Stanley hates days like today. Days in which he will perform his job, but will never remember why. He walks down the bright white corridor, passing nurses and lab techs, on his way to the control room. The building, a bunker to be more precise, is a stifling white monstrosity. Bright, clean, and polished tiles make up the floors. White concrete blocks, devoid of any life, line the walls. The ceiling is just one bright light extending down the entire length of the hall, leaving not an ounce of darkness. Anything the facility could make white, they did. For colors of any kind could disrupt its main function. Stanley finally makes it to the door marked four-zero-four, the main control and observation room for today. Technicians dressed in clean lab coats sit at various consoles, awaiting instructions. Stanley walks over to his command chair at the back of the room, where he will observe and conduct today’s procedure. It is to be a complete wipe today, one of the hardest to achieve, but Stanley and his team are experts. Years of performing procedures has hardened them, and all but turned everyone in the room into machines. They have one job, and they will get it right. There will be no miscalculations, no errors, and no memory afterwards. Opposite the room from Stanley is a large one-way mirror looking into a pure-white, circular room. Surrounding the edges of the room is an array of iron bars, painted white. In the center of the room sits a raised platform about five feet wide, and one foot off the ground. The floor of the room is concrete that has been painted white. After a few moments, a small door carved into the side of the circular wall slides open. A man dressed in a plain white t-shirt, with bleached pants and socks walks in. His head and face recently clean shaven, nails trimmed, and freshly bathed. He walks over and stands on the raised platform, glancing at the metal bars surrounding him. The door from which he came slowly slides shut. Stanley studies him for a moment, burning the image of the man firmly into his mind, as per protocol. Six foot even. Average weight. Appears to be in early to mid-twenties. Green eyes, skin with a light complexion. The man displays no sense of outward emotion as he stands in the center of the platform. Stanley looks down at the piece of paper resting on his station, confirming that this is the same person who requested this particular procedure. Most go for lesser options; memory alterations, cognitive restructuring, or any other of the different options provided to the public. In each case, you always have to make sure the subject inside matched, most especially for a full wipe. Mistakes are not an option, not for something like this. After ensuring that the man inside did indeed match everything on the form, Stanley presses a button on his console. The door in the inner-chamber seals, emitting the sound of hissing of air as the room is slowly pressurized. He motions for the technician at his right to begin her process. She begins to softly call out instructions to the other assembled members in the room, but they already know what to do. Methodically, the team presses buttons, pulls levers, and turns dials in an eerily precise manor. With the exception of the instructions being given, and actions being performed, not a sound is made. Within the chamber, the iron bars encircling the room begin to glow with a bright light. The man shifts slightly as the bars begin to move, spinning around to room. After a few minutes, the first technician turns back to Stanley, indicating that the facility was ready to commence the wipe. Stanley spares one last moment to look at the man standing inside the chamber. Twenty-three years old the dossier said. A son, a husband, and a father according to the short biography that was included. After all these years, Stanley still couldn’t understand why some people opted for the full wipe. Why choose this option when the others are so much more effective now. But it’s neither his decision to make nor his place to judge, the man has made his decision for whatever reason. Stanley takes a long breath, and inserts a specially made key into his console. After a final moment of hesitation, he turns the key. Light explodes from the inner chamber. Everything and anything was blinded by the white light. Existence itself becomes white. Stanley could no longer feel any part of his body, could no longer see anything except the infinite white expanse, ears failing to detect any sound. Thoughts stop in their tracks within him, and it seems that nothing had ever or would ever exist. Then, suddenly, he was back. Standing in the room, dazed, Stanley looks around. The other technicians are all still sitting at their terminals; a few are rubbing their temples. One never can get used to that part. Stanley then looks back into the circular room, now empty. The entire room was now the definition of black, with not a fleck of white to be seen. The raised platform sits empty, and his console signals that the door was able to remain sealed. Another light tells Stanley that the procedure had been performed successfully. Still staring into the room, he struggles to remember what he had seen in there just moments before. After a few moments, he accepts that he cannot remember and glances down at the empty form. No information is present, just blank spaces waiting to be filled out. With a look and a nod from his head technician, Stanley knows that the procedure was a success. He quickly congratulates everyone in the room for a job well done, and leaves through the door. He calmly walks back down the hall towards his office, not knowing who he has just erased fully from existence, nor why.


"Hello, thank you for stopping by this afternoon; I'd like to talk with you about a fantastic timeshare opportunity that is too good to pass up." "All right, it's not too long, is it?" "No, ma'am, we'll be done lickety-split." "OK, I have a dinner reservation with my husband in an hour, so..." "No worries. Have you ever wished you could go back in time? There is now a way to make that dream a reality! Transtemporal Timeshare allows you to experience history directly by visiting various time periods of your choosing, all while splitting the expense with other owners like you." "How exactly does that work? Do I simply choose a time and you transport me there?" "No, not at all; it's even better!" "How?" "I'm glad you asked! We have 50 time periods to choose from, each with all of the modern convenience of the future. You could see Abraham Lincoln's assassination one minute, embark on an augmented reality adventure with Harriet Tubman the next, and undergo rotator cuff lipo suction by the afternoon." "That does seem cool, but as you said, it covers 50 time periods. How do I decide?" "Well, that's the best part! You are not required to make a decision right away. You can take your time and try each one until you discover the one that fits you perfectly. And if you change your mind later, you can trade weekends with other owners." "That doesn't sound too bad, but what's the catch?" "All we ask is that you attend one sales presentation in exchange for a free weekend at your convenience." "How much does a Transtemporal Timeshare cost to buy?" "For the price of a large Starbucks latte each day, you can afford the amazing opportunity to see Billy Holliday sing in person, Louis XIV at Versailles, or go back to see your Great-Grandmother when she was still alive." "Are you allowed to see family?" "You'll have to keep your distance for safety reasons, but yes, we'll trick your Great-Grandmother into attending a sales presentation, and you can check her out from behind a two-way mirror. Although, please remember not to feed or touch family members from the past." "You're going to trick my family?" "That's not it at all! They'll get an all-expenses-paid trip to the future to see you from behind a two-way mirror." "Wait a minute, is she looking at me right now? Mimi? Are you here?" "Ma'am, please have a seat; there is no one behind that two-way mirror." "How do I know for sure?" "Well, we did offer it to her, but your Mimi chose to see Elvis live in concert instead." "She isn't here?" "Don't be disappointed. Think of it this way, what if you had the opportunity to see the Harry Styles farewell tour of 2046 or go back to the hellscape of 2022 to see your Mimi? You'd make the same decision, trust me." "I guess. So, what do you have available for a free sample?" The Transtemporal Timeshare agent swiftly starts typing on her computer. "Glad you asked! We have a quaint cottage in 1350, which is peak black plague, this really is hard to get. We also have a lovely townhouse in 1941 Germany; you aren't Jewish, are you? Oh, and this just became available; wow, this never happens; you are so fortunate; we have all time periods open in North Korea, it's a small work camp, but all expenses are covered." "Is that it? I was looking for something a little more impressive." The agent speaks in a hushed tone. "Look, I don't do this for all our potential customers, but here's what I can do. I can get you 1920s America if you sign up today and start payments. This is popular, and it should be easy to trade. Imagine yourself doing the Charleston in a speakeasy, having drinks with Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, or seeing New York jazz clubs in all their glory! The best part is once you own it, you can trade it to go anywhere and when you want!" "Alright, let's do it." The agent prints out some forms. "Great! It looks that I have gotten you one of the last dates available in the 1920s; your trip will begin on October 28, 1929, and end on October 30, 1929. Simply sign here to become an official member of the Transtemporal Timeshare family!" While she is signing... "That date seems familiar; is there anything noteworthy going on?" "Yeah! They get a visit from someone from the future!" "Ha, I'm feeling pretty good about this.


