny teeth bared in a menacing grin. He picked up a large book and quickly slid the photo between its pages. Then he shut it and put the book on the floor. He quickly stacked several more heavy tomes on top of it. Then a few more, for good measure. He really did feel a bit shaky. Perhaps he didn't need to show the photo to anyone after all. Perhaps he should just keep it there, under the weight of all those books. He hadn't seen the creature since developing the photo. Usually, he caught flashes of it in his peripheral vision all the time, but he was not seeing it now. A strange thought occurred to him: could he have somehow captured the creature itself in the photograph? That is, could that be the actual creature somehow and not just a likeness? Let us suppose that the creature is real. "You know that it is not," said the voice in his head. If it's real, and he had somehow captured it, then he was free of it! Was there really a need to show it to another? He glanced at the pile of books.

When had he first noticed it? The flash of silver in his peripheral vision. The endless sussuration; so quiet, but almost always there. Perhaps it was why things had ended so badly with Millicent. Oh Millicent. Maybe he would be with her now, if it wasn’t for the creature. He recoiled from remembering their last encounter. Millicent, so pale and stoic, telling him that he was a “terribly nice” man, but that she did not care for him. And then how she died that very night in a runaway carriage. So horrible. So final. No chance to see if he could sway her, if perhaps there was still some feeling for him after all. Something had spooked the horses. What if it was the creature? And perhaps the creature had prevented him from being as attentive as he could have been (would be now!), always stealing his attention by flashing past his far right vision. Haunting his dreams at night, causing him to lose sleep and become careless and less doting upon her in the day. Yes, the creature was likely to blame for his less-than-satisfactory life. He imagined it now, pinned in the photo inside the pages of the heavy book. Writhing, gnashing it’s slender teeth together, eyes rolling, showing the whites, like a terrified horse. Well, It was time to feed Dorcas and he probably should eat also. His step was a bit lighter, as he made his way to the tiny kitchen. There would be time to contemplate this thing more later. Right now the light of the day was fading and he was tired--but satisfied. Tomorrow he would embark on his new, better life; unencumbered by the creature and knowing that everything that had happened in his life thus far was not his fault. Yes, tomorrow he would start anew. “Ha!” the voice in his head chortled. “You will not.” His eyes dragged against his will to the stack of books. Yes. Things would definitely be better now.


My brother is talking about the Phillies and how much he hates them. Of course, Bobby loves the Phillies, which is why he can muster such hate. “Get rid of all the overpaid assholes and start from scratch,” he’s saying, sipping his high gravity beer. At the other end of the table, Kip is shaking his head. He’s a Pirates fan. He doesn’t understand how Ron can hate a team that is five games ahead in their division, while the Pirates languish at the bottom of the NL Central division.

Kelly, a massage therapist whose trade doesn’t allow for sufficient yakking, is talking Kip’s ear off, though, so he is unable to chip in with his opinion. The poor little guy looks at me helplessly, and I shrug and sip my IPA, glancing discreetly toward the table to my left, where my lover is having a very hushed exchange with a woman older than either of us.

All of us are over fifty. Most of us are over sixty. My lover’s husband is almost seventy. What has happened to us? When they find out about what we’ve done, people will say I was just trying to stay young. Well, of course I am. They aren’t? Look at the cars they drive! How often they visit the spa! They’re trying to elude Father Time just like anyone else. It just so happens I’m having a lot of sex while doing it. My lover — let’s just call her Juanita, for now — is having a deep conversation. Her back to me, she and the older woman are hunched toward each other, their noses about a foot from each other. They’re either talking about an affair or some embarrassing deformity or bathroom habit. My lover is so close to me I’d be able to tap her shoulder if she wasn’t so bent toward her table mate. It’s weird, and I have to get up and walk away, even though my glass is still a third full. I take care of that, guzzling the rest as I make my way to the counter. There, I look back, and see Juanita and the woman stealing glances at me. Hoo boy . I am the topic of their conversation. Didn’t we have some sort of tacit agreement that we’d clear it with the other before spilling beans? You’d think that would be implicit — which is one of the hallmarks of tacitity. But then I remembered Juanita’s shock and embarrassment when I told her I had told my tennis partner, who knows a lot of people she knows, about us and our six-month-long affair.

I should stop drinking beer while I play. I do it because it helps with the yips. Yet, as I’ve since learned, yips can be helpful. It’s not always good to feel calm and comfortable. Discomfort happens for reasons, and one of them is to ensure one doesn’t go blabbing intimate details to someone who could take them and make things extremely uncomfortable to one.

I chastised myself for blabbing, and then then calmed myself with the reminder people aren’t as obsessed with me as I am. But then Mike told someone, and that someone — who had heard of me — blabbed it to someone else, and before anyone could do anything my lover’s husband, Roy, found out about it. You would think that someone who presents as a peaceful man, a gentle giant, would abhor violence in any form. But no. Roy came over and punched me in the nose, adding that I should stay away from Juanita.

And I did just that, mostly, but chance meetings in bars cannot be helped. So there I was, ordering my second beer and surreptitiously watching my lover spill beans on someone I didn’t even know. An old lady, at that.

I saw her look at me, then swivel a bit to see someone entering, then fix a somewhat horrified gaze, which she directed back at me, who turned and realized it was Roy coming through the door. As for Juanita, she met Roy’s eyes, hers got big and looked at me, which directed Roy’s gaze to me before I had a chance to race to the side exit or bathroom. Roy looked kind of like Roy Clark — hence the name, I guess — but far more hulking. Roy Clark, to my knowledge, never chased a man into a bathroom. Roy Axton did. Or almost did; I was able to shut and lock the door in time. Roy pounded on the door, shouting, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” I didn’t answer. It didn’t seem like a question. I heard Juanita’s voice, and then it seemed Roy’s “Hey!”s were directed at her. But their intensity was subsiding, and then I heard nothing. Maybe a muffled sob. I drank my beer, half sitting on the sink. I hoped by the time I finished, all of this would have blown over.

When I eased the door open, no one was there. I walked with some trepidation to the bar area. No one was talking. All were looking at me — except for the old lady Juanita had been talking to. Neither my likely former lover nor Roy were in sight.

Bobby motioned me back to the table, and I went. “Who was that guy?” he asked.

“Oh. You know. Someone who has it out for me, I guess.” “I wonder why,” said the old lady to whom Juanita had been talking. Everyone at our table turned to look at her. She didn’t look back, just kept sipping her beer and pretending to look at her phone. Maybe she was.

“Nutcase,” I muttered, then issued an uncomfortable laugh. “At least I don’t hide in bathrooms,” she muttered back. “Koo-koo,” I muttered, tapping my temple. “Koo-koo.” My table of friends and family took this in as if they were watching a ping pong match. Table tennis.

“Do you two know each other?” interrupted Kelly, the garrulous massager.

“Nope,” the woman replied, still staring at her phone. “Don’t want to,” I retorted quietly. “Well it seems like you do,” said Kelly. “You’re like an old married couple.” That broke everyone up. And got me a little mad. “ You’re like an old married couple,” was my attempt at a zinger. The other patrons had lost interest by this point, and had returned to their meaningless banter. I ordered another beer, this time from a manager who eyed me with seeming contempt, and when I returned to our table, the old lady was in my seat, talking with Bobby. Not knowing what to do, I stood next to her, sipping from my glass and looking around as casually as I could.

“So maybe that’s why he ‘has it out’ for your brother,” she was saying. “Oh, as you can see,” I said sarcastically, “she knows everything about it.” Fortunately Kelly had diverted everyone else’s attention toward a story about a massage client who had, during the course of a session, achieved a partial erection. Normalcy had returned to the table. Bobby looked up at me, hurt in his eyes. “Well she sure knows more about it than I do.” “No!” I cried. “Bob. Look. Can we get a table, just you and I?” “I’ll leave,” said the woman, getting up.

“Only five minutes late,” I said. “Thanks nevertheless.” “Don’t talk to me, lover boy,” she sneered, and walked out. I noted her easy, strong stride and wondered if she was really old at all. Perhaps just prematurely grey and self-righteous. I sat down. “What did she tell you?” I asked Bobby. “That you’re fooling around with a woman whose husband is partially retarded,” he replied. “What? That’s ridiculous!” “That she could be married to a retard?” “No! Well…yeah.” My mind was sent reeling. I thought about Juanita’s house, and the signs that had been there. The alphabet magnets on the refrigerator, and the childlike drawings around it. Their only child was in her twenties. Roy had…mental deficiencies? “Sounds like you too have never met,” observed Bobby. “No.” Not really. I helped him carry in some groceries one time. There were bags of Funions and Uncrustables. A bottle of Yoohoo. At the time, it had made me wonder.

“So,” deduced Bobby, “if you steal her away from the retard, won’t it be on you to take care of him, or at least find some kind of home for him?” The thought of it — the messes, the folding of laundry (underwear!), the Funions, the Yoohoo — descended on me like bricks of rain. Brickdrops.

“Surely he has someone who….” “Who what? Will take him in? At his age?” “Maybe their daughter.” “Oh, nice thing to spring on a kid just starting out in life.” I finished my beer and walked home. It’s funny how quickly things can change when one learns the truth. Or lets the obvious truth finally sink it. I texted Juanita that we were done. I meant it. I had lost my true love to a retarded man. A better man.


