Julie was not just an average girl. She was fat and was considered ugly in the eyes of her classmates. The school she was studying in was a little bit out of the ordinary. The interior of the school was full of mirrors. All the corridors had mirrors. Every room had at least one big mirror. There were mirrors that also operated as digital billboards that displayed announcements, school events, and even club activities. There were also hi-tech mirrors that offered touchscreens. Every student were already accustomed to having a large mirror in their classroom. The mirrors indeed made the school a more spacious environment. But another reason was that the Headmaster of the school had a great fancy for mirrors. You had got to take a look at the whole collection of antique mirrors of the Headmaster's office. Julie did feel a little out of place as she happened to be the only girl who was obese at school. Whenever she saw many of her schoolmates making friends or going out with the school beauties, Julie thought to herself that beauty was skin deep only and what was important came from within. Ironically, her parents did not think so for they always complained that Julie was merely a lump of meat sitting on her armchair, wasting her youth on junk food and computer games. Candy, chocolate, and junk food were simply irresistable to her. She did attempt to put on a diet for just three days and yet it was a hellish experience for her and yet she did not lose a single weight. But all that began to change when Julie entered an antique shop as she was strolling aimlessly in the shopping district just outside her school compound. She chanced upon a quaint little pocket mirror. It seemed out of place in the antique shop as it looked brand new and had the design of some popular mascot. So it should be made no more than three years ago. There were many other items that stood out of place in the antique shop. After all, shops like this would do anything just to stay afloat. But the cuteness of the pocket mirror and its cheap price captured her attention and drove her to buy it without the slightest hesitation. Back home, Julie looked at herself in the pocket mirror. Immediately she was both shocked and mesmerised by her reflection. The mirror showed her a different person. She had a pretty face. While Julie wore glasses, her reflection didn't. What's more, her reflection did not have fat cheeks. "Could this be me?" Julie said to herself, taking a careful look at her reflection. "I always know that I had an inner beauty but this is insane." She spent almost an hour doing nothing but dazing at her new look that was confined within the frames of that pocket mirror. A downpour occurred the next morning when Julie was on her way to school. Although she had an umbrella, the strong wind did make a mess out of her hair. As she was about to take out her pocket mirror and a comb to tidy her hair, she heard a crack. This occurred at the same time a group of teachers passed her by, including Ms. Christina Green, the Head of the Mathematics Department. Julie slowly and carefully took out her little mirror from that pocket and already a few shards of glass fell out to the floor. Julie did not recall a single moment when she accidentally bumped into something that would cause significant damage to her mirror. She unfolded her pocket mirror and did not see any cracks. Not even a single scratch could be found on the surface. However, it only showed Julie's old self. The casing of the pocket seemed as if it had undergone accelerated aging. Lots of the coating had come off. But when Julie went to the washroom, she was astonished, so as did the rest of the girls in the washroom. Her new self had appeared in the washroom's mirror and her slim, splendid figure was revealed. Julie brushed her hair with one hand. Her reflection followed suit, except that it was performed more smoothly and elegantly and made all the girls around her filled with wonder. When she came out of the washroom and was in the mirrored corridor, the guys who saw her reflection were immediately bewitched and began asking for Julie's contact number and autograph. And soon, Julie became the most popular girl in school in an instant. What is this feeling, Julie thought to herself. She had never been in such high spirits before. But when Julie left school and went back home to have another look in the mirror. Julie became her plump, mundane-looking, bespectacled version of herself in the mirror. Perhaps all the mirrors in her school had become enchanted. Another thing to take note of was that Julie failed to notice the reaction of Ms. Christina Green. She was pale with fright when she looked at Julie's reflection. But Julie did notice a nervous tone in Ms. Green's voice whenever she taught her class. This had been going on for a month. Julie's version in the mirror was still the beautiful version. Julie was still the most popular girl at school because of it. But Julie became more anxious than before. She resolved to work hard on improving her looks. The reason was that she was frustrated whenever she talked to the guys at school, they couldn't turn their eyes off her reflection. She wanted people to look at her, the real Julie, not her reflection in the mirror. Before she commenced her ultimate endeavor, an old janitor came to see her. The janitor claimed that her reflection looked exactly like a student she knew several years ago. Her name was Diana and she was known as the princess of the school. She had always been the center of attention wherever she went. But she died falling off the school balcony. The police concluded the case was a mere accident. The janitor took one of the school's oldest annuals and flipped over to a page that had a class photo with Diana in it. And how right she was. Diana was the exact copy of Julie's mysterious reflection. Then, Julie spotted a familiar name next to Diana. It was Christina Green. Could it be the Christina Green, the head of the Mathematics Department, Julie said to herself."Yes, indeed." said the old janitor, "I remembered that they were best friends." That explains the nervousness of Ms. Green, thought Julie."Diana also had a handsome boyfriend, " the old janitor continued, "He was also very popular among girls at school and was the Captain of the rugby team. However, he didn't show up at Diana's funeral or show any signs of remorse after that. That goes to show that his love for Diana was merely based on her pretty looks. Boys and men alike, they were indeed heartless and unreliable." Despite having heard such a tragic story, Julie still continued to pursue her ideal self. She went on a diet, did more exercise than usual, learned how to apply cosmetics, and even tried wearing contact lenses. She actively discusses with the girls at school on current lifestyles and fashion magazines. In a month, Julie was able to achieve her desired figure. And she was more than pleased with her own results when she looked at herself in the mirror at home. For she looked exactly like Diana, her ideal self, the legendary princess in the school's history, without the use of any plastic surgery. While Julie was admiring her complexion using her pocket mirror on her way to school, a sense of uneasiness had struck her. And it wasn't the first time. Some time ago, Julie saw her reflection in the mirror at school was slightly off and she couldn't find words to put it. But back then, she brushed that sense of uneasiness aside as her schoolmates at school still admired her. However, this time, the current sense of uneasiness was too heavy to ignore. Something bad was going to happen. Julie immediately ran to her school compound, towards the washroom, ignoring all the friendly smiles and greetings from her schoolmates and her teachers. Julie looked at her face in the mirror and her premonition was right. The mirror showed the fat and mundane-looking Julie like she used to be. Julie began to feel dizzy and fainted. When Julie woke up, she looked at the mirror. This time, she did not find any reflection, no reflection at all, of herself in the mirror. She looked at her arms and then her thighs. They were as thick and coarse as before she got that pocket mirror. And when she came out of the washroom, Julie noticed the wordings on the door of the washroom inverted. That's not all, every word on billboards, and posters, they were all inverted. Julie took out one of her textbooks and opened its pages. The text was inverted as well. What was scary was that she saw no one at school. Everything was silent. Where am I, Julie thought to herself. Then, Julie finally spotted a person. It was Ms. Green. Julie saw her entering a room and shut the door behind her. "Ms. Green!" Julie shouted. She ran towards the room, opened the door, and saw no one, much to her astonishment. Has Ms. Green vanished into thin air, thought Julie. Or was it my hallucination? Then, despite the school she was in seeming empty, she could see on the other side of the mirrors in the corridor, people running in a particular direction. Julie followed them. They lead her to Ms. Green's office. There appeared to be a commotion occurring on the other side of the mirror. Julie opened the door and walked in. There was no one there but everything was in a great mess. There were big words written in red: I HATE YOU! CHEATER! MURDERER! CHEATER! MURDERER! MURDERER! CHEATER! DIE!!! What was terrifying about it was that the angry words in red were not inverted. Julie looked at the mirror in the office and saw many students, teachers, and even a few policemen gathered around. And there sat at the desk was the lifeless body of Ms. Green covered in blood. What's more, in a distance within a crowd, Julie saw her reflection, or rather, her ideal image being a separate entity of her own, and noticed a rather sinister smile on her face.