I roamed through the library shelves, yearning for Byron but coming up with Borges. As a Psychologist in waiting, it would’ve been proper to restrict my reading to those authors associated with mental disorders. However, I was feeling rebellious, so I added Borges’ *Labyrinths* to my stack of textbooks. Then through the hassle of the University’s library system and back along the lonely path to my dorm. Putting the books down on the sticky wooden desk it costs me $4000 a semester to use—and never mind the actual course fees—I prepared myself a student dinner- plain toast, Pringles, and coffee. Using my noise cancelling headphones to block out the rest of the dorm, I surfed YouTube while I ate. And when I’d finished, Freud, Pavlov, and Rogers occupied my evening until, blear eyed, I collapsed on my bed with the volume of stories. A plasticky little receipt fell onto my chest as I opened the cover. Out of curiosity, I picked it up to discover that one Andre Theodore had borrowed this book three years ago, along with *The Complete Works of Kafka* and *Paradise Lost*. I returned my attention to the book and saw that Andre, obviously a lit major, had annotated it. Tight, obfuscated prose covered the margins in a daemonic black block. And the phrase ‘lime green ex-Nazi wives’ was printed in block letters underneath the title card. Andre had been considerate enough as to not directly tamper with Borges’ prose, apart from the odd underline or asterisk, and it was all readable. But it was annoyingly readable, as if Andre was forcing me to make a choice between the text and his reflections on the text. I chose the text and immersed myself in the twisting sentences and labyrinthine facades of the story. \# I returned the Psych textbooks, along with the annotated Borges, to the library and began hunting for fresh fiction. Already familiar with Nabokov and Vonnegut, I wandered deeper into the library; stepping farther and farther back in time. A dull throb of Kafka turned me onto German Literature, and I perused through Goethe and Schiller unimpressed. The Germans write such stilted dialogue it’s a wonder they ever had a theatre scene. But a collection of Kafka looked good, so I picked that up; justifying it to myself as research for a thesis on abnormal personalities. But alas, when I returned to my dorm and started reading, I found poor Kafka had similarly been defaced. ‘Blue balled congressional seats’ printed underneath the title, and dense annotations all over the margins. This nonsensical scribbling on prober public books was no way for an academic to behave. I recalled the receipt from the other day and reasoned that if he had gotten Kafka and Borges, Milton would’ve been hit too. The fiend. Sure enough, when I’d dug out the library’s only copy of *Paradise Lost* from underneath the moth-eaten remains of Shakespeare, I found similar vandalism. ‘Orange brown sea puddles’ on the title and annotations in the margins. That’s three books defiled, now. And although I’m not particularly religious, there’s something heretical about covering Satan in obscene gibbering like that. And seeing what Andre had done to the poor defenceless books, I resolved to catch him. And strengthened by the relative boredom of a Tuesday night, I sat down with the three ruined books to investigate. I will gather every scrap of evidence about this book vandal I can and convey it to the proper library authorities so the proper legal proceedings can take place. \# Time, as is its prerogative, passed. I moved into the post-graduate stage of academia. No longer forking out for a squalid dorm but living large on a government stipend in a small apartment; student debt absorbed into a research scholarship. And keeping in the spirit of youthful rebellion turning midlife crises, I’d kept the vandalised books long since my library membership was revoked. It’s all online, anyway, and I can read my academic journals and science-fiction journals on the internet; I think I’m saying, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ or something like that. I’ve puzzled out the margin notes. In a spare room, I’d plastered photocopied pages onto the walls, one wall per book. A thing I’ve noticed in my studies—not studies, but perhaps devotions—is that the musings all fall within a familiar theme. First, a colour based declarative signals the tone of the writing. The Borges reflections, for example, were about an unnamed (perhaps unnameable) character with lapsed right-wing beliefs, jealous of another unnamed character who had wronged her. And the Kafka writings tell of a love unconsummated, maybe of a Political Philosophy Student Andre was friendly with. The only flaw of colour as a hermeneutical model is that orange does not easily associate with one emotion. Regardless, I understand Andre better. Like an author you loved as a child or a friend you grew up with, I found myself viewing the world through his perspective more often. When something happened in my research, I looked for a correlation in it in his writings. No longer was my search one of vengeance, but within these notes I believed that there lied some greater truth. More sublime than the sublime itself. A secret phrase buried in his prose that shall illuminate a new perspective on life more valuable than all philosophy; a power beyond life. And so I do my research and search for this phrase and keep myself to myself. \# More time passes. Quite a lot of it for me, but not that much all things considered. The years have fallen through my body like so much sand through an hourglass, carrying with them triumph and sadness and heartbreak quite unrelated to this narrative. And I find myself alone in a beeping ward, surrounded by machines. People come and say things to me I do not understand; and that doesn’t bother me. The only unsolved mystery in my life that really bothers me is the purpose behind your writing. Oh, did I just use a direct address there, my friend? My mind is going and the framing of my story along with it. I see you there, gilded phantasm, hovering over the edge of my bed. Do you know how long I’ve waited to talk to you? The agony that unresolved strain you created has burned into my head. Of course you do. There is no time, so hurry. What was the point? THE POINT? Of your writing. The scribbling. The torment and restlessness of it all. YOU FOOL, CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’VE DOOMED US BOTH? THAT THE ANSWER WAS THERE IN FRONT OF YOU ALL ALONG? THE SERET OF ABSOLUTE POWER. THE MEANING BEHIND THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE ALL SPELLED OUT FOR YOU IF ONLY YOU HAD THE BRAINS TO SEE IT! No, Teacher! I don’t. I can’t. Please show me, I need to understand! THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO NOW. THAT DOOR WAS CREATED FOR YOU ALONE, AND THE LOCK TURNS IN THE KEY, CASTING US TO A SHADOW EXISTANCE FOR THE REST OF TIME. No, wait. I can do better. Please don’t turn away from me. Don’t leave me here by myself. I’ll die. I will. Please help me, please. Please.


A brilliant white flash cut across the dark sky, briefly lighting up the graveyard. The gravestones stood resolute against the downpour; some having weathered the storms for centuries. Sheets of rain pelted down, suffocating the grass as it drowned in a river of water. A rhythm of sopping thuds echoed through the cemetery in between the cracks of thunder. In the corner, a lone, dark figure scooped mud from the pit and tossed it out. The pile of dirt slowly grew beside the hole. Shovel crunching against rocks, he dug deep into the earth. The storm would only give him a few more hours of cover. Moving with renewed vigor, his muscles bulged as he picked up speed. The dark clothes he wore were soaked through, clinging to his body like a second layer of skin. “After all this time, you finally found someone to redeem you, Brother.” A voice sounded from above. Marius glanced up. Lightning lit up the sky once more, revealing the ghostly figure. Ignoring him, he continued digging.              An explosion of thunder concealed the metallic thwack as his shovel slammed into something other than earth. When it bounced out of his hands, he dropped to his knees, leaving the tool where it landed. Another flash of lightning gave him enough light to drag away the last layer of mud with his hands. The wooden top of the ancient chest peeked out at him. Gold encrusted edges of the box glinted with each flash of light. Digging a trench around it, he searched for the handles. Upon finding them, he grunted, using every ounce of strength he had in him to wrench it from the earth. Muscles straining, it finally gave way with a squelch, rainwater quickly filling the hole.              Tossing the large trunk out, Marius ran his muddied hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face. Quickly climbing from his excavation, he hauled the heavy chest into his arms, rushing back to the pathway. The SUV was quietly idling with the headlights turned off as to not disturb the darkness. Opening the cargo area, he moved everything aside to make room for his plunder. Grasping the key dangling against his chest, he yanked it away, breaking the chain. A whimpering came from the backseat. Shoving the key into the ancient lock, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m coming.”              The hinges creaked and the wood groaned when he flung the chest open. Shoving aside the worthless mementos that he had saved all those years ago, he rummaged to the bottom. Finding the secret locking mechanism, he opened the hidden compartment. An old cloth bundle was all that lay inside the slot. Stashing it away in his belt, he grasped the other bag of items. Marius left the back open as he rushed to the side door. Laying across the backseat was a beautiful young woman. Her dark hair was plastered against her pale face, drenched with sweat and rain. The man climbed inside, gently adjusting her to lay across his lap. The woman moaned again. “I know it hurts, Fallon. I’m right here though. I’m going to get you all fixed up, okay? Just stay with me.” Her blue eyes opened, searching for his. “I’m…t-trying,” she murmured.              Moving her hand away from the crimson towel, he peeled it back to look at the wound. The once white cloth was forever stained red with her blood. The deep laceration was still seeping. He had only a few more minutes before he lost her forever. Digging into the duffle bag, he grabbed another towel, replacing the used one. They had both been lucky that Marius found her still alive. One of his brothers, Ezekiel, had already wounded her by the time he had shown up. Marius subdued him long enough to escape, knowing Ezekiel would not stop until his duty was complete. Marius and Fallon were officially marked for death. “Remember when we met?” he asked, trying to keep her mind focused on his words. She nodded, giving him a weak smile. “As soon as I saw you in that ballroom, I knew.”              As he recounted their first night at the benefit in Paris, he pulled more supplies from the bag. Before he could worry about bandaging the wound, he had to get the transfusion started. Rolling out the tubing, he hooked it up to the needle. Tightening the tourniquet around her arm, he hoped he would be able to find a viable vein with amount of blood loss she had endured. Pouring alcohol onto her wrist, he sighed in relief upon finding one. Quickly and efficiently, he inserted the needle. Taping it in place, he took off the band and turned his attention to the other end of the tubing. Her eyelids drifted closed as she lost consciousness, indicating he was running out of time. “You know, there’s some things that I never told you. Things about myself, where I come from.” He murmured, yanking the bundle from his belt. Unwrapping it, he revealed a leather-sheathed weapon.              Uncovering the dagger, he sliced into his wrist. A deep golden liquid poured out. Biting the blade between his teeth, he quickly replaced the steel with the needle, inserting it into the wound. Almost immediately, his skin closed around the needle. Relief washed through him as he watched his blood snake through the tube. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the seat. The rain thrashed against the SUV in waves, rocking it in a foreboding tempo, like the slow beating of her dying heart. “What is it about her ?” his ghostly companion asked, appearing in the front seat. Opening his eyes once again, he stared at the ghost of his brother. In life, they had looked a lot alike. Tall and broad, with dark hair. His brother’s once golden eyes were watching him curiously, now the milky white of the dead. Glancing back at the woman cradled in his arms, Marius’s gaze softened. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper. “I just knew the day I met her that I couldn’t live without her.”  Zephyr nodded knowingly, “They’ll come after you for this.” After a long pause, Marius glanced back at his brother, “Do you ever regret it, Zephyr?” “Not for one minute,” he smiled sadly. “I knew it would be you to come after me. You would give me an honorable death.” “I didn’t want to believe that you had betrayed our kind for a human woman.” Zephyr sighed, “I fell in love. What you’re doing is a betrayal to our kind.” “Giving her my blood is the only way to save her.” Marius argued. “I know. You of all people know how they will see it though.” “What do I do now?” “You fight for her. I didn’t reach my Abigail in time. You were given a second chance, Marius. Do everything in your power to protect what you have.” Zephyr’s form started to dim. “I’m sorry, Brother. I didn’t understand what it was like. What it meant to fall in love.” “I know. But you do now. What you choose to do with it is up to you. You can change your own fate and those who come after. Or you can endure the same doom as me and all our brothers who have fallen before us.” Zephyr smiled softly before disappearing.               Eyeing the black dagger, he thought of the lives he had taken. The dagger had once been a beautiful gold, engraved with the words of the Ancient Ones. A symbol of the purity of his kind, it was never originally meant for war. It was more of an adornment for the rituals and ceremonies of his people. The short hilt had been literally shaped by his hand, his fingers still fitting it perfectly. The pommel had originally held the purest diamond in existence. Now, the stone was the same inky black as the night sky. The souls of the dead and the blood of his brothers had darkened the blade over time, marring it beyond recognition. Like the charred remains of his soul, it was now only a representation of his past. Marius would take up the blade once more to redeem himself. This time, he would use it to protect the one he loved most.