Entry 1: Oh boy! Am I grateful! Words can’t convey how grateful I am. Who would believe the over-flowing, Olympic sized pool of…? ‘Gratitude’ doesn’t even describe it. This is the first entry of my required ‘Gratitude Journal.’ I’m already thrilled to express how utterly grateful I am for so many things in my godforsaken life. Let me count the ways… For instance, I’m grateful I no longer have my family to worry about. They were such a drag. Always nosing into my business, where they didn’t belong. I’m alone. I feel so liberated, I could sing! Now I see how this could be a great project. At first, keeping this journal looked like busy work. You know, writing a bunch of Pollyanna BS to meet the requirements of this probation I got hooked into. What a waste. That judge! A hundred meetings in a hundred days? Who has time for that? I’ve gotta life, man. Guess I’ll have to fit it into my busy schedule. I’m grateful to him for this opportunity. After all, he gave me a choice and I thought this might be a novelty instead of the tried and true routine of jail. Steep price for a measly three squares. You know, if you can’t do the time… See, Miles? I get it. Entry 2: Miles, my group leader, told me I won’t get anything from the practice if I don’t take it seriously. Yes, Miles, I know you read this. And I’m talking about you. Isn’t gratitude partly about telling the truth? I’m grateful that I can recognize it and speak to it. Yeah. Grateful. That’s what I am. I insist that I’m serious. Miles thought I wasn’t listening. Talk to the snorers if you want to make that point. He said, “You didn’t lose your family.” I nodded and said, “Not in a literal sense. No.” He gave me a weird look, so, I added, “No. But it would be a blessing if I did.  They’re such a drag.” “Well, you’re supposed to be expressing your true gratitude, Jonah. Look into yourself for the truth. That’s how it works.” I asked him, “If I’m supposed to make up who I’m grateful to, why can’t I make up what I’m grateful for?” He gave me a hard look and said, “You don’t get it. Do the program.” I know you read this, Miles. Isn’t that what I said? Tell me it’s not. Just so you know. I get it. You think you get it but I get it better than you. I’m grateful for that. Keep reading. About my missing family, I celebrate my lack of responsibilities. Once burdened with no time to myself, I now am shunned by all who knew me. Disowned by friends and family. I’m neither welcome in their houses nor acknowledged as an acquaintance. Strangers cross the street to avoid crossing my path. Mothers scold their children, telling them not to stare. I’m become a target of ridicule. A nonentity. Like a shadow, cast by no one and by nothing. Alone. And I’m free. So, Miles, you’ll be happy to know this journal will be filled with gratitude with a capital ‘tude. It will be gratitudinal. It will drip with so much appreciation that you’ll have to read it with goggles and gloves on. You’ll be grateful the pages don’t stick together with the excess. Just wait. Read on. You might learn something. I’d be grateful for that. Entry #3: Here you go. I was driving the other day and got pulled over by a cop. He said I was speeding. I didn’t feel it. Maybe I was. Not for me to say. Guy with a gun makes the rules. So, he gave me a ticket. I thanked him. Politely. He didn’t expect that. Made my day to mix it up a bit. Challenged his preconceptions, don’t you know? I got a kick out of showing my gratitude for his wasting my time and picking my pocket. I didn’t say all that, but he knew. It’s his job. And he checked off all the boxes. I know he heard me because the look he gave me. Bet he never heard that before. Carry on, officer Stoat. Have an extra serving. On me. I’m grateful. Day 4: Miles wanted to help. What a guy. He gave me a list of things needing gratitude. Thought I was unclear on the concept, or something. I may tag a few of these as I go. If for no other reason but to let Miles know I read the damn thing. Thanks, Miles. Grateful for all the support. Things needing gratitude, for instance… ·        The ho and donor who gave me life – speaking of mistakes, we’ll have to discuss my alleged gratitude when I find you. That said, I get that I should rejoice about it. Being alive lets me appreciate pain. When I’m dead, the pain will stop but so will any pleasure. Don’t understand much but am grateful to know that. Animals die unaware. Dust to dust. Why I don’t like people touching me with their dusty fingers. ‘Salt of the earth’ should be ‘dust of the earth.’ That’s what everything turns to. No one puts dirt on their fries. Makes sense to be grateful for both gains and losses. Tell me which is which? ·        Artists creating beauty for others – someday I’ll join the NBA and be one of them. At the top. There’s more. But I don’t want to go crazy spending all the gratitude in one spot. #5- A couple items from Miles’ list of things I’m supposed to be thankful for… ·        Language – a bottomless source of misunderstanding and shame… People talk too much. Say too little. ·        Reading – have to try it someday. Before I dropped out, Mr. Dickhead, the high school detention monitor, gave me a book to read by some French dude. Called ‘The Little Putz,’ I think. Am grateful for the chance to catch up on my sleep. #6 Another:

·        Favorite quote – “Get out!” Words to live by. Always heard it. Punch line of my life. Always makes me laugh. So many memories come with those words hurled at me. ·        Hot showers – Can’t argue with that. ·        My favorite place to recharge – under the 3 rd Street Bridge. Good times there. Always! ·        Sex – yeah! 7 Another… ·        Changing my life with a change in attitude – get back to you on that, Miles. All this discussion about change sounds like the same ol’ same ol’. What’s the point? What’s in it for me? Still awaiting an answer. Don’t get it. If I don’t watch out for numero uno, who will? I’m sure a pamphlet on a bus bench has answers for everything. But as I said a few entries back, I’m not a stiff. Too busy to read. Thankful I’m not wise, else I’d be accountable for my actions. That may be partly why I’m trapped doing this journal and other boring stuff. How am I doing, Miles? -8--- More… ·        Observing and learning from other’s mistakes – big on that. Some fish have too much cash. Happy to hold the net. Always grateful for the ability to get more money. Cha-ching!

·        Friends I can count on - Shiv owes me a $100. Be grateful if he paid me. Something happened the other day. I’d just jacked some cash when this woman, she looked homeless, came up to panhandle. Seen her around. Feeling flush, I pulled out a twenty. She swiped it and gushed, “You’re beyond wonderful.” Her flashing eyes and the way she said it, reminded me of Shelby, a girl I knew years ago. Like yesterday. I said, “Hey!” She ran away, giggling to her friends, to riff about her ‘find.’ I was too shocked to say more. Shelby said that exact thing the same way, back then. Our running gag. Always wondered about her. What happened? Never knew. Used to be close. Last time we were together, Shelby said, ‘You’re beyond wonderful.’ About some little thing. She drew the ‘beyond’ out, like it was sailing off into the distance. I joked, ‘Beyond? Like, too far?’ ‘Yeah, need to know when to stop. All that wonderful got left behind you, in your dust.’ I asked, ‘Is it too late? Like out of reach?’ She said ‘Look back and squint. Hard to see if the light isn’t right.’ Still playing I turned and leaned forward. ‘Blinking neon?’ ‘Yeah, the exit sign. ‘Wonderful, next right.’’ ‘Has a rest area.’ ‘And a wonderful parking lot.’ I never forgot any of that and laughing together. Last time I saw her. Never said good-bye. Alone ever since. What happened? What split us? Was it me? Fixable after all this time? Handing this one a twenty, the way she said it, it had to be her. There with friends, drooling over a $20 bill. My Shelby. Grateful to know she’s okay. Should’ve said something. Nine In our group session, Miles covered the difference between ‘excitement’ and ‘happiness.’ He said excitement has more in common with the agitation gained with a shot of adrenalin. While happiness or joy lives in peace. He said excitement is the other side of the coin from fear. Same coin. I’d never heard such before. I’ve spent so much time wanting the next thrill, skipping the next roller coaster ride seems wasteful. Who leaves tickets unspent? What else can you do? Realize my peace is with Shelby. -10- Miles, I’m still thinking about Shelby. Got enough to feed us both. Going to find her. Hope we’ll cross paths. Who knows? Might be wonderful. I’d be thankful for that. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know where it leads. Know you’ll think I’m not doing the program. But that’s not it. I found my gratitude and am claiming it. Committed to changing my life. If I can’t find Shelby, I’ll be back. Right? The judge will get it. Is there no latitude for gratitude? Does ‘doing the program’ mean giving up on the dream once it’s found? The point’s to find my gratitude. Or is it to fill some mundane meetings requirement while my gratitude languishes like a beached whale? I know you get it, Miles. Thanks! Peace out, brother.


When you first meet, there's a gun to your head and a knife at his throat. He smiles at you, almost oblivious to the danger you present to his well being, nor the screams that rise and swell around you. "Ah." He states, and nods once as if he had solved a particularly difficult math problem and the answer's smeared across your cheeks. His eyes really shouldn't be so dark, almost bottomless really. You'd almost say they were pupil less, except you don't have time for notions like that, that the man standing before you was something more than human. He was just a man after all, and with a quick snap of your wrist he'd bleed all the same. You almost do it, except for the fact that you notice how sweet his eyes are. Black as night, but sweet as chocolate, and as strong as Turkish coffee. There's a name that dances at the roof of your mouth, but you couldn't, shouldn't know, so you swallow it down. (It leaves a bitter after taste on your tong as fleeting images of a boy with a sad smile and candy sweet eyes dances before you) It all feels familiar some how, like you've done this before(it feels like broken promises and little white lies) but There isn't much you remember, so maybe it's possible you've met before In another life, where a boy tugged on your bangs and promised you freedom. But this isn't that life, so you twist your knife and watch as red blooms on that pale throat- And you realize (with a bubbling hysteria that was slowly tearing its way out of you) that this isn't the first time you've met, but the last.