The detectives found something truly sickening after investigating my sister’s murder. My sister was one of those people that cared about everybody. It’s pretty fucked up that that’s the thing that got her killed. She wasn’t “promiscuous” but she came across as very flirty. Guys were constantly falling for her. Up until about a year and a half ago, she never had an issue putting up the friendzone when things started to escalate. She was good about that. She never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. Then came Derek, and shortly after, Mark. My sister and I were very close, we talked on a daily basis, and I can testify that she really did just “stumble” into two relationships. She met Derek a week before Mark. Derek was tall, built like a statue, had jet black hair and a nice smile. He worked as the director of public relations for a fortune 500 firm. He was the type of guy that had everything going for him, but he was always down-to-earth. Danielle met him through a mutual friend and he asked her out for coffee. About a week later, she met Mark. Mark was an artist, and he looked the part. He wore black jeans, beanies, and his arms were covered in tattoos. Mark never asked Danielle on a date. They actually met on the subway. They were each reading The Lessons of History, by Will Durant. Danielle noticed, and they started talking. In short, Danielle simultaneously fell in love with both Mark and Derek. Unfortunately, her relationship with each of them progressed at about the same speed. There was never a definitive point in time where it became clear to Danielle that she would have to choose one man over the other. That’s really all you need to know. I don’t feel comfortable spilling any more detail about my sister’s personal life. If you really want to read about the complications that come with love, I’m sure you can find something by John Green. My objective is to shine light on the unfortunate truth that our justice system is fragile; it’s easy to manipulate and it’s ineffective. I get it. It’s 2020, I’m not the first person to throw shade at the police. Most of you reading this are probably sick of hearing about it. And that’s fine. I agree with you. It is annoying to see social media infiltrated by social justice. That’s not what this is about. I have nothing to add regarding police brutality. My message involves police incompetence. And I can assure you that if you take five minutes out of your day to listen to my story, for better or worse, you’ll walk away with a new perspective. Three months ago, in the middle of February, my sister was found dead in her apartment. The autopsy revealed the cause of death was suffocation. The detectives asked my family if we knew of any enemies Danielle had. No one could think of a name. Like I said earlier, she loved people, she was friends with everyone she met. A few days after she died, there was another visit from the detectives. The news was heartbreaking. They’d read through her text messages around the time she died. Danielle knew someone was after her. (10:13pm) Derek (10:13pm) I’m Scared (10:13pm) Derek… are you there? (10:18pm) Hey I was in the shower :), what’s wrong? (10:18pm) I think someone is in my room. Will you come over? (10:18pm) Are you joking? (10:19pm) No. Please come. I can hear someone in there (10:19pm) I don’t think they know I’m here ... I’m hiding in the bathroom (10:21pm) Stay there. I’m coming now. Call 911 (10:21pm) I can’t. I have a ton of drugs here right now (10:29pm) It’s a man. I heard him yelling on the phone (10:34pm) He’s in the living room (10:34pm) Fuck it (10:34pm) I’m calling the police Danielle’s texts also pointed towards Mark as the primary suspect. A few weeks before she died, they had the following conversation. (11:00am) We’re done (11:10am) What? (11:11am) We’re done. As in, I don’t want to be with you anymore (11:11am) I know what you meant, but why are you saying this? (11:12am) I don’t know ... maybe Derek can help you figure that out... (11:15am) I’m so sorry. I know you have no reason to, but, come over? I can explain... The police interrogated Mark. Apparently he did end up going over to my sister’s apartment. He was heartbroken that there was another man, but he said he loved her. After hearing her out, he told Danielle that they could work through everything that had happened on the conditions that they moved out of the city together and she stopped talking to Derek completely. Mark also had an airtight alibi. He was at an art gallery, with 60 other people. But Mark’s interrogation was far from a dead end. He told the police that he’d messaged Derek through Facebook shortly after seeing his name pop up on Danielle’s phone. The police questioned Derek. They asked him why he never called anyone the night Danielle died. He told them that by the time he got to Danielle’s apartment, the parking lot was blocked off. He saw someone being taken away by ambulance. The place was flooded with police. He called Danielle around the time the police had showed up. She obviously didn’t answer. In that moment, Derek said he realized it was her who was taken away in an ambulance. He rushed to the hospital to check on her, but it was too late. The detective's trail was beginning to dry up. There were 16,425 homicides in 2019. 6,000 of those remain unsolved. I couldn’t accept that the person responsible for killing my sister was walking around a free man. I pleaded with the police station to keep trying. They told me daily that they were ‘working on it’, but rarely had an update. After a few weeks, Derek resurfaced as a suspect. He was caught on the apartment’s surveillance system walking through the building 45 minutes before Danielle first texted him. He told the police he lied to Danielle because he was cheating on her with another tenant in her building. Can you fucking believe that? At best, this son of a bitch was aware my sister was scared for her life and chose to keep up his charade instead of protecting her. At worst, he’s lying and he killed her. Despite what he said, the police revamped their investigation. They searched her apartment for more evidence, and found something that kept me from sleeping for many nights. A suicide note. Danielle wrote that she was torn apart by what she’d done. She loved both Derek and Mark. She didn’t want to hurt either of them. She couldn’t make a decision and she couldn’t imagine her life without one of favorite people in the world. She’d been taking Xanax for weeks. It was the only thing that could take her mind off the pressure of deciding what to do. The saddest part of the note was that she said she was off four sticks of Xanax the night she killed herself. She said she probably wouldn’t have the ‘courage’ to do it any other time. When the police informed me of what they’d found, they gave me their condolences and left promptly. For a few days, I felt numb. Then, I started blaming myself. Danielle was going through a tough time. Why wasn’t I there for her? What signs did I miss? I started playing back old conversations and that’s when it hit me. Derek wanted her to prove she was serious about the relationship. He’d been pressuring her for a key to her apartment. Some bullshit about mutual trust. She eventually caved and gave him a key. The police found the note on top of a bookshelf in the living room. HOW ON EARTH COULD THEY HAVE MISSED THE NOTE WHEN THEY FIRST FOUND HER? There’s no way it was there. Derek had to have planted the note. I voiced my concerns to the police. Once again they questioned Derek. He denied ever having a key. He doubled down on his cheating story and somehow found a girl to tell the police she was with him at the time Danielle died. He’s the director of PR at a huge firm. Covering up scandals is literally what the man does for a living. The police were buying every bit of garbage he was giving them. The bastard even flashed his stupid smile at me on his way out of the presinct. If you’re uneasy about the fact that there is a psychopath freely walking our streets. Don’t be. Derek gave Danielle a key to his apartment too. As documented by the police, I went to confront him about a week ago. Although when I got there, he didn’t answer the door. So I called the police, informing them I suspected he’d fled the country, or at least the state. The police arrived and busted into his apartment. When they opened the door, they were quite surprised... Derek was on the ground. Dead.