More Than Yourself My sword reflected the bright morning sun. I tried to focus on the maneuvers I was supposed to do, but my mind kept wandering to the contest the next morning. I would be facing the best swordsmen on this side of the mountains. I breathed deeply. That was not the problem, the problem lay in the fact that I was a girl, well not a girl, a woman. My skill with the sword was formidable, but I had been prohibited from competing in the Trials. The Trials were held every year, they boasted many different competitions, but the one people came to see the most was the sword fighting. Many great swordsmen would come from all over the world to see the outcome of the Trials. The winners got the best treatment and would be able to stay in the castle and keep company with the King. The Trials had very few rules. Number one: you had to fight fair, if you cheated in any way you would automatically fail. Number two: Whether you failed or won, you would fail or win humbly and respectfully. And last but not least, Number three: you had to be male. This was the one rule that I wanted to change. And so, I had taken the matter into my own hands. Yesterday had been the second day of the Trials and a man named Erick, who had won the last two years, was winning the sword Trials. And he made a point of telling all the women in the stands, that he was the best catch any girl could want. Well, one thing led to another, and before I could think twice, I jumped the stand and slapped his face with my glove. The universal challenging insult. And before I could change my mind I spoke the official words, “I challenge you, Erick, to a contest by the sword in two days. If I win, then I and any other girl will be able to compete in the trials. If I lose, then I will not trouble you again.” After looking me up and down, he stared me in the face and laughed! I was furious! But it was settled, the only thing that had me worried was the fact that the last contest Erick had been in, he had killed his opponent. And I knew that I had publicly flouted his so-called “authority,” and this made him mad, which made him dangerous. I had been lost in my thoughts, but my sword had not stopped swinging. When I finally pulled my focus back to the present, I realized that someone was watching me. I stopped suddenly, staring at the dark-skinned man. He watched my every move, and I could see his right hand making small movements as if copying my sword strokes. “Well hello there!” the man started as if he knew he was not supposed to be there. “Sorry miss, I did not mean to interrupt you. I was just trying to learn your sword fighting style, it is something I have never seen before.” I looked at the man, I recognized the stance of a fighting man. “Do you fight?” He in his turn looked me up and down. “Some, but there is nowhere for me to compete.” He made a motion towards his dark skin. I was not known to be the brightest in recognizing cultural things, this was one of my weak points, but the last and unspoken rule of The Trials was that all contestants had to be white. “I understand, I want to compete in the Trials but am not allowed either. In fact, I am preparing for my fight with the two-year running grand champion Erick Futermer, I challenged him yesterday, and am going to fight him tomorrow.” He looked at me “Yes, I know, everyone knows. And you have helped spark an interest for others to fight for justice. I hope you know that it is more than just you that you are fighting for. For if you win the path will start to open for others, maybe even me. But if you lose you will not only die, but the spark will die with you.” His dark serious eyes made his words even more real, but I could not tell, was he nervous for me, or for the possible impact that my failure could bring? “I know what rests on my shoulders, but there was no one else who was going to take action, and I was not going to stand and let the opportunity slip by! After all, I did not see you there!” My words were slightly salty, but I was close to being offended by his brisk assessment of my odds. My confidence was fake, but I could not let him see how nervous I was. He just raised his eyebrows and leaned against a pole, he said nothing, and the silence created a black hole that needed to be filled. My fake confidence and salty attitude were slowly sucked away. I did not speak, but I lowered my sword and looked to the ground. My shoulders slumped, I was exhausted, I had not slept well, and was at a loss of how I would be able to beat Erick. The man stood up and walked towards me. “You do not have a chance if you fight the way I saw. You lack focus, and your stance could use improvement.” At first, I was angered at his words, what did he know? But then I felt a profound sense of hopelessness, he was right! I had never fought an opponent who was trying to kill me. Any weakness that I had would be exploited. I had fought one on one plenty of times, and I did have some skill, but compared to a man who had been fighting since he was fourteen, my skill was nothing. I also had not had access to the training that Erick had had. I was starting to feel less like a woman and more like a girl. But before I could let my feelings spill out, the man continued. “But you do have speed, in your sword and your feet, and your lack of a style will help you immensely if you know the style with which your opponent fights. That way you can make up for your lack of strength with knowledge.” His words stopped me in my tracks, the way he said them made it sound as though he was going to help me. I tested the waters. “And do you know how to help my stance, and how to gain this knowledge? And if you do, where did you learn it?” He looked at me and smiled, “They do not let me fight in the Trials, but they will let us join the armed forces. My father was one of the best swordsmen in the armed forces and he taught me. And because of that, I do know some things that will help you.” As he spoke, he pulled two swords from his back, they were shorter than a normal sword and curved. But I could see the light reflecting off the sharp blade. He got into a fighting stance and motioned for me to do the same. The training had begun. The next morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, I had had a dream of the fight, and I had lost. The man came as promised and he taught me more about stance and technique than the actual fighting. Before I knew it, it was time. “Well, it is time for you to go, the contest will begin soon. I wish I could do more, but there is just no more time.” The man spoke and I felt that he meant what he said. I nodded, “Thank you for what you have taught me. I wonder, will you be there? If I do win, Erick’s friends may not be too happy.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it; I know a few others who will be there. I think you will be fighting in front of a crowd!” “Great!” I said, he laughed, “You best go, I will be there soon.” I made my way to the grounds, Erick was already there. I put on a smile. Best not make him mad, otherwise this contest could go sour. “Good morning Erick.” I tried to be cheerful, but when I saw his face, I could see that the contest had already been soured. “I see you have finally decided to show your face! I am mildly surprised you showed up, but then I guess I knew you would not be smart enough to stay away!” I tried to keep my mouth shut and think about what I was going to say. “Well, I guess I am not smart enough to stay away, but too smart to leave.” My words did not have the intended result, instead of laughing it off, he drew his sword, “Well then, let us start this thing!” His sword moved with the speed of a snake. I hurried to pull my sword free and blocked his rushed stroke. He circled to his right and I moved to my left, he struck out again, reminding me of a snake’s tongue. “Focus!” I told myself, I had to implement what the man had taught me. I steadied my feet and made an attack of my own, my heart jumped to my throat when Erick dodged and struck out at me. I held my breath when his sword came within an inch of my head. The fight went on, he would strike, and I would parry, then I would strike, and he would parry. But the speed at which this happened got faster and faster until I knew we were fighting way out of my league! Our swords still flew faster, but I was no longer in control of the fight. My response was slow, and my attacks became fewer and farther between. He was attacking more and defending less. I was losing! I got one cut across his leather breastplate, but then disaster struck. When I withdrew from a lunge he ducked and stepped on my foot causing me to stumble, I tripped and fell to the ground! He stood over me and stabbed me in my right shoulder. The pain nearly knocked me out, but I managed to hang on. This wound had been on purpose, I would not be able to fight for a long time. Then he held his sword over his head, the typical stance of someone who was about to permanently end his opponents' fight. I realized that my arm was the least of my problems. The sword started to fall, and I closed my eyes. But then there was a loud ‘ring’ I opened my eyes to see the man who had helped me standing over me, protecting me from the death stroke. “Enough! You may disagree with her, but that does not mean that you must kill her! Relent, and I will not kill you!” I watched Erick’s face in surprise, for he was pale, and looked as though he might faint. He dropped to one knee, “Of course my Lord John.” I was suddenly confused, the man who had saved me put down his hand and helped me up. I looked into his face, and that is when it struck me, the king had adopted a son, the son’s father had been in the king's guard and had saved his life, but had died in the process, the boy had been about sixteen years of age and the king took him as his own son, raising him as a prince. My eyes widened as I realized who this man was. “I am sorry my Lord, I did not recognize you.” John, as I knew him now, laughed. “I must admit, I was surprised you did not recognize me, but that is not the purpose of my visit. My father, the king, has heard of the unfairness that the Trials enforce, so I was sent to see if anyone cared. But my father also told me not to act unless there was already someone trying to make a difference. Which of course there was.” He looked at me “But that was not enough, you still had to put actions behind your words, and even though you were scared you still came and fought the best that you could. And even though you were not able to win, there were more people than yourself that were behind you.” He looked at me as if I should respond. “I am sorry, I do not understand.” John smiled and took out a piece of parchment. “It is here declared that the Trials shall no longer be for men of one color, but now the Trials shall be open to both men and women of all races.” John put the parchment away, “You may not have won the battle, but then again there was a bigger war going on. And even though we have won this small victory there are still many more battles that need to be won before the war is over. Justice will prevail! We just have to remember, that we are more than ourselves.”