### The Glass Locket ###### 7 min read - 1812 words "VANQUISH!" My cry rippled forth through the locket as I lay with broken wings on the battlefield, awaiting the magic that pulsed in my outstretched hand. I watched as the black smoke poured forth, transforming into millions of dark Fairy warriors of old. They moved like lightning, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. I knew the weight that the command would carry. Usnar, the blistered Demon of plague, crumbled before me mid-stride and let out his last breath as his army of evil followed suit. Winter was falling upon the land of Amignor and the war was finally over. It was mid summer when I came upon the glass locket. I was exploring the ancient caverns of Rawnessmined, the abandoned fortress of Inod, the Dwarf King. I had learned from the lore of old that the fortress had fallen when a dwarven miner had accidentally opened a chamber while excavating the royal tomb. An accident that had allowed Goblins, Orcs, Ogres and Demons to sour the land for nearly a millennium. These were caverns that had forever sealed evil away from the peaceful world above. Free from their earthen jail, the armies of evil made their way to the surface, leaving the caverns and spreading their plague upon the world above, slaying any good creature that stand in their path. In the years following this release of evil, all manner of creatures came together, hoping to restore peace and the world to its former self. Elves, Fairies, Humans and Dwarfs working together was a rare sight indeed, but our numbers were slim in comparison to the thousands of evil creatures that now plagued our former homes. I had found a small hole in one of the cavern walls that allowed passage into the tomb of a long forgotten Elf. It was hard to say how long the body had been there or how it came to be in such an unnatural resting place. It was like he was frozen in time, clutching the locket to his heart, in a deep and peaceful slumber, resting in his casket. I remember stretching my hand out to clear the dust from the locket and as my slender fingers made contact, the Elf withered and crumbled to dust. The locket, loose from the grips of the Elf's hand, slowly began to shrink until it was an appropriate size for a Fairies neck. Among the ashes was a notebook that had also shrunk. The words were hard to make out, but the images made it clear that this was no ordinary locket. A mysterious magic placed upon this forgotten artifact allowed the holder to issue it commands. I placed the notebook in my satchel. Placing the locket around my neck, I decided to make my way to the forest surrounding the fortress before night fell upon me. "Ora... ORA!" I could hear my father calling me from the doorway as I walked the branch that led to our home within the oak tree. For as long as I could remember, Havenwood had been home to the Fairies. Elves would come and go as they pleased, but it wasn't until recent years that the encampments of Dwarfs and Humans had started to grow. I double checked my neckline, making sure the locket was out of site. I didn't want anyone to discover it until I had a chance to learn more about the magic it held within. "I'm coming! Sorry I'm late. I was just out searching for food and..." "You know I don't like you going anywhere near that dark place. We've had this discussion a thousand times. It's simply not safe." Father shook his head and sighed a sigh of relief, knowing his only daughter was safe. "Just because we stay young forever..." "Doesn't mean we can't die. I know, I know. I'm sorry! I just can't help myself sometimes. It's not like there's evil living there anymore. We know they've left." "We can't know that for sure. The forest is our home. We have no business in the stagnant air of that cursed place." Father turned and walked back inside the oak. He paused in the doorway and turned, motioning for me to follow. "Imere would like to hold a meeting tonight. You've been invited to join us. Come along child, we're late." Imere was Queen of the Elves and very wise. Although she was older than anyone could recall, it was hard to tell from looking at her. She had a timeless beauty, fair and soft. Looking her in the eyes gave me goosebumps. Whenever I was around her, it felt like my mind was an open book for her to read. The meeting was short lived, as Imere was growing tired of the Dwarfs and Humans using the forest to cook their meals and their smoke that would billow through the boughs. Her main objective was to remind us all that there was evil lurking outside the forest and it was growing in numbers and strength. Something had to be done and time was running short. For months, the Dwarfs had their blacksmiths working day and night to create Armor, Weapons and Traps. The Humans worked with them to create Broadswords, Daggers, Mail and anything they could contribute to the coming war. The Elves had been working tirelessly on Bows, Quivers and Arrows. The Fairies very rarely used weapons and preferred their own methods of war. We had armies of trained war mosquitoes. While the larvae grew, we would poison their water and increase the toxicity within their habitat, slowly making them immune. When grown, we would prepare them for war by allowing them to gorge on the poisoned animal blood we were given by the Humans, who loved meat. This kept them immune and in times of war they could easily spread the poison to any being who was not protected by our antivenom. Over the following weeks, I tried to decipher the text of the notebook, hoping to uncover it's secrets. I recognized the characters and some of the dialect, as it was some form of Elvish, but due to its age and wear, it was hard to be sure what all it meant. One afternoon, in the late fall, I was sitting on a tree limb, enchanted by the drawings within the notebook. Without much thought, I put the notebook back in my satchel and took the locket out from under my coat. I decided to open it up. Everything around me went quiet and still. As I looked around, I noticed birds were floating mid flight and leaves were frozen in the wind. Time stood still. I shut the locket and the deafening silence disappeared, returning bird calls and sounds of rustling leaves to my ears. Both amazed and confused, I quickly searched for the notebook in my satchel, hoping to uncover this secret. To my amazement, it was like new. What had happened? I opened it up to find that the language and imagery was clear and in my own native tongue. How strange, I thought. Out of fear, I tucked it back in my satchel and decided not to open the locket again. Upon returning home, my Father was waiting for me. "Imere would like to see you. She tells me it's urgent." I wasn't sure how to react and now I was definitely concerned about what I might have done. Were there other side effects from opening the locket? I pushed past my father and made my way to our usual meeting area, anxious and scared. "I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you." Imere said sternly. "Unfortunately, there's nothing to be done about that now." She opened her right hand and gestured for me to come closer with her left. "The notebook please." "What note..." "Please, don't take me for a fool." Imere extended her right hand closer. "What you've found should never have been found. However, now that it has... Please, bring it to me." I handed her the notebook and took a step back, awaiting my punishment. I watched as she flip through the notebook and close it with a look of sadness. "Come with me. I need you to understand the significance of what you mistakenly took for an ordinary piece of jewelry." In the weeks leading up to the war, Imere explained the powers behind the glass locket and its history. She taught me the commands, explained the imagery within the notebook and told me how it could never fall into the hands of the awakened evil. The more I learned, the more intrigued I became and understood why she seemed so concerned upon realizing the locket had been found. When winter arrived, we thought we were prepared for the battle ahead of us. We gathered together and made our way to the outside edges of the forest, dressed in armor and weapons ready. The enemy had been preparing as well and their armies were already approaching. Before we knew what hit us, we were engaged in battle and surrounded. Our first casualties were the Humans on horseback that led us out into the battlefield. Swarms of war mosquitoes covered the evil forces that threatened to smite the existence of good throughout the land of Amignor. They were practically useless against the massive hoards of Goblins and the Orcs weren't even phased for a moment. I watched as our numbers slowly dwindled, hoping not to have to use the locket. I was caught off guard and felt the crude club of a massive Ogre strike me in the back. The blow propelled me forward, dazed and injured. I fell to the ground and rolled to a stop. I felt the club tear my wings and the fall only further crumpled them into a useless mess. I rolled over to my back, preparing myself to fight from the ground. The hoard of evil's leader, Usnar, was striding towards me. I could hear my father shouting out my name in despair. Reaching towards my neck, I pulled out the locket and took a deep breath. \* \* \* When the battle was over, I wandered back into the forest and found my way to the old abandoned fortress. Without the use of my wings, it felt like it took a lifetime get to the entrance. I stumbled my way deep into the depths of the caverns below, finding the hole in the wall where I had found the locket. I crawled along the tunnel that led to the tomb of the lockets previous owner. When I had arrived I noticed that the elf's casket had shrunk and was like new, just like the notebook. I climbed inside and removed the glass locket from my neck. Holding it to my chest, I laid back and fell into a deep sleep.