(Hello, quick content warning here for themes of suicide, mental health, and real world issues.) The Machine God hungers, and we march into its waiting maw. Step by step in neat little lines through mazes of twisted iron, blinking red lights burning our retinas from above, the cracked pavement abrasive against the soles of our feet. The air holds the memory of ash and smoke, though the fires they spawned from burned out long ago. It brings stinging tears to the eye. As they roll down our cheeks and the salty taste of them fall upon our tongues, we know it is the closest any of us will come to drinking water again. It is in these moments I think of the oceans we will never see and of the brave and cruel explorers that once sailed them, and of cooler, cleansing rains. It arrives as a sterile fact that I’ve forgotten the source of. I know they existed and I know they were real. Yet I feel as though they belong to a dream. The thought of people traveling the world is as foreign a concept to me as the idea of clean water. It is the sort of thing you might say to the neighbor ahead of you in line, or perhaps the one behind, and expect them to laugh. What could they do but laugh? What can you do but join them? But not for long. Laughing means you aren’t walking as quickly as you could, and the Machine God hungers. We can hear its call through the labyrinth, beckoning us to crawl or climb or shuffle through the fallen concrete megastructures, stepping carefully through fields that grow only mines, to do whatever it takes to reach it. Its klaxons are deafening, and they sound regardless of time of day. It does not care for the passing hour for neither do we. Why should we when we cannot see the sky? It is time to sleep when we are exhausted, then it is time to walk. These are the only distinctions to our routine we know. Our pilgrimage goes on for many cycles. Several die and must be carried. An old man who collapsed from starvation is my own burden. My forward neighbor carries a bag filled with parts of one who wasn’t careful enough in the fields. My backward neighbor is lucky, she has no one to burden her. Dead, alive, young, old, intact, or explosively dismembered. It doesn’t matter. The Machine God hungers. Our flesh will do. Early into our sleeping time, the klaxons blare. They are growing louder, and soon I know we will find the altar. What we will do there, I don’t know. I’ve forgotten. I don’t know if any of us remember, but I’m too afraid to ask. Not afraid that they won’t know, or this will turn out to be pointless, but afraid they will. The dull eyes that greet me when we stop make that seem unlikely. Still. Superstition then, perhaps, is what keeps me from asking. It isn’t a real concern so long as I don’t vocalize it. Allow me at least this comfort, to think it is pointless, that this will amount to nothing, that there is no purpose. It is self-pitying, yes. It is like picking at a scab, scratching at the itch of dry skin. Painful and pleasurable in equal measure. We sleep. We wake. We walk. We’re getting close. The labyrinth opens up. The metal and concrete pulls away to reveal a…a…circle, a hub of sorts. A small clearing. More people are filling in from other directions. They look tired like us, they are carrying their dead, they have no food or water to spare. They march toward the Machine God to sate its hunger in worship at its altar. Same as us. Our common purpose unites us, so we need no words. We sleep that night together, as a community, and in the morning we march together down the only path no one arrived from, deeper into this jumbled mess. North, perhaps? It hardly matters the direction; it is as meaningless as time in our prison. The Machine God’s roar is so loud now that it drowns out even… …thought. It snatches what little mind was left to us, allowing us only a small reprieve when it is time to rest. It is here I sit now, waiting for the time to come when I am no longer myself. It won’t take much longer…another cycle or two, perhaps? Then I won’t need to think at all. I will only need to prostrate myself before the Machine God, and hope my meager offering of flesh will sate its hunger. The roaring starts anew. We pick ourselves up, we gather the deceased, and we continue on. Who were we before this? It doesn’t matter, for we are born anew. The Machine God hungers, and we have arrived. It is…majestic, perhaps. Majestic is an adequate descriptor for something as large and indescribable as it is. A face of metal and concrete, yes, but also of fire. It belches thick, black smoke each time it opens its mouth to bellow, and its eyes stand open wide as small portals into hell. It sits in the center of the more familiar hell we’ve walked through. It does not react to us as we approach, except to open its mouth and bellow the klaxon call, but I imagine it would do that regardless of our presence. Then, one by one, we fall to our knees. Some of us pray, some of us prostrate, self-flagellate, adulate. We do so until we, and our faith, is expended. Then, one by one, we stand and step into its open maw. That is why we’ve come here, isn’t it? The Machine God hungers, and only our flesh will do. It is its mercy that the process seems mostly painless – the sacrifices do not even scream when they plunge into the flames. Only a few hesitant remain at the end, and myself, though I do not consider myself hesitant. But I want to see. So we roll the corpses in one by one next, and after that, we jostle each other and threaten and barter until the last living follow in. Until, finally, I am left with the Machine God. In this moment, I know we are both unique. I am one of a kind, by virtue of being the last of my kind, and it is the God we worship. With me, it will be over. Except. No. I don’t think it will. The fires inside the Machine God show no signs of quenching, and it is through them I see that I am not enough. None of us were. We could not sate its hunger, because it was never possible. “You’ll never be content,” I whisper through its roar. It does not listen, but why would it? I’m not even sure myself if the words are a curse, a eulogy for humanity, or mere prophecy. I know that they are right, though. Then I throw myself into the Machine God’s mouth. I was right – it is painless. But the Machine God hungers still.