At just eleven years old, Dennis always dreamt of living in an enormous house, so massive and magnificent that it would earn the right to have its very own name: Lakeview Manor. Or perhaps Driftwood Estate, named after his favorite forest and hiding place in Northeastern America. Either way, In every respect, it would contrast the tiny cabin he grew up in. Gone would be the wooden panel walls, the grungy near-yellow carpet, the brown ceilings, and the clutter. God, the clutter, it was awful. Just to eat at the table, things like papers and figurines and books had to be moved, only to have to be moved later again to reach the telephone. His parents were the definition of hoarders, and they found solace in all of the things they owned. Maybe they saw that the more they had signified wealth and prosperity. They grew up with even less, so perhaps they did see it that way. Dennis hated it. He hated his parents for the house they grew up in. He hated them for the way they treated him. The beatings. Was that why he was the way he was? Perhaps that’s why he was drawn to the darkness of things. He found somewhat a beauty in them. Friends would ask to come over, mainly to play in the creek several hundred yards behind the cabin, but every time, he had an excuse. His mom was sick, his dad was in a bad mood, they had company … sometimes they grew as outlandish as a tree falling onto the cabin and damaging it so they were rebuilding and remodeling. Eventually people stopped asking.   He preferred to visit his friends’ homes. His buddy, Timothy, lived in a nice subdivision just up the road from the cabin, and while their house was no manor, it was the closest thing in Dennis’ eyes. Timothy’s parents would make them the most refreshing iced-cold blackberry tea for when they came in after running around, playing in the dirt, playing on the slip-n-slide, and riding their bicycles. There were always plenty of snacks. And the place was clean. Everything was updated, the sofa didn’t have tears in it, the floors didn’t creak, the dining table wasn’t wobbly, it was just all so perfect. But then after an argument, Timothy disappeared. Dennis wanted to be a realtor. Instead, he found himself doing grunt work as a plumber. He wasn’t a very good one either, and the constant drinking meant missing appointments and becoming unreliable. But somehow, as if by destiny, a recently widowed Gennifer had run into him at the grocery store and learned of his trade. She was having sink issues. And her house? It was on a cul-de-sac in the prestigious wooded neighborhood of Auburn Terrace, a golfing paradise.

This house was a manor.

As soon as you walked through the doors, the foyer’s shiny white marble floors made you nearly squint. The wide staircase ahead led to a landing where a huge replica of the Mona Lisa - much larger than the original - hung. Chandeliers were scattered throughout the house, the kitchen was practically the same size as the cabin he grew up in, there was just as big of a wine cellar, and the windows were so large the entire house just brightened up. The furniture was so uniquely designed Dennis wondered if everything had been made specifically for Gennifer and the house.

He tried to hide his amazement, but she saw right through him. “Would you like a tour?” she asked. He didn’t answer, and she proceeded to give him one anyway.

He saw not one but two dining rooms - one informal and one much more formal, holding a table that could seat twelve and a cabinet with the most exquisite china he had ever seen. He found delight in the white grand piano room. Dennis wasn’t a reader, but he was mesmerized by the two story library where mahogany bookcases lined every single wall except for where the brick grand fireplace stood. Two comfy chairs over an oriental rug faced them. He could get into reading if he lived here. And then there were the numerous guest rooms and even a movie theater with leather reclining chairs. Some rooms just looked like more sitting rooms. How many living rooms did a single home need? But what about the master bedroom - the most intimate place in a home - a place where people found safety and peace? Of course she would never take him there.

Minutes later, he was working on the sink, fighting his hangover. It was a simple clog. Most people seemed to dump anything and everything down a kitchen drain not realizing that grease and fats did build up overtime. It was just a few minute fix, but he dragged on to enjoy the house for as long as he could. But he had another appointment, so it was time to collect payment. Gennifer was nowhere to be seen. He made his way through the house, searching for her. Nothing.

And then he found it. The master bedroom. This was the definition of luxury. An oasis. Centered on the back wall was the dark wooden bed with four large posts towering high into the air. The white bedding fluffed up, covered in a multitude of pillows one would never use. He admired the large burgundy round rug that covered almost the entire room. Recessed lighting dimmed the room. A seating area with two chesterfield chairs was snuggled in the corner, a thick quilt thrown over one of the chairs haphazardly. A modern abstract light fixture brought the focus to the middle of the room, even though turned off.

A closed door on the far end of the room caught his attention. What would a manor’s master bathroom and closet look like? He went to take a step. “What are you doing in here?” He froze in his tracks. After a few seconds, he turned around slowly. And that’s when he realized that Gennifer was absolutely gorgeous, covered in adorned jewelry, skin without a wrinkle, blue, captivating eyes, lavished clothing, everything he wanted in a woman. *** It only took ten minutes.

Still, he wouldn’t be making his next appointment. He moved the quilt and sat in the chair, his legs crossed. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and gazed at Gennifer’s pristine naked body lying in bed.

Had his parents made him this way? Had his childhood been so traumatizing that he had no control over his actions? But why defy pleasure? Why go against the instincts he was born with? He took a long drag and smiled at her narrow legs. Then her ample breasts. “I wish we could stay here forever,” he whispered as he contemplated her opened eyes followed by the blood draining down her cheek, soaking the expensive duvet cover. It would be another trip to Driftwood Forest. “We have a long car ride ahead of us. Just you and I. I hope you like country music.”


I got away with murder. Well, not actual murder but I had bad thoughts since early childhood. Fratricide, for starters. I was three when my youngest brother was born. That meant I’d get less of my parents’ affection so I picked up a hammer and headed for his crib with evil intent. Mother grabbed me as I was climbing into the crib, weapon in my hand. Three or four years later I broke into my middle brother’s grammar school classroom and trashed it. No one ever knew this – until now. Nor did anyone know that I would steal coins from the Coke machine at church. Until now. I had every ADHD symptom; I was a handful. On the other hand, I was precocious and often showed flashes of brilliance. Eventually I was taken to a shrink. I remember nothing of that visit other than taking a few tests. I can speculate what my parents were told: “John is a very active child and in many ways he’ll be a challenge. He is deeply attached to you, to a pathological extent. That’s immaturity. He’ll grow out of it. In the meantime, he will have excellent coping skills due to his intelligence. He has huge willpower and with that intelligence, he’ll be a high achiever but also difficult at times. And congratulations to the two of you: Your child is an actual genius.” I can imagine smiles on Mother’s and Dad’s faces and I can imagine Dad’s asking if my IQ was tested and then giving out a low whistle when he heard the number. Sometime years later I found out what my IQ was. I let out a bold whistle. Put it this way: Per Google, it was the same as Stephen Hawking’s. That meant I was a rara avis and I liked that. I was still doing bad things: Using a BB gun to shoot out streetlights and execute songbirds. I started drinking beer at fourteen or fifteen. Drunkenness came early. Despite that problem I matriculated at an elite school, then got an MBA and embarked on a hugely successful career. I learned that co-workers nicknamed me “Boy Wonder.” This all seemed so natural to me but I blew it. In my mid-thirties I was before the Directors of a large bank, presenting a plan to build a new headquarters building. Stage fright slammed me. Instant panic attack. Instantly mute. My boss saw what was happening to me and took over. I should have been embarrassed, but instead I was filled with tremendous anxiety. In the back of my mind was fear of another panic attack. That fear became part of me, maybe it defined me. Imagine a double attack of claustrophobia and stage fright. My panic attacks began episodically, but worsened and never left. A doctor gave me Valium. Wow! Anxiety faded; calm appeared. After three months or so, the doc would not give me a refill. Anxiety returned and I could not fight the panic. For some reason I don’t remember, one day I gulped a shot of vodka. Then another and the panic abated. Being a certified genius, I had an idea: Use alcohol preventively, proactively. Keep panic at bay. It worked! Soon a single shot was not enough; I needed more. I needed a drink when I woke up. I needed a drink to get through the day. I needed a drink to sleep. I was a mess. Somehow my willpower and intelligence got me through the workday. This went on for months. One morning as I stumbled to the garage I had a realization. Two of them, actually: One, I was an alcoholic. Two, I didn’t give a damn. Depression had shown up with its dark cloak. I did not realize that the alcohol was not fully metabolizing, but building up in my system. I learned that one April. My long-suffering wife found me comatose on the living room floor. An ambulance arrived and I was strapped onto a gurney and taken to the hospital. I started coming to after three days, but I was incoherent and my thoughts were muddled. It was alcohol poisoning, at a probably fatal level. That’s at a blood alcohol level of .40 or higher. My BAL was higher, significantly higher, than that. I later learned that my parents were told three times that I was dying. One time I felt a coldness low down in the back of my skull. I was certain that it was death, creeping up my brainstem. Thankfully, it wasn’t death and after eight days in the ICU, I was released into a treatment center, where I was ushered into a locked room with a bed, lavatory and toilet. For the better part of a week this was my jail cell as I went through the DTs. The experience was dreadful. When the worst was over, I was taken for an interview with the head of the treatment center. “Tell me about yourself,” said the guy, all smiles. Feeling a bit better, I took on a chipper attitude and told my tale. The man was not impressed and challenged me, “You’re just another drunk.” He was probably right but at this point my emotions were raw and too sensitive for his dose of tough love. The next day I found an unlocked door and escaped. Somehow, I ended up at home but I was shaken and willing to do anything to avoid not just my recent hospital - treatment center ordeal, but drinking at all. I checked myself into a new treatment center and its folks were compassionate and kind. After a friendly interview I was shown my room. It was nice and I sat on the bed, thinking. Soon tears streamed down my face. These were not tears of pain or hurt, but of gratitude. After 28 days there and some months of group therapy, I was a different and better person. I resumed my life and my career, to include daily AA meetings. *** I’ve always loved music – pop, rock, soul and then “dance music” which I listen to today. Basically, it’s pop songs with a strong bass line. I’d explain it to people: It’s a chick singer, a black rapper and a German DJ with an electronic keyboard. A 1999 song tugged at my soul, then and now. It’s “Pray for Redemption” by a German group named Culture Beat. The primary lyric is “I need to pray for redemption and start all over again. The tears wash away my sorrow and shame.” I love the song but have never able to define “redemption.” I’ve puzzled that for years and sometimes my eyes water as I listen to the words. My wife and I enjoy travel and Vienna is our favorite destination. It’s quite amazing. Among its riches are many spectacular churches, some dating to the 13 th century. Our favorite was Peterskirche, a Baroque masterpiece. We’d sit near the front and take in the spectacle: altars, apses, transepts, narthex and so on. There was gilt everywhere and it awed me. On our last trip we visited the church as a mass was beginning. As a lapsed Presbyterian some of the ritual was beyond my understanding. We sat quietly and soon a male choir marched in, its members clad in white robes with red trim. Soon I was embraced by the choir’s dulcet chants. A spirit touched me. Its caress left me weak and wondrous. In the year since, that caress occasionally appears and when it does, I automatically think of redemption. I need it and want it but I’m a coward and keep my sins to myself. AA’s “twelve steps” provide a path to redemption: Make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our sins to God and another person. Another avenue would be to make a confession to a Catholic priest. I know doing either of those could bring me peace and redemption and gain me forgiveness. I’m stuck, though, and lack the courage or energy to trod those paths. Rather than fret over this shortcoming, I simply try to be a good, moral, empathetic person. Writing this narrative has helped.