I met Tim on Tinder. Tim was the best boyfriend I could have asked for. As a 25 year old woman living in the heart of Seattle, I had been close to giving up on my love life. Men were scary, unreliable infidels. I believed that for a long time, at least until my friend Suzie convinced me to give Tinder a try. “Please?” she practically begged me during brunch one day, “Please just go on one date. If it sucks, I’ll never bother you about it again!” Drunk on margaritas and breakfast food of questionable quality, I relented. I went on one date. One date with a man named Tim Henry. It went very well. Too well, even. I learned that he worked in IT, that he’s deadly allergic to strawberries, that his ex-wife died of breast cancer in 2013. He learned about me, too. How I grew up with abusive parents and now take care of my younger brother, Zach, while pursuing a degree in psychology. Tim was really into true crime, and he got me hooked on it as well. The stories were harrowing, heartbreaking, disturbing- but some morbid curiosity kept us listening. We developed inside jokes, shamefully mostly revolving around cannibals and the gruesome details of specific murders. As a psych major, it was all so interesting. Obviously, those psych classes got me nowhere. I didn’t see the red flags. True crime is a lot easier to listen to if you’ve never lived through a podcast-worthy horror story of your own. Until then, true crime is a “what if-“ an almost impossibility that ensures you lock your doors at night, but never steals your sleep. After? It’s all too real. Tim and I got married in 2019. As many married men do, he started to let himself go. Let down appearances. He began to confide in me. He spoke to me about how he often had thoughts of murder, of skinning someone alive. I explained to him what intrusive thoughts were, and he seemed satisfied with that explanation. Later, he told me he had been diagnosed with harm OCD- a subcategory of OCD where the patient has obsessive and unrealistic worry about hurting other people. Such as putting all your knives under lock and key so you don’t kill your entire family. In reality, these patients are often even less capable of murder than the average sane person. It explained a lot of his obsessive violence thoughts. How he’d want to kill me for the smallest of infractions. I made sure to turn the lights off in the kitchen every night since he told me he wanted to rip my fingernails out the last time I forgot. I would never have admitted it, but Tim was starting to scare me. I knew it sounded awful, to be afraid of someone with harm OCD, but I would come to be thankful for my paranoia. I began to keep a strawberry in my pocket. I was out with Suzie on one of our regular Friday night dinners when I had forgotten the name of Tim’s company. Naturally, I Googled it. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find Tim at all, actually, anywhere on the internet. Even his Tinder account had been deleted. Being somewhat tech-savvy, I used an image search to scour the internet for a face match. To my horror, several matches popped up, none mentioning an IT company. The headlines blurred together in my head. I was so shocked I could barely hear Suzie asking me what was wrong. I skimmed the previews, shortened and cut off by the small screen of my phone. “Seattle man kills wife in brutal love story gone wr-“ “’I found her skinned alive’ a harrowing story of l-“ “Man charged of first degree murder escapes p-“ “Tim Fuller, a monster loose among the streets o-“ I got up and rushed home, leaving an equally horrified Suzie in the dust. I had seen enough. I had heard enough. I needed to know the truth right then, even if it costed my life. Even if I was in danger. I loved Tim, and if he loved me, he would tell me the truth. That’s what I told myself. Even though he lied about having OCD, his ex-wife passing from cancer, and working in IT. However, I know better now. You can’t “fix” killers. I burst into the house and shoved my phone in Tim’s face. Something in his eyes gave away that the articles were not fake. I felt the world shift from under me as grief and shock dizzied my perception. The world shifted again when Tim tackled me to the ground. Everything from dinner to the second Tim snapped felt like milliseconds. I heard him screaming, but the words were too far away, too muffled to hear. Something warm spread over the back of my skull. Spots danced over my vision. My body felt cold and sensationless. I felt like a corpse long before my death. \ Tim often told me how his mother had suffered from severe OCD. He mentioned how he wasn’t surprised he was diagnosed, as OCD tends to be genetic. I believed every word out of his mouth, especially considering I had an actual harm OCD diagnosis from early childhood. One he never had. To sum up my childhood- I had always been afraid of myself. I was afraid that if I didn’t barricade my door, I would hurt my little brother in my sleep. I kept myself away from sharp objects. I didn’t listen to true crime for fear I would get ideas. Eventually I convinced myself that my fear was not based in reality. But now I know better. Maybe it was because of how my parents hurt Zach. Maybe it was how they hurt me. But deep down, I’ve always known I’m capable of violence. I was just afraid I would misuse it. But when I heard Zach scream- When I felt Tim’s body weight shift from mine- When I saw something in his hand, smelled blood in the air, tasted copper in my mouth- *I was no longer afraid.* \ My vision cleared as I launched myself upwards- barely gaining complete consciousness before hurling myself into Tim’s back. He tumbled forwards, the knife in his hand skittering across the kitchen tile. He grabbed my hair and pulled, I kicked his groin, we scrambled and flailed for the weapon like two spoiled children fighting over a toy. A sharp pain radiated through my ribcage as Tim punched me as hard as he could, knocking the wind from my diaphragm just long enough to brush the knife handle with his fingertips. My ears rung and diluted the sound of his nose breaking as I shoved his head into the floor. Chaos reigned over the small section of bloody kitchen floor we inhabited. Tim finally grasped the knife. The blade tore through my shoulder as my husband swung and stabbed at my flesh, blood warming my cold body even faster than before. Red flashed into my vision, but it wasn’t from my cuts or Tim’s nose. His cold grey eyes widened as I shoved the strawberry from my pocket as hard as I could down his throat, silencing his screams of rage and grunts of violent effort. I pushed my fingers down as far as they could go. His grip on the knife faltered, and I seized the opportunity to steal it, stand, and back away in one not-so-smooth motion. My husband was dying. I watched as he choked and shoved saliva-coated fingers down his throat in an attempt to dislodge the strawberry. His face turned a mottled red color and began to swell. He kicked his feet and flailed on the blood-slippery floor in pain. His eyes now held fear and desperation, not anger. I could have helped him, called the cops, run away, etc- but I didn’t. I watched Tim’s body drain of life. I watched his chest seize up, depraved of oxygen. I watched his lips turn blue. I watched the veins in his forehead pop. I watched blood bubble from his nose. I watched his tongue swell and seal the strawberry into his throat. I watched Tim suffer. I watched Tim die. I liked it. \ The verdict came back. Free of charges, due to the necessity of my manslaughter. It was self-defense. My lawyer had the easiest job in his career, defending me. An escaped murderer, leading a double life? And the strawberry? So clever! Plus, I had to protect my younger brother. I was practically a hero. I was happy to continue my life a free woman. No one had to know how much I enjoyed seeing Tim die. But if people did know, they would understand. He lied to me for years. I’ll have to be in therapy the rest of my life. Zach will never rest easy again. I did what I had to do to a man who deserved every second of it. With therapy, I came to understand that. A few years after the incident, my therapist recommended I start seeing men again. I had recently become open to the idea. After all- the situation with Tim was such a rarity, it would be shocking for it to happen again, unless I was actively seeking out escaped convicts. Even after the years of therapy, something nagged at me. I liked watching Tim die. I got to watch the life go out of his eyes. I got to live out my obsessions. I got to draw blood. And none of it was my fault. It would never be my fault. So I took my therapist’s advice. As I scoured the Seattle police databases for men with violent criminal records, I re-activated my Tinder account.


You don’t know where you are or how you got here, only that there’s a mangled body at your feet and a trophy the size of a bowling pin in your fist. You’re not sure which one tips you off that this is your handiwork: the splash of crimson stark against the gold of the trophy, or the fact that your gag reflex responds by adding more bodily fluids to the crime scene. Evidently, you’re fond of chili dogs. Like your composure, the trophy slides out of your grasp. THUMP. Going fetal sounds like a pretty good idea, but glass shards litter the floor like stars in the sky and the swivel chair by the mahogany desk looks too comfy to resist. You drag yourself over, melt into it, and just… breathe. A clock lurking somewhere in the dim room marches to the pace of your heartbeat; two rhythms merging into an ominous countdown. You’re not sure how much time passes—three minutes? Thirty?—before you muster the nerve to drink in your battered surroundings and come to terms with your literal red-handedness. A glass table, shattered. Books spilling out of a shelf, pages splayed. The blinds drawn, slits only big enough for slivers of light to peek in. Was all this… you? A Colgate-white smile flashes at you from a framed portrait on the desk; you can’t quite compare it to the bloody pulp that passes for the corpse’s face, but the suit is a clear match. You’re also dressed smartly, at least under the rips and tears and blood—do you work here too? The name of a corporation is engraved in the frame, but there is silence instead of bells ringing. Why can’t you remember?