Tigger warning: Death, Religion. Archie laid on his stomach with only a single headlamp to cut through the absolute darkness surrounding him. The smooth stone underneath his body was damp, the cold seeped through his polyester layers of skin-tight caving gear and bit at his flesh. A ceiling of the same black rock pressed down against his shoulders. There was barely a foot between the two layers of bedrock. He inched forward. Dragging himself through the tight crevice buried under the earth, he used all his strength. His muscles burned with the effort. Struggling to keep his breaths under control, Archie forced himself to focus. The hot air, dust and silence would not break him. Every rise of his chest filled the precious space that he had available to move and so staying calm was vital to making any progress. Resisting the oppression he felt pressing in on all sides was his only thought. The shaking white light of his torch bounced across the walls but was consumed by a darkness just ahead, which was a good sign. It meant the crawl space was opening out to a larger area. He just had to keep going. Maybe bringing a partner wouldn’t have been the worst idea. A distraction right now would be welcome. He had regretted entering the contest alone almost immediately after beginning. Safety wasn’t a concern because there were so many people traversing through the cave system that day, so if he got into any trouble he wouldn’t have been alone for very long. He had failed to consider the moral support having someone with you provided though and was paying the price for his bravado. Come on Archie. You’ve made it through worse trails than this. Just a little further… He pushed forward another inch, his fingers and toes clawing his body weight between the immovable sides of the tunnel. Another push and his fingertips crested an edge; he could bend them over into an open space where the air felt cooler and less stagnant.

Finally! Relaxing his neck, he let out a sigh of relief that blew a cloud of dust up into his face. Dammit. Blinded, he paused to suck in a deep breath and then tried to blink the grit free. Every attempted slap of his eyelids resulted in a shot of pain to both irises. His elbows were not able to bend to get his hands to his face and the dirt wouldn’t shift on its own. There was nothing for it, he would have to get clear first. Archie braced his toes against the stone and hauled himself forward another fraction...then stopped dead. The pressure against his shoulders and chest held firm. He wrenched again and didn’t move at all.

Stuck. Blind. Alone. Stay calm. Stay calm. STAY calm. STAY CALM! He wriggled on the spot, trying to find a gap. Pushed a little more. Nothing. He shook again. Then again until he lost his cool and started thrashing around in place, uncontrolled and in complete desperation to move anywhere . He began gulping in breaths but couldn’t get any air. Blind he started scraping his face on the stone, he needed the pain in his eyes to stop. He needed to see. “HELP! Oh GOD, someone PLEASE! HELP! GOD HELP ME! GET ME OUT!” His flapping hands grazed something warm. Then the other did the same. Until they connected again and he recognised the soft palms of another person, who after a few attempts lined up their fingers and was able to grip hold of both of his hands. He clamped down. Hard. “Push when I pull you! Ready? GO!” A feminine voice resounded off the walls of the crawl space. Archie pushed with everything he had. The pain in his wrists and shoulders was evidence of the force his mystery saviour was using. For a moment he didn’t move and that panic gripped his heart once more, threatening to collapse his chest inward. Then all at once he slid forward, all resistance gone and fell into an open cavern bundling on top of another living being. His rescuer pushed him off and as he rolled onto his side he broke into maniacal laughter, rubbing his eyes raw with his knuckles. “Oh thank God!” He said “I thought I was done for” “God had nothing to do with it” The voice said. Definitely female. “I pulled you out of there. You’re welcome by the way” “Thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry. I was panicking, I got grit in my eyes, you see and I couldn’t clear it” He said, still unable to open them. “Here, tilt your head back” she said. Archie did as he was told and felt the sweet release of water against his face. Blinking away the liquid his sight returned and out of the blur resolved a young, slight framed woman dressed in red and black. She had on a bandanna to keep her long red curls from her face and was… barefoot .