There was a ranch in northern Idaho owned by the Desperación family. Frederick, and Julie inherited the ranch and lived in the large mansion at the center of the estate. Their niece, Elizabeth, lived in a shack beneath a large oak tree on the outskirts of the property. She didn’t mind this arrangement, in fact, she preferred it. She preferred the rolling meadows of wildflowers speckled by dashing young pine saplings than the manicured pasture of her family’s cattle whose horrid stench perished any hope of Elizabeth carrying on the family tradition. She steered clear of the pasture, barn and mansion. She felt no desire to be near them. She preferred it this way. Her aunt and uncle preferred it as well. Elizabeth, bless her soul, was a terrible worker. She couldn’t help but stare at the sky beyond the mountains, listening to the sounds of the sea. She was, as her aunt and uncle described, “a chronic idealist prone to willful forgetfulness, and an especially horrid conversationalist when it came to matters of the physical world.” They wondered how they could be related to someone as distant as Elizabeth. They spread barely hidden rumors about her to the workers, and secretly plotted her removal from the family will. Elizabeth knew these things but didn’t mind. They left her alone, and she them. She preferred it this way. All was peaceful and content in Elizabeth’s life. She would wake with the sun, or the lunch bell, or whenever she chose. No one cared when she did. No one bothered Elizabeth. She would don whatever clothes were cleanest and sink into buttery dollops of sunflowers melting in the sun, inhaling their pasty scent as she had for years on end, until she felt the desire to clear the imaginary weeds from vainly measured pine saplings that haven’t grown for years and won’t grow for years. Elizabeth was alone with her thoughts, as she always was. The ground absorbed her tears and the wind silenced her cries. She was alone, piteously alone, and there was only one thing in her life that banished the joy of death, her cousin Oliver. Elizabeth thought that with a name as whimsical as Oliver, the young man behind it must be equally so, but it wasn’t so. Oliver was a stern man, aged before his time by spending sunny days huddled within the shadow of religious doctrine. He desired nothing more than to be a humble clergyman in the church and had overcome the obstacles of pride and wealth to do so. He became a paragon of virtue, his heart a great outpouring of love and affection for all who knew him. He was a flawless man, an exemplar of his faith, save for one mortality, his love for his cousin Elizabeth, an overwhelming force only counter-acted only by her equal love for him. No one knew that Oliver was to arrive at the ranch that day. Elizabeth lay on a large rock watching two dragonflies making love in the air, pretending to hear the cry of the eagles over those in her head. Her aunt and uncle lounged in their new gazebo, sipping iced cocktails out of crystal goblets, thinking about how grateful they were to have such well-behaved cattle, such amiable weather, such excellent finances, such reasonable politicians, and how Elizabeth couldn’t mess any of it up. Just as Oliver’s car parked at the edge of the family property, they had each settled into the quiet contentment of their private agonies. Oliver rubbed his calloused hands over the letter tightly clutched to his chest. He approached his parents without looking up and mutely placed the letter on his father’s overflowing lap. They take dainty sips from their goblets and inquire to the whereabouts of his priestly vestments. He ignores their mordant questions with a shrug of his drooped shoulders and walks into the open fields while his parents indignantly wave their pink hands for his attention. After satisfying themselves with meager effort, they address the letter simply titled, “This letter explains everything.” They open it and wish they hadn’t. Suddenly the air becomes too hot, the cattle too unruly, the finances too unstable, the politicians too unreliable. They signal the servant to renew their glasses and complain about their lives into the folds of each other’s throats. Elizabeth had not heard any of this. Her favored paralytic state deadened her to the undesirable world around her. She felt today was a day of great despair, as all days were. The sky sank heavily on her sun-burned shoulders and razor-sharp flower pedals maimed her bare legs. Another day would pass without Oliver. She felt no hope for today, and no chance for tomorrow until she heard his voice say… “Elizabeth?” She sprang from the ground with joyous tears carelessly flooding her adolescent eyes. She ran to her cousin and threw her arms around his neck, determined not to let him go, determined to tell him how much she missed him, determined to tell him how much she loves him, determined to tell him that a life spent with him is greater than any life spent without him, determined to kiss him until her body fails her, determined to love him until the world ends. “My lover is pregnant, and I am to marry her. This is goodbye.” As it did then. Elizabeth fell away from her one true love. Her opened mouth wailed unadulterated anguish. She cursed the God that birthed her love for a life without her, the God that stole his life from her so that he could steal it back for another woman, the God that they worshipped and led neither to happiness, damning the God that took Oliver away, damning the God that took Oliver away. “Oliver!” He’d already walked away, sparing no comfort or attention to the crippled girl in the open field, blind to her memory in his mind, deaf to her strangled cries of love. He ignored his parent’s desperate questions and drunken bargaining and drove back to his lover whom he eventually marries and fathers two children who hate his drunken abuse and finally cast him out of their home after his dalliance with a minor. Elizabeth remained on the ranch to bear the memory of her love as reminders of her worthlessness, her hopelessness, her uselessness. It wasn’t until three days after she hung herself that her aunt found her while looking for a lost lamb.