You rub your face, as if that will soothe the weariness in your bones—only to transfer the blood to your cheeks like warpaint. You’re too stunned to find that disgusting. Maybe if you just… focus. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. Yeah, that’s a bit better. Try to think about something other than the stench of blood and puke. It’ll come to you, just— The door creaks open. Not actually , but in your head, a crisp memory floating to the surface and bursting into clarity. Her voice is as meek as her tiny frame: “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia—” Her eyes inflate like a pair of pufferfish when she notices the body. Then her skinny figure folds in an impressive imitation of a lawn chair; she hits the floor right after her coffee cup does. But… where’s the girl now? How long ago did that happen? Did she wake up and call the police already? Your stomach sinks. You spring over to the blinds and peek outside; you expect a horde of police vehicles three floors down, maybe a man brandishing a megaphone, but you only find a fire escape and a city strolling leisurely through a lazy afternoon. A butterfly with sapphire-blue wings saunters past. It’s funny that you still know how the world works, and yet you know nothing about you. A sound snaps your gaze to the door. A small, soft-faced girl enters, paper cup in hand. “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia—” She joins the man on the floor, the same way the coffee joins the other fluids, mingling in a repugnant mosaic. You stare in slack-jawed amazement as the dots connect themselves. Okay, palms on the desk. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. That’s… somewhat better. You’re not sure what to call the opposite of a memory. A… vision? Premonition? Prophecy? You want this to be a dream, but even nightmares have limits. Instinctively, you latch onto the only thing left that tethers you to reality: the bodies, one dead and one probably alive, sprawled across the floor. You’d better do something about them before Number Three waltzes in and spills their coffee. Or worse. You find a key in Mister Blumenfeld’s pocket—which takes care of the door. Progress. As you scour the room for a hiding spot, your mind hungrily anticipates another glimpse of incoming events. Nothing. No future, no past. Only the hellhole that is the present. Footsteps. Shit. You grab the trophy; only now do you reconcile with the words CEO of the Year etched into it, and the sinking feeling in your stomach intensifies. Three knocks. “Adam?” Another woman, voice muffled. The handle turns, then reverts back. Thank god for the key. “Is now a good time?” Fucking hell, why didn’t you get a glimpse of the future this time around? “Adam, look, I promise this isn’t about… about us. It’s just, Stacy went to deliver your Latte macchiato and never came back. D’you know where she went?” There’s something disarming about her voice; your shoulders relax, and the trophy flops to your side. You feel like you know the person behind that door—which is impossible because you have no recollection of the past, and yet— Again. Another memory—no, another Glimpse— bubbling furiously to the surface. You frown. Something’s… different. In one scenario, the woman threatens to call the cops when the door never opens; she finally leaves when you convince her that Adam isn’t dead and his murderer isn’t in the room with him. In another, you decide to unlock the door. Pristine eyes gaze up at you, and they are beautiful even as they fill with fear. She collapses at your feet. You figure dead bodies and blood have that effect on women. But it’s the third scenario that you’re drawn to like a moth to a flame. You unlock the door, but instead of conveniently swooning, the woman opens her mouth to scream. Somehow you anticipate this and clamp a bloody hand over her. She bites down, hard , so you return the affection with the CEO trophy, but then she starts shrieking and making an even bigger fuss so you hold her down by the windpipe and watch the life drain from those beautiful, beautiful eyes... “ NO ,” you bellow when the Glimpse passes. “Please, no.” “Adam, sweetie, you’re worrying me. Should I call the cops?” Oh no no no no. Anything but that. You clear your throat and pray the door will muffle you. “Everything’s fine; just taking a call. I think Stacy went down to the… uh... HR department.” A beat. “Oh. Okay, that makes sense; she did want to file a complaint about noise in the office. Thanks, Adam.” Footsteps fading. Phew. Your fingers choke the trophy; hearing her mention Adam’s name makes your blood boil, and you have no idea why. Three Glimpses, simultaneously, and you chose one like cheese from a platter. The very same moment in time, with different outcomes based on... what? Random chance? Conscious decision-making? Divine intervention? This is going to take some getting used to. The other two scenarios sit snugly in the back of your mind—two timelines forever out of reach, and knowing that makes the R-rated one somewhat less upsetting.

Anyway, you catch something in the Glimpses where you let the pretty woman in—the door of a garbage chute, embedded in the hallway. You hope to god no one else is coming to see Adam as you drag him outside and stuff him headfirst into the rank depths. It’s probably where he belongs anyway. Now for Stacy. You go back and lock the door again, just in case, but before you can turn around another Glimpse has you in its clutches: An unseen force knocks you to the floor and turns your vision crimson. You crane your woozy head up to find a skinny figure looming over you, brandishing the trophy you left on the desk. The Glimpse passes in a flash. You don’t hesitate; the trophy slams into the door the moment you duck, adrenaline blasting through your veins. You lunge for Stacy, one hand wrenching the weapon away and the other shoving her backwards... ...onto a puddle of blood and puke and coffee, which has about the same effect as an ice rink. Crack goes her neck as it meets the mahogany desk. She twitches on the floor like a dying insect before all goes still. Only now, crouching before her, do you realize how young she is, and how young she always will be.

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK FUCK . You console yourself with the realization that you can change the future like a fucking time traveler. You tell yourself that you only acted in self-defense, that it was either you or her. That you could never have foreseen this. It doesn’t stop the tears from falling. More footsteps. You jolt yourself lucid and hoist Stacy over a shoulder; she’s a child compared to Adam, so bringing her to the window and climbing out onto the fire escape is, well, child’s play. Sunlight spears your eyes as you hurry down the steps, going as fast as humanly possible while carrying literal dead weight. You’re not sure where you’re going, or whether it matters; the secluded alleyway beneath your feet will have to do. You hope those dumpsters aren’t full. A darkened window stops you dead. Staring back is a blood-streaked face, haggard and warped, eyes dancing with sparks of mania. And suddenly the pretty woman’s reaction is somewhat understandable. Who are you? you wonder as you step out into the alley behind the building. Why do I feel things for you when we’ve never met outside of a Glimpse? There’s no one here, thank god. Or so you think. Her line of sight is perpendicular to yours, so there are only so many heartbeats before she registers the unorthodox spectacle on the fringes of her vision. She tilts her face up, allowing a finger of smoke to curl forth from her lips; even that gesture is elegant. Your knees threaten to buckle under the weight of the next Glimpse. It’s not a window into a single isolated moment like past episodes, but a lifetime’s worth flooding your brain like a tsunami: Two limp bodies drowning in garbage. The same bodies adorning front pages everywhere —accompanied by more questions than answers. Her, obliterating box after tissue box as tears gouge ravines into her face. You, wrapping her up in consoling arms, which she snuggles into like an abandoned puppy. Her, shedding a different kind of tear as she discovers that a smile can still reach her eyes. You, kneeling in front of her because you want to wake up to that smile every single day. Her, holding up a smaller version of you to blow out a crown of candles. You, counting the wrinkles on her face and deciding that none of them did any harm to her beauty. And it’s only when destiny rightfully embeds itself in your soul that you realize the things you’d do to be with this woman. The tears you’d shed. The years you’d lose. The competition you’d eliminate. The next step is easy: head back before she sees you, and dispose of the body when she’s gone. But you don’t. A part of you wants her to turn around and catch you in the act. A part of you wants her to smile and give you a hand with the corpse. A part of you wants her to accept you for who you are. And maybe she will. No Glimpse is set in stone, after all. You’ll carve your own path, earn her love the only way you know how. You might be missing your memories but all you need are the ones you’ll be making with her. Fuelled with newfound hope, you search the Glimpse for a name.

When her eyes meet yours, you remember to smile. You wait for her to fall into your arms, to admit that she preferred you over Adam all along. Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? But it’s not you she’s staring at. You frown. What’s so alluring about Stacy? She’s not exactly alive and kicking. Or available. The cigarette tumbles to the pavement. “ Jerry? ” That’s… not how you expected it to come out. The fantasy melts with buttery efficiency as you watch about a hundred long-overdue realizations dawn on her like a blood-red sun. It might as well be Adam slung over your shoulder. She bolts for a door. Another Glimpse pounces on you, as if it had been lying in wait for this moment: Two women in uniform, pulling a suit-clad body out of a trash heap. Your face plastered on front pages everywhere, and the look in your eyes is… lost . The horror of this new future causes you to drop the body and make a beeline for the door. You pull her hair, wrap fingers around her beautiful neck, and you weep through it all like the last maudlin soul at a bar. Anything to shut her up. Anything to make the police sirens blaring in your head stop. Anything to make the bite of cold metal around your wrists go away. It’s not until you’re getting herded down the alleyway into a waiting police car that you realize this isn’t part of the Glimpse. Was it someone from across the street that caught you scurrying down the fire escape, a dead girl flopping against your back? The last thing you see before being spirited away is two bodies in an alleyway, equally inert. 🦋 “Get moving, Dreamer,” barks the guard shoving you back home. You don’t bother with names—they’re nothing but tasers and bad breath. After the bars ring shut and silence returns like an old pal, you lie across the bunk and rest your eyes. A smile creeps across your face as you relive your favorite lifetime for the third time today. The first few weeks were hell; having women on your record is like being dipped in blood and thrown into a shark tank. Or having a sign that says “Insert here!” held over your butthole every waking hour—though your Glimpses helped you wriggle out of most encounters. Who knew convicts stuck to a moral code? Like a hermit crab with its shell, you learnt to retreat into your headspace, where there would always be sunshine and decent food and laughter echoing through a house. And soon life imprisonment became… life. There are a million beautiful scenes you can step into, all just as dreamlike in their perfection as they are in their incorporeality. And yet you muse over them with fondness, as if they happened to you and not a version of you that has been erased from this plane of existence. You can always gaze into her eyes, twinkling like gemstones behind a white veil. You can always enter her for the first time again, the spice of her breath lingering on the tip of your tongue. You can always fall into her arms when you can’t take it anymore. You decide to visit your favorite moment, where there is dew-kissed grass instead of a rock-solid mattress whittling away at your spine. A butterfly with sapphire wings hovers curiously overhead. Pine and lemongrass adorn the breeze, just like her hand adorns yours. You watch two small figures romp around in the distance, their giggles filling you with golden pride. To this day you’re not sure whether the Glimpses are a curse or a blessing. Are they taunting you with missed potential, or are they letting you have a nice, long swig of it? Maybe both. Not that you‘re complaining. After all, you get to spend the rest of your life with her.