“That’s so much better. Thank you, I mean it. My name is Archie” He said holding out a hand. She didn’t take it but replied instead, “Abbie. No sweat! You didn’t belong stuck in there!” She pushed her water bottle back into a holster at her waist and looked around the cavern, illuminating it with her own head torch that blinded him all over again every time she pointed it his direction. He followed her light with his own, seeing a space no more than three strides across and a ceiling only just reaching above their heads. On the opposite side from where he had emerged were four different exits. “Where’s the marker?” He asked “There isn’t one.” “What do you mean? There should be a marker at every junction to highlight the course.” He said, jumping his light between all the openings. “I don’t know, do you see one?” She asked, helplessness bleeding from her tone and her torch snapping into his eyes looking for an answer. “No…well which passage did you come from? That would rule one out.” Archie asked, raising his hands against the light. She didn’t look at any of the openings and simply said to the ground, “Oh…down below.” “Down below? What does that mean?” She laughed and through the giggles said “From hell obviously. I’m a demon come to drag you back with me” “Heh…yeah…good one” Archie replied. People made strange jokes in tense situations. “Look. You’re obviously a pro, I never seen anyone run the course barefoot before…do you know the way out? Mind if I stick with you for the rest of the way?” She took the strap from her head and set the torch upright on the ground, flooding the natural room with the artificial LED’s and casting shadows on every surface. He saw her then as more than a dim silhouette, her athletic body and beauty mesmerising him briefly before he refocused on the task at hand. “Yeah, I know where we need to go” She said, a broad and encompassing smile spreading across her face. “Can’t be going anywhere with someone I don't know and can’t trust though. Tell me about yourself Archie? Who are you exactly?” Perplexed by such a large question, Archie stuttered and glanced around at the rocks littering the corners of the circular cave. “Come on now” she said, perching against one of those rocks “If anyone knows who you are, I’d have thought it’d be you?” “Yeah of course, I just, er, don’t know where to start” He rubbed the back of his neck and produced a fake grin. “I’m married, got a daughter too. So you know, I guess that makes me pretty solid right?” “Right?” She imitated. “I work in finance. I do very well for myself actually if I’m honest but you know the office job…it can be pretty sedentary. That’s why I’m here, pushing myself. I took up caving awhile ago and love it! What happened just now was a first, I’m usually very good under pressure, never freaked out like that before.” “Hmmm, okay” She said, standing and walking over to the narrow tunnel Archie had been yanked from. She ran her fingers over the edges and then said at almost a whisper “Got any secrets?” “Who doesn’t”  “Okay, well…ever done anything you’re truly ashamed of?” “Like what?” He asked, still standing in the same spot. “Oh I don’t know, are you a gambler? Must be if you work in finance.” “Sure I guess, I’ve done a few casinos with the guys before. Won big once too!” “Nice” She said. “Never lost?” “Well, losings part of the deal. You learn that in my game. As long as you keep playing though things always come around. He said, puffing his chest high, confidence brimming from his stance. “What about the ultimate gamble…ever cheated on that wife of yours?” He smiled then and wandered the few paces to where she stood, stopping a little too close to her and keeping his eyes fixed on hers. A trick he’d learned to appear powerful to women. “Depends.” He said. “Who’s offering?” She giggled and moved past him to the other side of the tiny under ground enclosure. “Alright, one more question and then I’ll decide if we go on together, sound good?” “Sure” He said, examining her more greedily as their conversation went on. “Do you believe?” He scrunched his face up and looked at her with confusion. “Believe? You mean in religion, God? No of course not.” “Hm, funny. You were screaming for God to help you when you thought you were stuck in there. Then you thanked him when you were free. Now you don’t believe?” “It was just an expression…” Archie said, losing interest fast. “Look, if you know the way out of here, we really should get moving. The course is long and I’d like to get back.” Abbie stood up on her toes, stretching and plastering that giant smile on her face again. “Okay! It’s been an easy decision to make anyway. You can come with me! I’ll get you where you need to go!” “Great” Archie said “You won’t regret it, you can trust me” It was her turn to look confused then, cocking her head to one side. “Oh I can’t trust you at all. No, you lied in every answer to my questions. You have SO many secrets Archie…” She said stepping closer, her body casting a giant black shadow on the wall. “I know you gambled big on the small business account…and lost. All those families are going to be closing their ventures and out on the street, their children suffering with hungry bellies…because of you. Then you blamed it on the junior, poor guy will never work in the industry again. It was his dream you know.” She did a pirouette then, arms pointed in the air and everything. “I also know you’ve slept with three other women since you made those vows to your wife in the grandest church you could find. She doesn’t have a clue does she Archie. She thinks the world of you. You know that and you even tried to hit on me, down here of all places!” He began to stutter a retort to this woman’s accusations but managed only a single phrase, “Who the hell are you?” Abbie giggled and ran a full circle around the cavern. “Do you know that’s the first question you’ve asked me that hasn’t been self serving? Although I guess you could argue, given the circumstances now, that asking about me is still for your own benefit. Anyway, I told you who I am. I’m Abbie. Abaddon if you like and I’m from hell. Get it right. I told you all this earlier. I don’t lie or keep secrets. Not like you.” “What is this!?” Archie yelled “This is no time or place for a prank! Freaking people out when they’re down here is dangerous! It’s not funny!” “No you’re right. Its not funny” Abbie said, cocking her head to one side and gazing into the distance. “OH! We almost forgot the last question. Another lie. You do believe in God…just only when it serves your own needs it seems. You keep that little secret buried real deep. Ashamed to have faith are we?” Archie flashed his head torch around the room, looking for a way out of this insanity. When he didn’t find it, he faced her again, “What do you want? Money? You can have as much as you like to keep your mouth shut” Abbie tipped back her head as far as it would go, opened her mouth a little wider than seemed possible and belted a roaring laugh that seem to echo from every direction. She snapped her head back down in an instant, cutting her amusement off dead. “I don’t want money ! I want your soul silly.” “Look, just tell me the way out and I’ll get out of here. You won’t see me ever again, whoever you are.” Archie said, his feet shifting and sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Abbie ran over to the wall with the four exits then and stood in the centre of them, arms out stretched. “SURPRISE! They are all the right one! They all go to the same place, so you were never in any danger of going the wrong way Archie. Hee hee!” “Wait, what…?” Archie said, shaking his head. “Yeah they all head downward. If you’d admitted your failings and repented I could have sent you back up, but as it was…I mean you didn’t even think to set your head torch down like I did, you just kept shining that thing in my eyes without caring. You’re a real piece of work Archie.” “I still don’t know what this is…” He said “Maybe you’re crazy or this is some kind of set up, but either way I just need to get out of here. Plus, its ridiculous! I’d have to be dead to be sent to hell and I’m right here, you’re little game doesn’t even make sense!” Abbie skipped back across the cavern again, sending little stones shooting across the floor until she was staring down the gap Archie had come from. “Come take a look” She whispered. With no other option, Archie walked over and looked down the tunnel. There he saw illuminated in the white light, his own face. Grey with open, lifeless eyes, slack jawed and vacant. His own dead body. “Yeah…heart attacks will do that to ya when you’re stuck in a hole a mile underground” Abbie giggled. Archie stumbled backwards, falling and landing with his back to one of the four exits. Head in hands he sobbed and whispered prayers for God to save him. “Too late for that!” Abbie laughed. “You made this so easy Archie. I only had to ask a bare handful of questions and the decision was made. We didn’t even get to the way you look at your teenage daughters friends or the way you treated your parents! Maybe if you’d even just once looked at another person like a human being, shown one ounce of empathy we could have negotiated, but nope! Downward it is!” She stood back, pressed the heel of her dirty foot into chest and pushed him backward into the open tunnel. She waved and giggled as he fell through the chute and into the abyss below.