The third time I saw Max, I heard his laugh for the first time; it came floating through the air until it pounded in my temples and made a breeze flutter through my eyelashes. All of us girls would sit side-by-side on the bleachers. We made a point to share an entire jar of peanut butter and a sleeve of crackers. We would just pass the peanut butter jar from one to the next down the line, absentmindedly. All of the girls were fused to the bleachers, silent, staring, while I would sit there and write. They all had this look on their faces of mischievous intrigue, except Jane, as her boredom was beginning to escalate.            "There they go, running in a circle again, yay," Jane barely emoted from her sneering lips, “Goin’ round and round.” She made a circle with her fingers. "Big deal."            "Yeah," Laura mused under her breath staring straight ahead unmoved, "super…lame," she attempted to mimic Jane’s bored tone but was unconvincing.            I looked up and turned my head to look at Laura and tried not to laugh at her with my mouth full of crackers. Laura’s body made a sharp twist, "Joanie, quit bogartin’ the peanut butter," she growled with hunger as she grasped the jar out of my hand.            "Sorry." I faced forward again, squinting, trying to see where she was looking. Then, once again, Max was running out ahead and caught my eye. Just then, the sky opened up and it started to rain. The girls squealed and ran inside. I didn’t stir; I just sat on my notebook, put my hood up and put my hands in my pockets.            The fourth time I saw Max, was one of those rainy days. The team would keep running until it became too rainy to see, then they would move from outside into the quad. The girls would run out ahead of them, but I would follow behind. Jane thought I was nuts for staying behind and she sometimes would run from me to escape the rain, but still shouting my name with a frustrated groan. “Joanie! Joanie!” Even on what we all thought would be the clearest day, it had started to rain. The guys and girls had all rushed inside and when I finally arrived as well, I got an intense whiff of fresh rain mixed with sweat. I watched them all as they instinctively paired off, flirting, sharing towels, shameless. I looked for Max, but he was nowhere to be found.            The fifth time I saw Max, was the day after Jane gave me his phone number. That day Jane said she was too tired to run, so I went by myself. None of the other girls showed either. Embarrassed, I just sat on the bleachers by myself. My eyes circled the track and I noticed none of the other guys showed. A lightning bolt of realization struck me and split me open: it was just me and Max. I saw Max’s steely eyes flash to the sideline and lock on mine as he ran by. He was at once a blur and then when he looped around again was still. Up close, he looked so familiar to me.            Who was this blonde know-it-all running over to me? This can’t be Max. Who is it exactly, and why does he look like someone I’ve met before? No, it’s Max, it’s Max. Of course, it is. Oh, look at him that sure is Max. And he is running over to me, though, why? Why am I overthinking this? Not since Charlie had anyone mystified me so much.            "Hey, you're Joanie, right?" He pulled his eyes from mine and they traveled about my face as he was still gasping, out of breath.            "Mmhmm, that's me…Joanie." I nodded and swallowed all of my thoughts, trying to forget them.            "Yeah, Jane told me about you." His smile was warm, but it startled me.            "She did," I sputtered this, uncertain. Jane talking about me wasn’t always a good thing.            "Yeah, she said you guys have known each other a long time, err something, I don’t know sometimes when she talks, my ears close."            "Oh,” I sighed, relieved, “Yeah, well… yeah. A long time.” I acknowledged this as I looked away from him, finding it disquieting to be held in his gaze. “Too long.”            "Cool." He smirked and held back a laugh.            "Max, right?" My eyes were pulled into his again.            "Right," a nervous chuckle replaced his heavy breathing.            "She gave me your number, Max." I shrugged as if I needed to apologize but that it was Jane’s fault. He was silent, and still seemed to be studying my face. I blushed and wondered what more there was to see. “Is that okay?” I gushed with a laugh, filling the silence.            "Oh yeah, she told me," he reassured, “You haven’t called yet, though.”              I swallowed air like I was choking, “Well, I could give you mine err-"            "-Just call me soon, Jo-we'll talk."            Max looked at me in that moment as if he realized who I was, and, briefly, had an unnerved expression. He caught himself with a judicious smile and ran back to the track. I was left standing there, in shock.            “Well, well.” Gabby taps her pencil on her pad and then to her lips.

           “Yes” My eyelashes flutter as Gabby brings me back, and I ruminate with a groan as the gray walls come back into view, “Well, well.”

           “Did you realize at the time,” she breathed out her curious thoughts.            “I know, everyone wonders how I didn’t know who he was. He looked different, and I mostly saw him from afar," I laugh at the thought. "And Charlie had been on my mind, always, but I hoped that Max would help me forget.”            “Did he?”             “He would try.”            “Did you form a friendship then?”             “…With Max?” I smile. “Of course.”            “But I mean to say, was friendship on your mind, in that moment?” She looks puzzled. I look at her puzzled and say nothing. “Was he a bit of a letdown to you,” she urges.            I shrug. “Sometimes, maybe.” I nod then pause, thinking, “No.” The word is as delicate as lace and I feel it twist around my heart.             “Phew,” Gabby sighs as she continues to write, “Interesting.”

           “It was what it was.” I sink backwards again into the couch and begin to drift. “I thought: ‘anything to bring us closer.’”            “Yes, what an odd pickle you faced.” Gabby blinks at me, as the word pickle hits my brain. She says it so innocently, with her gentle British lilt, I fear she is mocking me, and the entire story. And why not? It was a silly, childish flirtation that happened eons ago, sure. But a pickle? I squirm uncomfortably.            “A pickle?” I pretend to startle out of my dream and laugh, “That’s putting it lightly.”

           “Oh, Joanna, I apologize,” Gabby sighs and eyes me as she lifts her pad again to write on it. “Do go on." The first time I called Max, my fingers were trembling. It was that afternoon, just after track practice, when I knew he would be home. There was something about that exchange that altered my image of him. He seemed like he was getting himself together now that he was literally running with the elite. He wasn’t bored, pitiful, or lost. He intrigued me, but in a way that made me excited to get to know him. Still, I had this lingering feeling that I was forgetting something, or someone.            I sat, my knees bent, all curled up in the spare room on the sunken-in white couch and stared at the elevated phone buttons. "I'm going to use the phone for a minute!" I shouted to no one. We had one phone line. We didn’t even have call-waiting yet. I didn't want to be interrupted as I so often was. I, again, stared at the buttons. I thought about whether or not it would behoove me to memorize his number. I could throw away the incriminating piece of paper with Jane's loopy handwriting on it. I ran my fingers over the buttons once more tracing from one number to the next making invisible circles, so many circles. 4368899.            “Easy enough,” I took a deep breath and dialed, “Right?” The phone rang once and then a click.            "Hellooooo?" a chipper voice answered, "This is Brenda, with whom am I speaking?"            "This is, uh, Joanie, from school, I was calling for Max-"            "-Oh," Brenda supposes, "You were calling for Max?"            "Yeah, he's friends with a friend of mine, is he home?” I paused, panicking, “If not I can call back later-" Friends with a friend of mine, god.            "-Oh no, no!” she retorted reassuring me, “Don't be in such a hurry to go, I'm sure Max would love to hear from a friend…of a friend at school." Pfft. "Max, are you at home?" Another pause, "Oh, hold on dear, here he comes."            "Is this Joanie," the insistence of his voice startled me.            "Yes," I breathed through my words as if I had been the one running, "Hi, Max?"            "I'll take this upstairs!"            "Max?"            "Just a sec-" his words bit. After a long pause and a click, a familiar sound whispered through the phone. One I hadn't heard in a year and a half. "Joanna, this is Charlie," his whisper sounded like the breeze over the bay.            "What?" I felt my heart shake and rattle like it was hollow.            "It's me, Charlie, well for now," he continued to whisper, like he was abducted and frightened.            "What? Charlie?" I gasped a laugh, "Max, what are you talking about?" My eyes blurred and my head swam. I kept telling myself it would all make sense soon, and then I felt a brick sink deep into my stomach. I waited for laughter, but it didn't come, "Is this a sick… joke… look, did Jane put you up to this, because she never knew him, I knew him, and it's just uncool to do this to somebody!" My voice started to crack, “I’m hanging up, now!"            "Wesley, it's me!" he insisted, almost hurt, “Please, don’t go!”            Shocked, I twisted the phone cord around my finger. I didn’t know what to say, and then all of those little moments of things he did, and said, came flooding back.            "I knew it, I mean, I knew it-"            "-You did," he gasped, gutted.            "Yes. Of course, well, no, of course I didn’t!”            He laughed, “What?”            “I mean, I wasn't sure. I mean, I just assumed I was going crazy," I sighed and gnawed on my pointer fingernail.            "Well, the therapists say that's what I am,” he laughed to himself, "Well, they don't say it but it's written down in the books-"            "-Charlie!" I couldn't help but giggle his name, as I'd done so many times before. Still, the girlish way I did it, embarrassed me, "You're not supposed to look at those-"            "-I know, it's Max who looks." He grunted this as if he disapproved. I paused again, for a moment, in final realization that I was once again talking to Charlie. I, then, paused in realization of the mess I was in.            “Hmm,” Gabby stabs the air with her interruption, and I open my eyes again. “I wonder why Charlie was so eager to tell you?”            I sit up, still struggling a bit to shake the fog. “I just thought we were the best of friends and always would be. I felt that way since the day we met.”            “Tell me about that day, Joanna.” Gabby sits back in her chair and I settle into the couch again.