Prologue  *Come one, come all! Come to the Circus of Fools!* *Feast your eyes on amusing antics and freaks of nature!* *From towering giants to twins combined!* *See God’s rejects and they will send a shiver!*  *Divas and starlets of the stage that will amaze you!* *Magicians and clowns that captures the imagination!* *Behold them all and feel the unholy sensation!* *Fun for everyone and for the whole family!*  *After all, the circus family awaits your arrival!* \- A flyer from the circus  It was June 15, 1933 on a humid Saturday in the city of \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_, that the circus came to town. The citizens gathered around the city square to take a peek of the exotic oddities and attractions.  Eliza, a little girl of seven, was walking on the city streets. She wore a red pinafore dress and ribbons of the same color, set on her curly brown hair. She had a large swirly lollipop in one hand and a balloon in the other. She came to venture the circus, out of boredom, in hopes of seeing fun and wondrous things.  Her parents did not know that, she left the house when no one was looking.  It wasn’t long when the streets became flooded with people. They stood by the side of the road as a circus wagon crossed by, followed by a troupe of performers. Tall clowns, colorful harlequins, and other attractions caught the audience’s eye. They were all scattering flyers and confetti to the crowd.  However, the ones that stole the spotlight, are the circus freaks.  Bearded ladies, tattooed men, deformed bodies and broken minds, captured the attention of every passerby. An old man who is covered in scales like a croc, a diva wearing a blindfold with goat legs like that of a satyr’s, a clown with two painted faces, and many more. The people laughed and mocked the performers, but they didn’t seem to mind the flurry of insults thrown at them.  They seem to be… happy?  They were smiling amidst the jeering crowd. They looked onward with bright eyes and kept marching on.  Eliza was amazed as she picked up a flyer. It was painted in bright colors, bold letters, and fancy designs that pleased the eye. While she was engrossed on it, a performer passed by her field of vision. She immediately looked up and saw a twin-headed blonde, clothed in a yellow and orange diamond-checkered clown attire, beckoning her to follow them.  She followed while dropping all the things she was holding in the process. Along the winding roads and streets did she walk, she eventually reached their destination; the Circus of Fools.  It’s all colorful and festive. The main tent is painted in bright red and yellow, there are multicolored stalls that sold food in colored paper bags, game booths that gave out wondrous prizes, and sideshow attractions like magic acts and freak shows.  It all amazed little Eliza. The splendor of the circus filled her heart with joy.  And to the man who was watching her.  She peeked into one of the sideshow tents. Inside, she saw the diva from earlier. She stood on a dark, curtain-covered stage with a single spotlight shining on her. She donned a black dress, adorned with dark blue flowers and laced with teal ribbons. A black ornate blindfold covered her eyes, and it appeared to be wet.  The diva had a beautiful voice, clear as crystal and pure as a brook, she sung a wonderful song that Eliza nor the audience could understand. But something felt off, Eliza felt it. There was a hint of sadness that can be heard from the singer’s voice.  \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* *Je m'appelle Margherita.* *La diva des perdus.* *Écoutez mon récit de malheurs,* *pourquoi mes larmes ont coulé.*  *La fille d'un commerçant,* *qui s'est écarté de son chemin,* *un jour, il est venu au cirque.*  *Elle a entendu une dame,* *chanter si calmement* *alors qu'elle sentait la pluie brûlante.*  *Elle regardait avec horreur,* *alors que les lumières s'affaiblissaient,* *jusqu'à ce qu'il la trouve.*  *La potion du maître de cérémonie,* *un mélange de douleur et de feu,* *a été renversé dans ses yeux,* *et cela l'a fait pleurer.*  *Il l'a volée,* *fait avec ses jambes,* *a ensuite remplacé celle d'une chèvre.*  *Elle va maintenant nous rejoindre,* *la mascarade maudite* *avec le Diable qui l'a laissée mutilée.*  *Forcée de chanter,* *forcé à danser,* *avec les pattes crochues d'une bête.*  *Voici cette chanson, pour tous ceux qui l'entendent.* *Le plaidoyer d'une âme pitoyable.* *Jusqu'à ce que nous dépérissions,* *nous verrons la lumière du jour.* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*  This song did she sing, captivated them all. The audience, enthralled by the voice of the dame, never cared for the words but cheered as she disappeared from the stage. Eliza was about to leave when the twin-headed blonde popped their heads underneath the velvet curtains.  She could see them clearly now under the spotlight. One head is that of a girl’s, grinning mischievously; the other is a boy’s, frowning in sorrow.  “C’mere with us, luv,” the girl beckoned. “Come with us if you want to see more what we have to offer. You might even want to stay.”  “Don’t listen to her,” spoke the boy. “Leave us and return to your loved ones before he finds you.”  The sister clobbered her twin on the head, silencing him. Before the brother could speak again, they vanished underneath the heavy curtains.  Curious of what the twins have said, she followed them as she did before. Pushing through the velvet, she found herself outside the tent. Confused on where they’ve gone, Eliza aimlessly wandered the circus grounds. It was already dusk, where the last rays of the sun are slowly waning and the full moon is steadily shining.  She stumbled upon another tent. It seems to be closed.  But that didn’t stop her from looking at the hole. There was a hole in the tent’s canvas, enough for her to squeeze in.  She crawled in…  And was met with a horrifying sight. A corpse was hanging from the rafters with a rope rung around its neck. A stool was inches away from the body as if it was kicked off and an empty bottle of acid was found under it. The tent reeked of burnt flesh and hair, it clung on to the rough cloth of the tent and the clothes of the clown.  Before she could even do anything, a pair of gloved heavy hands sprouted from the dark. One hand had a rag that was doused in chloroform and pressed it against her nose while the other hand held her body tightly.  Before her vision fades, she saw her captor. A large man dressed like a ringmaster, grinning at her with malicious intent. Then everything went dark.  \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*  A week passed by ever since that fateful night.  There was a new attraction that was to be unveiled in the circus. The posters of the upcoming event obscured a missing person’s flyer and the shouts of the performers drowned out the worries of two people.  Hundreds of curious watchers gathered in front of the new sideshow’s tent. The twin-headed clown was selling tickets out the front while the people clamored for seats. The show was about to begin.  The ringmaster, a stout man in a red suit and black top hat with a gold monocle in his eye, made his entrance.  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced. “We have a new show for you all tonight! Avert your eyes if you can’t handle the horror, I give you…”  Drumroll plays as the audience held their breath.  “No Face!”  The curtains were drawn as they all cheered. It revealed a man with dark hair. However, his face was literally blank. His face is pale as the moon, he had no eyes nor eyelids and his nose gone aside from the two nostrils like a snake’s. The only thing left untouched was his mouth, and it was grinning.  While the audience was watching, a couple could be seen wandering in the circus grounds. Weary and heartsick for their daughter, they decided to search the circus. They have turned the town upside down to find her, but they found not a trace.  The twins caught sight of them. The brother tried walking to them, but the sister stopped him. This time, he fought back and punched his sister’s head. That was enough to knock her out of cold.  He approached the couple. “Excuse me, sir and ma’am.”  The couple turned around. The husband was the first to speak. “Yes?”  “Are you,” the blonde awkwardly asked. “I mean, do you have a daughter by chance?”  “Yes,” the wife immediately replied. “Have you seen our Eliza?” she asked hastily.  “We have, but please forgive me and my sister. We didn’t want to, but we had to. If we don’t, he’ll slaughter us too.”  The twin-headed clown urged them to follow him. The parents could only hope that their precious girl is all and well.  But it was all in vain.  A little girl is singing an upbeat tune of circuses and flowers. Her short brown hair barely covering her face, revealing a large burnt scar on the right side. In her left hand was a pouch full of colored dust and a bouquet of white mums and red lycoris.  Their daughter is gone.  (Have a happy Halloween everyone, it is time for scares.