The 4 year old Miles is awoken by his mother. Her sweet, gentle smile giving him the confidence he needs for his first day of pre-school. She helps him get ready for the day, gives him breakfast, then takes him to the school. The car stops in the parking lot and Miles looks out excitedly at all the other kids heading inside with their own parents. Miles' mother opens the door and he takes her hand as they walk inside. She signs him in at the front desk and she kisses him goodbye and Miles runs off to the other kids. Miles is greeted by a multitude of children his age all fascinated with the new toys and play things at their disposal. He's immediately drawn to the superheroes. After a while of playtime, the teacher calls them all to her and tells them all to sit in a circle around her and introduce themselves one by one. Miles is eager to meet all of these new children, but none of them are quite as interesting as the girl named Joanne. He just knows they will be best friends. And throughout the day, Miles and Joanne play with each other and even sleep side by side at nap time. He is very fond of his new best friend. Day by day throughout the school year, Miles and Joanne are spending so much time together, that they're inseparable now. At the end of each day, they force each other's parents to stay and wait for the other's parents so they leave at the same time and never have to be alone. Miles looks to Joanne on the last day of school for the year and kisses her cheek. She smiles and kisses his too. The teachers laugh as they know it's just toddler love and means nothing. However... Does it? Miles goes to a new school on his first day of 1st grade and makes friends quite easily. However, he only looks for one person, Joanne. She's nowhere to be found. Maybe she'll come another day. He goes home that night and dreams. He dreams he's on a playdate with Joanne. They do all of the fun stuff they normally do, like draw in the dirt, build pillow forts, and race on their tricycles. Days... Weeks... Months... Years pass. Miles is now 9 years old and still can't find Joanne, but he dreams about her every single night. He meets a set of paternal twins, Jacob and Harley. He has a major crush on Harley. Jacob knows it, too. All 3 of them become best friends. They become almost as inseparable as Miles and Joanne used to be. This doesn't stop him from dreaming about Joanne every night. As Miles grows and ages, so does the Joanne in his dreams. He goes to a new school now. High school. His Freshman year... Jacob and Harley have fallen out of touch since they now go to a different school as well. Miles meets a girl. She's beautiful... She's quiet, smart, funny, but always wears black and keeps to herself. Miles introduces himself and finds out her name is Helen. Not long passes, and they begin dating. Helen is all he can think about, but Joanne is all he can dream about. Helen and Miles grow very close and she convinces him to make some bad choices. Miles realizes his mistakes and tells Helen he can't do it anymore. They break up. Helen does not take this lightly. Helen begins ruining his reputation at school. She's always telling lies and getting Miles in trouble. Nobody believes him. Even the cops have to get involved. Miles is not happy. He goes to sleep that night. He and Joanne are sitting under a tree at the top of a hill in a valley. Miles tells her everything. He tells her how he feels betrayed and hurt and he wishes he had someone to trust. Joanne smiles and says she's always here for him as she kisses his cheek. He smiles and wakes up before he can return the favor. 2 years pass and shortly after his 16th birthday, Miles is hit with devastating news. His parents are divorcing. Mom is taking his 2 siblings and moving across the country. He is legally old enough to choose which parent to live with. That night, Miles dream he and Joanne are on a ship, like a pirate ship, but well kept and clean on gentle waters. Miles tells Joanne of the horrific decision he's been faced with and Joanne does the best she can to comfort him. She says to follow his heart. Miles chooses to live with his father. He watches as his mother and 2 siblings are taken away from him forever. For the next few months, Miles is left alone with nobody but his dog since father was always at work or sleeping. The pain in Miles' heart was growing with each day, and each night, it became harder and harder for Joanne to communicate with Miles. One night, Miles decides this will be his final night. He dreams he's walking in space. He's able to reach out and grab handfuls of stars and throw planets like a basketball and fling galaxies like frisbees. Joanne is nowhere. This is the first night since he left pre-school that Joanne was not there... The one night he needs her the most. He runs through the universe grabbing the brightest star he can see and using it to light his path as he runs through the infinite to find the girl in his dreams. He searches all night for her, and just when he gives up, Joanne taps his shoulder and he turns to her. She tells him she's never gone and he just needs to hold on. Months pass and Miles decides to start dating the new girl in school, Andrea. She hot, she's funny, and everyone knows her now because everyone knows Miles. She treats him like a king. She brings him his favorite candy every week, she gives him massages to ease stress between classes, and she always a packs a second lunch in case he forgets to makes his own. He believes he loves her. Miles and Andrea sleep together multiple times. Miles tells Joanne every night how great Andrea is being to him and Joanne is happy for Miles. Andrea begins to get a little possessive, restricting him from people he's known for years, obsessive, constantly wanting all of his attention and never leaving his side, and angry at every mistake he makes. Miles and Andrea begin fighting once a week... Then every few days... Then every day... Then every time they see each other. Andrea snaps and ruins his reputation just like Helen did, but worse. False accusations and many more lies are told by Andrea and Miles is now at the lowest point he's ever been in his life. This is it... Tonight he finally ends it. Miles decides to walk home from school that night, alone. He stops off at the pet store to get his dog one last treat. At the store, he go to the register and looks up. Could it be? No. He's probably just hallucinating or something. There's no way Joanne is the woman behind the counter. Miles lights up as Joanne runs from behind the counter to hug Miles. After 13 years of dreaming about her, he finally finds Joanne. They talk and find out that all of the dreams Miles had, all of the adventures they had in his dreams, she had as well. She'd been searching for him as well for the last 13 years... They had grown up together in their dreams and were never truly apart. 5 years go by. Miles stands before Joanne in a tuxedo and a golden circle in his hand and says... "I do.