Craig raced outside to try to catch his bus. Just as he was about to catch up to bus, the driver closed the door and drove off.  When Craig finally made it to school, he was late for his SAT, the test he felt determined the rest of his life. His giant walrus teacher, Mr. Tusk said, “ Son, you’re late for your test.  You’re life is ruined!” “No!” cried Craig. Mr. Tusk continued, “And you’re not wearing pants!”  Craig again cried, “No!”  Just as Craig realized that it was pretty cool that the school board would take a chance on a walrus, he awoke to the sound of the real bus pulling onto his street. He had overslept for real on the real biggest day of his life! He was up in a flash; he couldn’t believe how fast he was able to get ready.  On his way out the door Craig felt like he was forgetting something.  “Pants,” Craig muttered to himself. He stumbled down the stairs with one and a half legs of his pants secured, and as he burst through the door, he was just in time to see the bus rolling away. As Craig raced to class he hoped it would be a sharply dressed walrus standing there. He would even settle for a fur seal, but there was no such luck.  This was the real test. After the test was over, Craig’s friend Nat caught up with him. “What happened to you this morning, dude? You came in late with your pants on inside out,” said Nat. Craig responded, “I don’t want to talk about it. I had kind of rough morning; the weird thing was I kind of saw it coming.” Nat said, “What do you mean?” Craig replied, “I had a dream of basically exactly what my morning was like. It was like my body knew today was gonna suck and tried to keep me trapped in bed all day. I had three alarms set for this time!” “How did you still sleep through that?” Asked Nat. “Well,” repsonded Craig, “I forgot to set two, and I had the volume down on the third one.” “You’re lucky their giving another SAT in the summer for the two kids who had mumps because their parents don‘t believe in vaccination,” said Nat. Craig replied, “Yeah I think I’m just gonna sleep in the school gym that night. But none of that matters because today’s the day I’m finally gonna get Carol Lee to go out with me.” “You didn’t waste any time on that one. I mean it’s only the last three weeks of high school,” said Nat. “Shut up,” Craig said, “here she comes. Hey, Carol Lee. Um I was wondering if you were free this weekend, maybe we could hang out and do something?” Carol Lee looked Craig up and down for a minute and said, “Okay, look.  A) No. B) If you were half the loser you are, no. C) If you were the last guy on earth, still no. Please never talk to me again.” And just like that, Carol Lee walked away. Craig had never foreseen his encounter going this way. Maybe that’s why he also didn’t think that the outdoor common area where all the students gathered wasn’t the best place to ask Carol Lee out. All of the students nearby began jeering at Craig and laughing, and as he walked back into the school he could hear whispers and giggles all around him. “That was rough. How could you not see that coming?” said Nat. Craig didn’t say anything. Later that day Nat dropped by Craig’s house to check on him. Craig’s mom opened the door and told Nat that Craig was upstairs in his room. Nat headed upstairs and opened Craig’s door. “Geez man what are you thinking just bursting in on me!” Said Craig. Nat replied, “Look man whatever you might have been doing up here would be better than what you’re doing right now. I’m not going to let you mope around all night; you’re coming with the rest of us to the summer kick-off fair tonight.” Craig said, “Why would I even think about showing my face around anyone this summer?” “Because if you don’t I’m gonna tell your mom where you hide your weed,” Nat said. Craig snapped back, “I don’t have any weed.” Nat replied, “You do now. I dropped it off on my way in.” Craig sat up in his bed and said, “Why are you doing this to me?” Nat said, “Because I’m your boy now get up.” Craig smiled and got up. That night at the fair, Craig chose the funnel cake vendor that ran out of funnel cake right as he was next in line, waited an hour for a ride that broke down as he was about to get on and dropped his wallet in the toilet. Later Craig wandered off by himself and stumbled upon an old, creepy looking carnival game. The only writing on it said “make a wish.” Craig looked, but there was no slot to insert money. All of a sudden the wooden puppet inside the glass came to liGe and said, “Make a wish.” Craig said, “I wish I could see the future. The puppet said, “Done.” Craig tried his best to see what his future held, but he could not. In fact an old gypsy woman surprised a scream out of him when she walked up behind Craig and said in her gravelly old voice, “What are you doing?” Craig regained his composure and said, “Oh, nothing I was just trying out this old game here.” “What that?” She continued, “That’s just something we use to prop up the popcorn machine. May I ask why you were all the way over here by yourself mumbling to our popcorn stand?” Craig responded, “I just had a pretty crappy day, and I was just thinking how great it would be to be able to see the future. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with everything I’ve been through today ever again.” The gypsy woman prodded him on saying, “Then what fun would be left to be had? No surprises, no risks. Are you really sure you want what you’re asking for?” Craig smuggly replied, “Lady if you knew what my day was like, you’d know that I’m 100% sure I want to be able to see the future.” To that that gypsy lady just said, “Done.” As she walked away she added, “Oh, do be careful, Dear. Often those whose sole focus is on what lies ahead will begin to lose sight of what surrounds them now.” With that, she was gone. Craig didn’t know what to think of what had just happened, but what he did know was that he needed to go home and dry out his wallet.  When Craig woke up the next day he felt like he could barely remember how terrible the last day had been. He got out of bed and went to take a shower. While the water was running, he remembered, or at least he thought he remembered reaching down to pick up the shampoo bottle he knocked over, as he shower pretended to be telling off Carol Lee, and slipped and fell out of the shower, ripping the shower curtain down and causing his mom to burst in on him. The only problem is that none of that had happened yet; Craig was still running the water for his shower. Sure enough as he showered, Craig hit Carol Lee with that perfect imaginary argument one liner and knocked over his bottle of shampoo. He stared down at it; he went to pick it up and slipped and fell through the shower curtain. Just then Craig’s mom burst in. “Oh geez Craig cover yourself up!” Shrieked Craig’s mom as she exited. Craig couldn’t believe what had just happened. Could he really have just remembered something from the future. No, he thought to himself; it was just deja vous. Just then Craig remembered for real that he was late again for his make up SAT test, and he hurriedly ran out the door. Craig sat in front of his test packet, As he peeled the tab to open the booklet that would determine the rest of his life, he tried not to think about how this would determine the rest of his life. While staring at the empty bubbles, Craig had a vision. It was like he was remembering when he was able to see the correct answers for the test he was taking today. “I haven’t seen any answer key, obviously this is crazy...I’m a crazy person,” Craig thought to himself, but after the shower incident Craig thought this was probably his best shot at acing his SAT. Craig’s suspicions were confirmed when he got his test results back three weeks later, a perfect score; there was also an answer sheet with the results like from his vision only this time it wasn’t riddled with red bubbles indicating missed answers. This time it was all green. Craig was astonished; he just realized that he had changed his future. “Forget college,” Craig thought, “I can do whatever I want.”  Craig immediately grabbed the finance section of his dad’s paper and started to circle different stocks. One month later two of Craig’s stocks split; Craig was a millionaire. He took Nat to a steakhouse to celebrate, and while the two ate, Carol Lee, who waitressed there, came over to speak to Craig. “Hey Craig. I heard you got a perfect score on your SAT, and you’re some kind of stock market guru now.  How do you do it?“  Craig replied, “You just have to have a keen sense of the future I guess.” Nat chimed in, “Yeah I mean you sold your car and invested in a Brazilian clothing company no one’s ever heard of and now everybody’s got a pair of their jeans on. How’d you know?” “Listen,” Craig began, “I can’t tell how you how I do it; I just look over all my options and listen to whatever reveals itself to me.” Carol Lee responded, “Well if you still want to get together sometime, me and some of the other waitresses are going out to the ridge this weekend. It’s not quite prom, but it’s gonna be fun.” Craig said, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it this weekend; I have a meeting in New York about starting my own firm.” Carol Lee responded disheartened by saying, “Oh well that’s too bad, but I understand.” “What are you doing, dude?! That was your chance,” Nat yell whispered at Craig. Craig replied, “Trust me. I’ll have another chance. Next Tuesday at Dairy Queen at 7:30.” Nat said, “What?” “Nothing,” Craig stammered. Craig finally had life by the horns; he felt invincible, except for one thing.  It seemed that the more he looked into the future, the hazier his past became, but Craig’s life up to this point was anything but memorable, and things were just starting to get good. So Craig kept reading his future. Craig started his own financial planning firm that took the business world by storm. Business was so good, he was tried for insider trading, but Craig was already prepared with a defense that countered every accusation against him. He married Carol Lee, and Nat worked as the CFO of Craig’s firm after Nat graduated from college. Life was perfect for Craig, but his memory of the past kept fading. Each time Craig reached into his future to grab the next big money maker, a little of his past was wiped from his mind. At first it was just mild episodes where Craig would forget his client’s names which he would blame on having so many clients these days or forgetting Carol Lee’s birthday which he said was an unfortunate side effect of running such a large firm. But Craig knew that he was having trouble keeping everything together. Lately he couldn’t remember where his office was, who his personal chef was or what his mother looked like. Things were at their breaking point with Carol Lee because Craig couldn’t recognize her or their son most days. It would take her an hour to convince him to let her use their bathroom. Carol Lee and Nat confronted Craig about his memory loss. “We need to talk,” Nat began. “We think you might need to get some serious help for your memory, Craig.” “We?” Craig responded. Carol Lee said, “Yes we. It’s me; your wife, Carol Lee.” “I know who you both are,” Craig said coldly. Carol Lee continued, “Honey the fish oil and neutroopics aren’t working. You need to see a doctor. You could cave Alzheimer’s.” “I don’t have Alzheimer’s,” Craig returned. Nat interjected, “She’s right, Craig.” All of sudden Craig cut Nat off in a fury while he slammed his hand against his desk, “You want to know who’s right?!” “Don’t do this, Craig,” said Nat. “No!” Interrupted Craig. “You want to know the secret to all this success? It’s not you throwing charity balls, Carol Lee; it’s not that you’re such a financial wizard, Nat. The reason we have all of this is because of me! I can see the future!” “He’s lost his mind. How big is your ego Craig?!” said Carol Lee “It’s not my ego!” Craig fired back. “How do you think I knew to put fifty percent of our company’s holding into that fidget spinning thing then sell at it’s height of popularity four weeks later before it disappeared off the face of the earth?  Explain that? I’m not an artist or a master or an anything I didn’t even really get a perfect score on the SAT’s.  The only reason we’re standing here is because I can see the future like a memory, but every time I do I lose some of my past memories.” Carol Lee replied softly, “So you’re telling me that I sat alone at a restaurant or an opera or in a vacation home each birthday and anniversary for the last three years because you couldn’t stop making money? If this is really true, you’re a cold bastard, Craig. You’re not the boy I knew in high school.” Craig replied harshly, “Of course I’m not! You had no interest in the boy you knew in high school. You only noticed me once I started making money. I did all this for us. To keep our company afloat so you can sit alone in five star restaurants and million dollar vacation homes.” “No. You did this because you’re addicted to money and the notoriety. Don’t you dare pretend that you did this because you care about me. If you loved me, you would have been there for me all these years. I thought you were just busy running the company, so I forgave you, but now you’re telling me that you chose to forget me all this time? If you don’t stop this...this future memory I can tell you that you won’t need to remember me at all because I’ll be gone,” said Carol Lee. Nat added, “Craig we sold...I sold stock market investment guides; we put countless actual brokers out of business. I helped you claw your way to the top, and now you’re telling me that those guides were bogus? The people we fired when we chopped up firms for assets never even had a competitive chance? You and I are done professionally, and unless you stop this now, you and I are done personally.” Craig said quietly, “You dare come to me with your morals and your winey complaints. I gave you the world. You should be thanking me. I want both of you out of my office now. I won’t even remember you were ever here.” With that Carol Lee and Nat exited Craig’s office and Craig’s life. Craig continued to dominate Wall Street, and as he predicted, he couldn’t remember Nat or Carol Lee. Occasionally he would look at pictures in his penthouse and try to imagine who in his life could they have been. Craig’s life was lonely. Outside of board meeting and the cleaning lady, Craig had no real company. More and more he would stare at the pictures in his home trying desperately to remember who they were, but he could not. One night as he ate at one of his favorite restaurants, a hideous woman who was dressed beautifully walked by him, and Craig did something he had not done in quite some time. He recognized her. It was the gypsy woman who had cursed him with his clairvoyance. He approached her and asked, “How could you do this to me? You knew what would happen, and you cursed me anyway.” The gypsy woman replied, “If you do recall, which I know you can’t, I told you to be careful and to not look to hard into the future or you may lose sight of your past.” Craig retorted, “How was I supposed to know you meant I would lose my memory?” “Let me ask you this,” the gypsy said, “did you stop when you realized what was happening? No. You made your bed; you lie in it, if you can even remember where it is.” The gypsy woman chuckled and had some men in the restaurant take Craig away. Craig was beside himself; he had everything and lost it all. All he had was nothing without someone to share it with. But then he realized, he had recognized the gypsy. If he could recall her, maybe he could remember whoever it was in his photos. For months Craig spent his spare time going through old photos, old letters, emails, everything he could get his hands on. The months turned to years, Craig had nearly memorized every shred of evidence that he ever even had family and friends. Finally, one gray, drizzly morning Carol Lee opened up the door to her apartment and saw a gray, bearded Craig standing outside. Craig said, “Look I know I might be the last person you want to see, but I have to tell you something. The last four years I’ve done nothing, but try to remember who you are. Even though I didn’t know who you were, I thought about you everyday. One day I was staring at a letter you sent me after our separation, and I finally knew who had sent it. I used the address you gave in the letter to come find you. I sold the company and formed the Carol Lee Foundation that Nat is currently running. We build children’s hospitals. I want you back Carol Lee. I’m sorry.” Without speaking a word, Carol Lee walked over to Craig and wrapped him in her arms. Then she said, “I knew you would find me.” Craig asked, “How could you be sure?” Carol Lee said, “Whenever I look into my future, I always see you there.”