“My, you are bouncing off the walls today!” A tired mother watches her young daughter skip in haphazard circles around the kitchen table. “Have you had too much sugar today?” “Just a little bit,” the daughter giggles. “I’m pretending to ride a horsie on a merry-go-round. Mommy look, watch me go!” “I’m watching, honey, I’m watching.” The mother sighs. This crazy behavior has been going on all morning. If she doesn’t wear her daughter out soon, she’ll never finish paying all the bills. “Why don’t I take you to the carnival for a little while today? Then you can ride a real merry-go-round.” “Really? Oh, can I buy a stuffed bear? And cotton candy too?” “Don’t push your luck.” The mother smiles and ruffles her daughter’s wispy hair. “Put on your sunbonnet and sunglasses so we can walk there.”  Mother and daughter stroll hand-in-hand through their neighborhood, admiring each picturesque house on the way. The summer air feels hot and languid, almost suffocatingly so. When they are just three blocks from the carnival, the sound of a trilling calliope softly wafts into their ears. “We’re almost there!” the daughter shrieks. The mother smiles. She can’t remember the last time the two of them did something fun together. At last, they make their way through iron gates into a throng of lively carnival-goers. The daughter jumps up and down. “Where are the horsies? I can’t see them!” “That’s because you’re too short,” laughs the mother, lifting her daughter up high. “See? The merry-go-round’s all the way over there. Let’s go!” They have to stand in a rather long line of fussy people – parents and children alike – but it’s okay because they keep each other entertained with little games the entire time. When they finally reach the front of the line, a grandfatherly-looking carnival employee with shocking silver hair winks at the daughter. “The pink horse is the best one,” he says. “You’d better run and get it while it’s still open!” The daughter giggles and sprints toward the horse, leaving her mother alone with the carnival employee. “You should get on with her,” says the man with a knowing smile. “A youngun’ like that needs constant supervision.” The mother nods. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Oh, and thanks for supervising this ride… that is what you do, right?” “Yup! I’ve got control of that lever right over there,” he says, indicating a large metal contraption near the merry-go-round platform. “I should probably go and pull it now.” “Oh! Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up. Have a nice rest of your day!” The mother flashes him a quick smile before joining her daughter on the platform. She lifts her daughter up on a hard plastic horse saddle, placing her hands lightly on the girl’s hips for extra security. The lever is pulled, and the ride begins. Gradually, the spinning platform accelerates, and every color outside the merry-go-round melds together in a whirling blur. As the ride goes on, the mother sinks deep into her thoughts, worrying about all the bills she has yet to pay. She thinks about how hard it’s always been for her to make ends meet with such a small salary. At least she’s been adding to a savings account all these years. Her daughter may never be able to have expensive North Face jackets like other girls, but at least she’ll have some money to put toward college. The mother’s brow furrows as more troublesome thoughts infiltrate her head. The trilling calliope somehow finds its way into her ears again and puts her in a near-trancelike state. Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp jolts her awake. In that moment, she realizes that she had unknowingly taken her hands off her daughter’s waist. Her daughter is slipping off the horse, falling, about to catapult off the merry-go-round into the colorful spinning void. Out of pure instinct, the mother grabs hold of her daughter’s outstretched ankle. “Stop the ride!” she hears herself scream. She yanks her daughter as hard as she can back onto the platform, but in the process, her daughter hits her head against a nearby pole. But she is okay. By now, the ride has screeched to a stop. Bystanders have noticed the commotion, but they remain frozen in shock. The mother suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, and gazes into the eyes of the silver-haired carnival operator. He pulls her up and hugs her tightly, whispering in her ear, “It’s okay now. You did it. I’m here.” Relief overcomes the mother, and tears roll down her cheeks. “Can someone call 9-1-1?” she asks, turning away from the man and lifting up her daughter. “My daughter might have a head injury, and she needs an ambulance. Quickly!”  \  Two days later, the mother returns to the carnival. She wants to find that silver-haired carnival employee and thank him for making sure she and her daughter were okay. When she arrives, she sees a few employees scattered sparsely across a nearly-empty plot of land. They must be taking all the rides down for the end of the season. Approaching the nearest employee – a gangly young man with messy blond hair – the mother says, “Hello sir, mind if I bother you for a second?” He offers her a toothy grin. “What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for an older man with silver hair,” she says. “He was operating the merry-go-round yesterday, and I’d like to speak with him.” “Hmm, I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” The man scrunches up his face, deep in thought. “Wait a second. HEY!!” he yells at another young employee far across the grounds. “Weren’t you in charge of operating the merry-go-round all day yesterday?” The employee yells back a faint “yes” from his station. The mother looks up in confusion. Who was it, then, that she saw yesterday? “I think you’re mistaken ma’am,” says the blond-haired man, turning back to face her. “No one by that description works here, at least to my knowledge.” “O–okay,” says the mother, perplexed. “Thanks anyway.” She turns away from him and walks back to her car, an expression of wonder flashing across her face.


Eating Burger King in an empty kitchen for the fourth day in a row came with a bittersweet feeling that I would get to know well over the next decade. It felt like our parents were bribing us, distracting the children with fatty foods so we wouldn’t think about how everything we knew would be left behind. I was 8 then, the first time we moved country. I didn’t fully comprehend what it meant, but I understood that it would be a big change. I didn’t like change as a kid. It crowded my thoughts with worry. I wanted to run away, but worry is hard to run away from. So I sat there in silence, trying not to think about all the strange things I had heard about America. I looked over at my brother, who back then still had the thickest glasses a 10-year-old has worn. He was busy removing the pickles from his burger with utmost focus. It seemed the distraction was working on him. Maybe it would work for me too. I sank my teeth into the bun to see if I could shun away the sinking feeling in my heart. I tried to let the sensation of savory and sweet wash over me, but the moving boxes and blank walls filling my periphery still felt like they were closing in on me. I closed my eyes and focused. The bun was soft, sweet, and oily. As I chewed it gave way for the meat paddy, earthy and umami. Another chew allowed the sweet and vinegary sauce to overload my tastebuds. A pickled jalapeno mixed in with cheap cheese sent a warm sting through my mouth. The retinal image of the bleak walls were being drowned out by the flavors. ‘Enjoying the whopper?’ I opened my eyes and saw my dad smiling at my concentrated attempts at escapism. I answered him with silent chewing. The idea of moving was tough for me. My brother, always the rebel, didn’t seem too bothered by it, and my sister was too young to really understand it. My parents knew it was tough for me too. They tried everything to make me feel excited, or at least not as bad, but as far as I was concerned, the move was the end of my world. Anything they did was a consolation prize. ‘Change is natural’ My mom would say; ‘when one thing ends, another can begin’. This burger was one of defeat. A band aid on a flesh wound. I closed my eyes again. As I chewed the food, my mind started to wander around our house, how it had looked before all the furniture had been packed down and shipped off to America. The kitchen smelling of coffee and bacon in the mornings. The old leather couch in the Livingroom worn by years of children playing on it. The boys’ bedroom where my brother and I would play in the day and tell each other stories at night. Every room filled with my mother’s potted plants. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to grow up. Eventually I swallowed the mouthful I had been working through. I sat with my eyes closed for a bit. I had placed my burger down, and to reach it for another bite I would have to open my eyes and return to reality’s bare walls. In blindness I patted my hand on the table. Maybe I could find a stray French fry to extend my stay. Bingo. The fry crunched as my jaw closed on it, like a firepit crackling in the backyard on summer nights, like the snow under my boots on the sledding hill in the winter, like rain hitting the terrace roof on a rainy day. I opened my eyes to dip it in mayonnaise. As I did the sinking feeling returned. I had forgotten how bare the kitchen walls were. I could feel it welling up inside me. I tried to reach for my fries, but there was nothing to do. Tears started forming in my eyes. I made an effort to keep it down and wipe them away, but my mother had spotted it. ‘Oh, what’s wrong sweetie?’ In a split second I was bawling. My dad swooped my me up and put me on his lap, and I curled up and wept into his shirt. The warm comfort of his embrace only furthered my tears. My thoughts were swimming through everything I would be leaving behind. My school, my friends, the small treehouse in the garden, the trails through the nearby forest, the small mound where we buried our rabbits, the old garage I was too scared to walk through, the car park where we drew murals of chalk on. My best friend in the whole world. I cried harder. ‘There there, it’ll be alright’ my dad’s voice soothed. After a little while my tears started to let up. My mom tried again, softly asking what had caused my sudden sadness. I voiced my concerns through a voice bubbling with tears and snot. ‘You’ll get a new school, and new friends. There will be new trails to explore, and a new carpark to draw in. And we can still call your friends here and send a letter to your old class.’ My head was still groggy from crying, and though I had been told this a hundred times I couldn’t quite focus on it. I reached out for a French fry and my mom pushed the carton over so I could reach. I slowly nibbled on it. ‘You know, fast food was invented in America’ my dad started. ‘I bet it tastes even better the way they make it over there.’ ‘Really?’ I looked up. ‘Really. And I hear it’s all they eat. And for dessert they eat donuts and candy and put ice cream on pancakes that are as thick as your arm.’ I dipped another French fry and let it crunch slowly between my teeth. I tried to imagine how it was possible to make this taste even better. My tears started to slow. Maybe America wouldn’t be that bad. ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’. Maybe my mom was right. I remember my thoughts shifting in that moment, becoming more excited about where I was going. The feeling pushed my sorrow aside, and while it wasn’t gone, it was nice to have something outweighing it. Sitting now by a burger king in the airport with the same bittersweet feeling, I try to recall what my mom told me. It’s hard to be excited for what’s to come when you don’t know what that is. The only thing keeping me in Seattle was a girl, and now that it’s over between us I’m not sure what’s next. Only that I need to move again. It’s almost become habit. This burger tastes like our first date. Awkwardly trying to read each other while sitting by a shopping mall cinema, worrying about if it was weird that I ordered mayo for my fries like a damn European. I commented on it, and instantly thought it was weird to bring up. She said the best way to eat fries was dipped in chocolate milkshake. For the next two years we always ordered an extra milkshake, just to dip our fries in. My sister will pick me up when my plane lands, and I’ll be home. I’ll stay with my parents for a while, while settling into the job and finding an apartment. There’ll be new people in my life, new trails to explore. I think this will hurt a while, but not forever.  ‘When one thing ends, another can begin’.