TW: child enslavement, trafficking It had been a long day for Chetan. His work at the office, interspersed with four meetings, a training programme to conduct for his staff, topped up with a few customer complaints to be attended to, all had his mind go into a tizzy as he negotiated the traffic snarls on his way home. Tired as he was, he literally pushed himself out of his car and plodded up to the elevator. His wife, Urmila, opened the door of their plush three-bedroom apartment as he rolled into the house and plonked on a sofa. “What’s up? Did you run a marathon today?” asked Urmila, aghast at Chetan’s tired exterior and the frown that he exuded to her query. “That would have been better,” replied Chetan, in a muffled voice, his brain gradually absorbing his wife’s remark as an admixture of his already depleted energy. “Why, what happened?” Urmila persisted in a subdued tone. “Oh, don’t ask. Never did I have a busier day at office than today. There was work, meetings, training and then complaints all piled up one on top of another. Almost didn’t have time to breathe and just had a bite for lunch. I’m famished. What’s for dinner?” queried Chetan eagerly. “There’s chapatti, mixed vegetable curry, baji (side dish) and potato fritters,” replied Urmila nonchalantly. “Good, I’ll have a quick wash and we’ll have dinner,” said Chetan, kicking off his shoes and yanking his socks from his tired feet. He got up and made his way to the bedroom where he undressed and then got under the shower. Dinner was always a nice experience in the Dungarpur household. Chetan, Urmila and their two children, Swapan and Sharmila would sit together and talk about their day’s activities with passion, while chucking in morsels of delicious goodies that Urmila would have doled out on their eight-seater dining table. But, today was different; for Chetan was in no mood to again go through the rigmarole of narrating his day’s happenings. So, he listened passively to Urmila and the children and when it was his turn to speak, he gave a huge yawn, which prompted Urmila to say, “Daddy is very tired today. He will tell his stories tomorrow.” Chetan rose from his chair with a ‘I hope so’ sort of a feeling which was accentuated by a wry smile that he exuded to his kids. Urmila cleared the table and the family moved to the TV viewing area abutting the spacious drawing room. Swapan switched on the TV and selected a channel in which the next episode of their favourite serial was only minutes away. The serial began and Urmila and the children were glued to the TV. Chetan, too, was attentive for some time but his weariness got the better of him and soon, beginning with a posture where he looked at the TV screen with one eye, he was snoring in full glare of his family. Urmila went over to him and prodded him gently and, when he was awake, led him to the bedroom where she stayed on till Chetan had got under the sheets. She then returned to continue to watch the serial which had now come to an interesting inflexion point. Chetan, meanwhile, felt he was in for a long duration of uninterrupted sleep; and, sure enough, in a blink of an eyelid, he was steadily snoring away. Soon he began to dream; and this is what he saw. He is going on a long excursion with friends and relatives to some hilly area where they have booked themselves for two night’s stay at a resort. It is going to be an enjoyable trip, so everybody feels, as they all get their bags and baggage loaded on to their reserved seats in the first class AC compartment of the express train. Once the journey has begun, it is excited chatter all around with the men-folk engaged in a rummy game, whilst the ladies exchange notes relating to cooking, recipes and the like. The children play some board games and add their bit to the excitement of the trip. Once they have reached the station where they have to disembark, they rent a minibus to take them to their destination. It is all noise, laughter and singing as the minibus winds its way along the hair-pin bends to their destination. About a furlong before they reach the resort, amidst all the din and mirth within the bus, Chetan happens to notice a dilapidated building, which at one point of time must have been a majestic manor, which strikes him as being strange, practically in the middle of nowhere. At the resort, everyone decides to rest before setting forth on the first item of their agenda, viz. boating. Chetan and his family also take some rest to wean away the traces of exhaustion that may have encompassed them in their long journey. The boat ride is enjoyable and exhilarating with the route taken having exposed a wide expanse of the surrounding scenery. The next day after breakfast, Chetan takes the bell-boy aside and quizzes him on the dilapidated building. At first, the guy feigns ignorance but, on having a 100-rupee note thrust into his palm, becomes very agitated and says something incoherently. Chetan, who has had a stint in the army, before joining a corporate giant, calms the fellow down and guides him to a corner, where the bell-boy opens up. He tells Chetan that, by all accounts, the house is not inhabited and is also rumoured to be haunted. His eyes are livid with fear as he says that people have heard weird sounds emanating from within the building and nobody dare venture to go near it after sundown. Chetan’s interest is kindled and he decides to make a trip when nobody would miss his absence. Chetan slips out of the resort in the afternoon when everybody is taking a nap and heads towards the building. It’s a comfortable trek since he is walking downhill with a pleasant breeze blowing across the gaps in the trees. Chetan is taking in the fragrance of the lovely flowers that line the roadside. After a leisurely walk of about seven minutes, Chetan suddenly beholds the outline of the building through the leaves of the lush green trees on the right. He walks further and comes to a clearing which leads to a pathway that takes him to a wicket gate and an open area that would have once been a courtyard in front of the manor. He looks up at the building as he takes small but sure steps towards it. Denuded trees line the precincts of the compound wall of the courtyard and the remnants of some dried leaves crackle under his feet as his attention is now focused on the portico and entrance. There are cobwebs all across the exterior of the building and absolutely no semblance of any habitation. He is now standing before the main door. There is a broken-down calling bell hanging down from exposed copper wires and above him is a cluster of broken bulbs held in the rusted holders covered by a broken piece of glass that might have once been a beautiful chandelier. Strange enough, no glass pieces are strewn on the floor; probably, these might have been blown away in some strong wind that often traverses the hilly tracts. The brass knob of the massive teak door is dusty as is the door itself. He peers through the panes of a shut window beside the door but is unable to see anything within the dark interiors. Without touching the door knob he is about to push the main door to see if he can enter the building, when there is a shout. At first, he does not know the origin of this sudden and loud sound, till he experiences a vigorous tapping on his right arm. Chetan sat up on the bed only to see Urmila holding his mobile and saying that she has kept an urgent call for him on hold. “It’s 9.15 a.m. What sort of sleep is this? Have you become a version of Rip Van Winkle? Now, take this call. Somebody on the line said the matter is very urgent,” said Urmila, as she held forth the mobile before Chetan. The latter rubbed his eyes and with a feeble protest took the phone. Chetan disposed off the matter that was supposedly urgent in a jiffy for he didn’t want to be stretched on official matters on a weekend. After a quick shower and breakfast, he dived into the morning newspapers. But he was unable to concentrate, for the dream had left an indelible impression in his mind which pestered him throughout the day and in the weeks and months ahead. He forgot about it, a year down the line and the mystery that may have unfolded before him in a subsequent sequence of the dream was never contemplated, as the memory of the dream itself was involuntarily pushed into the sub-conscious mind. Years passed and life in the Dungarpur household went on as usual. Then one day, Chetan’s aunt and her family came down from America for a month’s vacation to India. Chetan broached the subject of an outing to his family and siblings and they were only too eager to venture forth. “We haven’t got together for a long time. With Aunty Vandana in our fold, this would be the ideal time to meet up with our other relatives and friends,” said Kishan, his younger brother, very enthusiastically. Chetan agreed and he spent the next couple of days browsing the internet for a pleasant location with all amenities. He finally zeroed in on a resort located on a hilltop. Even for one moment he did not reflect upon the location as being strikingly similar to what he had seen in a dream five years back. Their train journey ended close to the base of the hill from where a bus would ferry everyone to the top of the hill. On the way, Chetan got a peculiar notion, a feeling of deja vu, that he had been there before. He looked out of the window and all of a sudden, he saw it before him; the dilapidated building stood ominously imposing against the backdrop of lush greenery on the hillside. Chetan couldn’t believe what he saw. The memories of a dream seen many years back came floating before his eyes, as if he had seen it only yesterday. Yes, it was indeed the same building he had dreamt about. As the bus passed the spot where the building stood, Chetan craned his neck to get a glimpse of it from every possible angle, till it was out of sight. That night Chetan tossed and turned in his bed. “What’s the matter?” Urmila asked, frowning at him.