What am I going to do with them? *Display them on a shelf*? Frame them? Put them in a safety deposit box? Sell them for a profit? Keep them as lucky charms? Use them as a conversation opener with someone I might want to meet? Form a club?. Make a living?! I had no clue. What worldwide event may have inspired me; was it something I inherited from my parents who lived through the depression? What motivated me to do such a thing? What was I thinking? I have questions that need to be answered. Maybe **I WAS CRAZY**, but getting better, because I was beginning to acknowledge that what I had been doing... was insane! I soon realized that everyone does it at some time in their life.  It is 1947, and I am five and in the first grade. Our school is at the top of a small hill. It is called "the Old Brick Schoolhouse", and it is still there in 2018, only now, it is a library. It is a two-story structure all brick and looks like a child's block in design. It is very small with only four classrooms, grades 1-4. Two rooms are above the two at the ground level. I don't even remember seeing a principal's office, just the classrooms and two sets of stairs. There was no kindergarten for children. We all started in first grade at the age of five. There was a large grassy play area with a slide, a teeter-totter, and a large spinning apparatus that nearly all the children could ride on at once. Grades 5-12 all go to the high school, which actually had a gym, just a couple of miles away.  Mrs. Wilson, our teacher, tells us to settle down and take out our reader. We will go around the room row by row with each student reading a paragraph. She would read to us so that we could catch the rhythm and flow of the written words. It was an interesting time just a couple of years after the end of World War II, and there was happiness and friendships, but not a lot of extra money around. A nickel would buy two loaves of bread and most residents owned a sewing machine, often one called a Singer. They made a lot of their own clothes. Thus, we kids didn't have too many toys. Some had bicycles and many had homemade wagons. We took to collecting a variety of things.  There's a red, another red, a blue, 4 blacks, another red, a green. How many red today? My hands are smeared, must wash them. A bell rings. "Everyone, sit down!" comes a sweet, soft voice. It had only been a few minutes, but I was doing well. Must get up from the dirty floor. "Please, take your seat, *now*!" comes the command, not as sweet this time. It seems as if everyone is looking at me as I return to my desk with my finds. All of the desks are the same; they are old with obsolete holes for inkwells near the front, wooden with a seat that doesn't swivel, and a top that opens up for books and other supplies. No one says anything to me. They are my friends--all 17 of them. They probably hunt for treasures of their own. Most of them will do it when they are outside or walking home. They may collect unusual rocks or colorful leaves. Every day I search for my personal cache knowing that I am the only one in the room with this unusual collection. I fill my treasure chest, a small box I use for pencils and erasers, with my prizes.  I collect the lead tips from broken pencils. **Yes**, broken pencil tips. I would easily find them on desks, the floor and around the pencil sharpener. Besides pencils, most of us had a combination pencil which may be still made today. It was a red pencil on one end and the other half was blue. Some kids had colored pencils with green, yellow, and other colors that they used for drawing when we did art. Those were my favorites as they were hard to find. To this day, I don't know why I did this, or whatever happened to the lead. It was just something to do to have some fun. I also had a second collection because my dad worked at one of the two filling stations in town. A bottle of pop at the station was five cents, but I was allowed to take one for free because my Dad worked there.  Soda pop was the source. There was no soda machine, just sodas in a large ice cooler. They were bottles kept in ice water that had a large block of ice in the middle. A bottle opener was attached, and it was where everyone opened them. I collected the soda caps out of the catcher and took them home; The Dad's Root Beer cap was my favorite along with Hires Root Beer and Cream Soda, and 7-up and any type of Nesbitt-- Orange, Grape, and Strawberry. Not only could they be kept in a small box, but they could be used as war metals when playing or a badge for a sheriff in a cowboy game; just take the cork from inside the cap and put it inside of your t-shirt and push the cap back onto it from the other side. I kept only the ones that were hardly bent. It was always fun to find ones that I did not already have.  Larry, my neighbor, collected something else that cost no money. He strung string in an *"x"* fashion across the ceiling of his bedroom. He collected matchbook covers and would open up the "books" and drape them over the string. Nearly every store in town had free matchbooks with their store names on them: taverns, hardware stores, banks, filling stations, etc. A great percentage of people smoked at this time, so these matchbooks could easily be found. And, as there were many nearby towns, many were available.  When I was a pre-teen I collected marbles. We had pockets filled with pretty marbles. Some were unique and were used as shooters when we played games at grade school. We would draw a large circle, ante a few marbles and take turns knocking them out. You kept whatever you could blast out of the circle using your shooter. You shot until you missed. Should your shooter not knock a marble out, and was unfortunate enough to remain in the circle, it could be knocked out and kept by another player. It was a big loss to lose your *lucky shooter*. We played other games such as poison, a game like croquet. Sometimes we would "lag" them, toss for a line and closest would win all the marbles from those that were in the game. I guess we were gambling on school grounds, but no one ever said a word.  When I was around 13, I began to collect baseball cards. A pack of them cost around a nickel. There were around 10 cards and a large piece of bubble gum in the pack. They were major league players throwing or hitting or pitching. All of their statistics were on the back side. We all wanted the big stars such as Willie Mays, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Bob Feller. The stars were in the packs, but few and far between. Instead, lesser players' cards abounded. It was fun trading the cards. Sometimes you could get ten for one if it was one that another collector didn't have. I never knew a kid that ever assembled a complete set. The "Topps" company was smarter than the average kid.  As an adult, I have collected around 1,000-1,500 wood tennis racquets, many new! I have displayed them, sold them on eBay, traded a few, and managed to get a few actual tennis legends to sign them--Jack Kramer, Rod Laver, etc. A movie studio called a collector friend of mine and wanted around 25 early 1900-1930 racquets to be used in a movie, and he came to me because he needed a few more. So, I have had some of my collection in a movie!  I know what I did with the wood tennis racquets, with the baseball cards, with the marbles, and with the bottle caps, but for the life of me don't understand what happened to the pencil lead. Still, I guess everyone from time to time will collect something for one reason or another.