Perry Penguin was waddling down the street one Thursday. As she strolled silently, she happened upon a peculiar person. The person was preparing pizza for the President. As the pizza person, whose name was Peter, pressed the provolone and prosciutto, Perry peered through the window.  That window, where Peter pressed pizzas, was washed on Wednesday, allowing an unobstructed avenue for observation. When the waddler watched, her wet wing waved wildly. A certain smear left by the slippery sap caught Peter's perception. Perceptive Peter the pizza presser peered at Perry. Perry peered at Peter, pressing pizzas, through the pane. Their eyes exchanged encouraging expressions. Now they knew they never knew their interest in inter-species intermingling.  Perry and Peter now also knew what was needed. As Peter placed his pressed pizza upon the peel, Perry peered persistently. The ensuing scene was somewhat of a strange sight. Pizzas puffed. Perry peered. Peter pressed. The President patiently prepared for his private pie. Peering persisted. Perry longed for lips to lick as drool dripped down her downy cheeks. The tense tension taunted the two. And the President too.  Peter placed the prepared pizza in a brown box to bring to the patient President privately. Perry edged eagerly to the edge of the establishment. Peter exited, exuding an engorged ego. He was happy to have had a hand in hindering the hunger of His Highness, the President. Perry popped imperceptibly into Peter's Prius, planning to profess her peculiar propagation plans to her new pizza-pressing pal. As they meandered mellowly to the White House, the tension tensed twofold.  That the Secret Service takes security seriously is no secret. Dogs, detectors, and dinging devices provided no privacy for the place where Perry pretended not to be present. Surprisingly the Secret Service supervisor said, "Penguins pose no potential problem to the President. Please proceed."  "Penguin? That thing that they think they see surely isn't stuffed behind the seat. Penguins? Please. Nothing in here but me and these," protested Peter, pointing to his pressed pizzas which were wafting waves of warmth from the westward-facing window. Another agent acquiesced and agreed to provide Peter a path to proceed. Peter parked his Prius in the place for delivering deliveries to the patient President, still preparing his palate for a private pizza pie. Upon his exit, Perry popped upward from her prone position, proving to Peter that a penguin was present indeed.  Peter and Perry peered, separated still by that pain of a pane. Peter's pizza would probably expire if the peering persisted. The thin crust could not contain a crunch when cold. Turning towards the towering topiary concealing the quiet porte cochere, the tan pizza man Peter inhaled. He had to hide his hunger--not for pizza, but for a particular penguin princess panting in his pizza scented Prius.  Following a failed and depressing delivery--you see, the President prefers pepperoni and pepperoncini over provolone and prosciutto--Peter plodded to his Prius. Returning his his kitchen, the cook craned his cranium and cried. Confusion came crashing upon him.  "Why did that intern, Imogene, not indicate in the order the toppings that tickle Trump's tastebuds?" "Has man previously pondered procreating with penguins?" "Will I waste away in Walla Walla pretending my preference is not perverted?"  Without a word, because beaks bar articulation, Perry gently patted Peter's head. Sadly sniffing, Peter started heaving heavily. Viewing the violent vomiting, the visitors visiting under the veranda vacated. Peter hated honesty with an awkward audience, but he had to tell this tiny-legged traveler to take a hike. No perfume could provide a pleasant cover for Perry's putrid parts. Perry just peered, plagued by shame and sorrow for a bleak tomorrow. On her way out the door, she took something more: an ample array of American anchovies.  Poor Peter done got duped by Perry Penguin's waddle and wave. Peter prefers penguins, people plainly perceive. An odd obsession, one would likely admit. Whether good or degraded, attraction attracts no authoritative action. No crime was committed, but when Perry entered the fray at /r/AITA, a unanimous union of anonymous humans fairly replied, "YTA.


“What happened and why are my feet wet?” Monica thought to herself as she slowly opened her eyes in the driver seat of her car, her head resting against the steering wheel. The haze in her vision was beginning to clear but the haze in her mind was not. “What happened and why are my feet wet?” she continued to ask herself until she realized she couldn’t see anything out of the windows except dark, murky water lit up by the dying headlights of her car. Panic began to sink in as Monica realized why her feet were wet. “I’m sinking! The car is sinking! What happened?!” Monica’s thoughts raced frantically as she tried to evaluate the situation she now found herself in. Instinct and panic led her to grab the door handle and push but with no luck. The door was locked. After realizing the door was locked, and that she had not fully found her way out of the haze, she unlocked the door. Even after the door was unlocked it wouldn’t budge. It was impossible to open with the pressure of the water bearing down on the car. The panic started to rise inside Monica faster than the water level in the car. Hyperventilating, Monica screamed for help, only no one could hear her. Tears ran down her face as she looked for an option out of the sinking car. As she glanced in the rear-view mirror she saw blood streaming from a gash in her brow, coloring her tears an unnatural red. “I’m bleeding?” she thought. In this thought, she noticed the blood on the steering wheel as well. “Great, now I’m going to have to clean the blood out of my car.” Monica thought before realizing that was the least of her problems. Panic set in once again. She needed to find a way out of the car and her panic and jumbled thoughts were sealing her fate inside this sinking tomb. A single deep breath was all she could spare to collect her thoughts and it worked, for now. “The window, I’ll break the window!” Monica thought. Looking around the car, there was nothing except her purse on the floor. Monica had always been a particularly tidy person, and thus never left anything superfluous in her car. There wasn’t even trash in the cupholder, let alone something big and heavy to break a window with. Even her purse only had her wallet, a couple bits of makeup, and her phone. “Phone!” Monica exclaimed. Monica lunged at her feet for her purse to grab her cell phone from it. She fished the bag out of the rising water and grabbed her waterlogged cell phone. Panic and desperation blocked her mind from even registering the phone was unusable. Frantically she tapped on the screen and pushed every button before throwing it in a tantrum. Then the thought of using the car keys came to mind. “I can put the keys between my fingers!” Monica thought. “That should be sharp enough to break the glass.” Monica reached for the ignition and pulled out the keys. This created a problem when the headlights turned off and suddenly Monica was thrust into darkness. Blindly, she reached up for the dome light and flipped it on. It was flickering and dim, but it would work for now. With the keys between her fingers now, Monica reared back her right fist and swung it as hard as she could at the driver’s side window. Thud. Nothing came of the swing but a horrible pain in her hand. Once more she cocked back and gave it her all at the window. Thud. Bloody knuckles and even more pain was the only thing this swing accomplished. With tears streaming down her face, Monica leaned back and put her entire body into her final attempt. Thud. Monica sat and looked at her blood on the window and dropped the keys as the crimson tears came in greater volume. It felt like a lifetime, but it had barely been 30 seconds since Monica had come to. With her hand throbbing and bloody, Monica decided it was time to use her legs to kick the window open. While trying to position herself, she realized she was still buckled in. Monica clicked in the seat belt and went to take it off when she realized it was stuck. Her stomach dropped as she realized not only was she trapped in a sinking car, but she was trapped in the driver's seat as well. She began to tug and pull on the seatbelt with her bloody hand realizing it was causing her too much pain and her grip wasn’t strong enough. Down to a single hand, she grasped at the buckle and in desperation tugged at it with increasing force as she let out a scream that took all the oxygen out of her lungs. The seat belt gave way as she struggled for air and she was free, yet still trapped. She laid down across the front seats and cocked her legs back ready to kick the window out and free herself. Thud. Just like the first punch, the first kick resulted in pain. Using both heels on the second attempt, Monica kicked the window. Thud. It felt like the bones in her feet were starting to crack but the window stayed completely intact. Again, out of desperation, she kicked the window with everything inside of her. Thud. This window wasn’t going to break before her foot. Out of options, Monica watched as the water rose steadily in the car. It was up to the bottom of the steering wheel now and it was cold. It was so cold. “It’s the middle of summer, why is the water so damn cold?” she thought to herself. The car was tilting forward as the weight of the engine pulled it down into the abyss. Monica had no clue how deep the water was, she just knew it was dark, cold, and rising faster with every second she hesitated. She didn’t even know which body of water she was in; she could barely remember driving. Was she drunk? No, she hadn’t had a drink in months. Why hadn’t she had a drink in months? She thought to herself. I always go out with my friends and have a good time on the weekends and that can hardly be done stone-cold sober, thought Monica. Then finally, the realization kicked in. This was no longer a fight just for her life, this was a fight for the lives of those in the car. The lives of the two people occupying Monica’s body. Monica was solely responsible for them both. Her failure meant the death of two now, not one. She became more frantic as the water moved past her waist. She clambered into the backseat as the water started to engulf the front of the car. With no success, she tried to open the back doors and windows. Her hand was still bloodied from punching the driver-side window, she knew that wasn’t an option. Monica screamed as she laid down across the backseat and tried kicking the windows again. Thud. Her feet were hurting, and the glass wasn’t budging. She couldn’t muster another kick as the pain became too much in her fragile feet. The front seats were underwater, and the backseat was starting to submerge. At this moment, Monica heard what sounded like the crack of glass giving way. She looked at the window nearest her and saw nothing but marks from her shoes. Monica dove under the water, pulling herself towards the front to find the source of the cracking glass. She touched the driver’s side window and felt a newly formed blemish. All the pain she was in seemed to be worth it with this discovery. This was it. This was the way out. At this point, the dome light was underwater and giving Monica a minor sense of direction in the murky water. She came back to the backseat for air and quickly dove down again to the driver’s side. She was determined to kick this window out and free herself and her child. However, being underwater made her kicks more worthless than they had been before. It was like fighting in a dream. The kicks were so weak they weren’t even causing her feet pain. Monica screamed with the last attempt, muffled by the water as the air bubbles rose. Monica swam to the back and resurfaced to find herself near the rear window clinging to what little air was left in the car. The water was soon to take over the whole car and leave her with no air. Leave her with nothing but water to breathe into her lungs. With her head pressed against the back window, fighting for each breath, Monica was scared, not only for her life but the life of the child she was carrying as well. Monica had never been a religious person, but in moments of desperation, any god is a god worth pleading to. “Please God, please, let me out of this car and I swear I will do anything! I need a miracle!” Monica begged. “I need to live not for me, but for my baby! Please let the window shatter so I can swim to safety! Please do anything! Do you hear me! Help!” Monica pleaded as the water took her head underneath and she took her last breath of fresh air. The dome light faded and left darkness. God never answered.