“I take time to settle down and sleep when the bed and pillows are changed,” blurted Chetan, using all the resourcefulness at his command to engineer an answer that would belie his true predicament. Urmila seemed satisfied with the response for she did not bother him with any more questions. As for Chetan, he was wide awake for an hour or so, thinking about his earlier dream, then the building and finally about his strategy to probe into the mystery; for investigate he would or all the learning that he had imbibed during his tenure in the army would have come to naught. The following day, after breakfast, Chetan put a 100-rupee note into the palm of the bell-boy, Ramu, and made him pout all that he knew of the building. Scared though he was to even speak about the eerie structure, Ramu was gratified with the generosity of Chetan. Later, when everyone was ready for a boat ride, Chetan excused himself by complaining of a headache and then after the entire picnic party had set sail, he made his way towards the dilapidated building. It was just as he had seen in his dream, to the last detail. He pushed the main door ajar. A gradual creaking sound ensued that one normally hears in horror movies. The building was pitch dark inside. With the help of the torch in his mobile, Chetan inched forward in no particular direction. He was now standing in the centre of a large empty hall. He shone the torch in all directions and barring walls all around, there was a staircase at the far corner. Chetan moved towards it and as he put his foot on the first step, it wilted under his weight. ‘Would I be able to climb this flight of stairs?’ thought Chetan. He was in two minds, but after a moment of deliberation, he decided to go ahead and climb. With his heart in his mouth, he made it to the landing on the first floor. Here, he observed there were many rooms over a wider floor area than the hall below. Presumably, the ground floor would be having some other rooms and space next to the hall, he thought. He passed by each room and shone his torch inside. The rooms were absolutely empty. He moved ahead treading carefully, till he came to a corridor which curved to the right. He saw there was a door at the far end of the corridor and wanted to know what lay behind it. He twisted the knob of the door. It squeaked as it opened gradually onto a small terrace. He walked the length of the terrace and at the end of it came across a massive concrete structure extending from the ground to the first floor with high ceiling and windows all around. Most of the windows were closed, but there was one which had a small crack in the glass which Chetan peered through to see the dimly-lit hall below. What he beheld sent shock waves through his brain and a chill down his spine; for huddled together and all in chains were about two dozen children, boys and girls. ‘There is some sort of a human trafficking racket going on here’, thought Chethan, as he viewed the hapless children. He looked all around, but there was no one in sight. He dialled the police emergency number, but before he could connect and speak, something hit him hard across the nape of the neck and he blacked out. Meanwhile, the picnic party had returned from the boat ride and Urmila rushed to her room to enquire about Chetan’s condition. She was surprised to see that he was not in the room and also the bed had not been slept on after the house-cleaning staff had changed the sheets in the morning before she left. ‘So where could he be?’ she wondered, as she made her way to the reception. “No, I haven’t seen him, since you all left for the boat ride,” said the receptionist, which was confirmed by other staff of the resort. Once the word spread that Chetan was missing, everyone was concerned and different opinions were put forward. But search as they might, Chetan was nowhere to be found. Urmila spoke to Chetan’s brother, Kishan, and suggested they inform the police. This suggestion gained currency amongst the crowd and so the police were called in to investigate. Inspector Talpade came with two constables and heard what everybody had to say in response to his queries. After taking notes, he decided to leave and promised to revert the next day with whatever information he had gathered. As he and the constables made their way to their vehicle, Ramu, who was all along watching the proceedings from a corner, came running out of the entrance of the resort. “Sir,” said he, as he accosted Inspector Talpade. “I have something to say,” he blurted out. The ‘warmth’ of the 100-rupee note on his palm was still fresh in his memory and he wanted to reach out to the police and reveal everything about his interaction with Chetan; if it was going to be useful in any way. The inspector listened to him attentively and boarded the vehicle. Later, in the night, a contingent of twenty armed constables and sub-inspectors surrounded the building and another ten policemen including sharpshooters entered it. It was a blind raid with no inputs whatsoever. The policemen spread out inside and sharpshooters took up their positions but there was no sign of anyone. Just when they thought that the building was empty, a constable opened the door to the terrace and before long, a team of three policemen was witness to the cruelty that had been meted out to the children. Inspector Talpade joined them and issued instructions to search every nook and cranny of the vast structure. Just as he was turning to go back into the building, he noticed the silhouette of a person crouching against a railing. On being challenged, the person opened fire injuring the inspector on the right shoulder. The sharpshooters returned the fire. A cry from the individual indicated that he had been hit. Moving towards the person, one sharpshooter removed the hood to reveal a man’s head. He was still alive and when the gun was pointed at his chest, he revealed the whereabouts of Chetan. The policemen quickly moved to the indicated location and found Chetan unconscious and tied to a post. There was tape across his mouth, legs and hands. He was carried to the police vehicle and transported immediately to the nearest hospital, along with Inspector Talpade and the assailant. Reinforcements were ordered after which the children were rescued and sent to a shelter. There was no further firefight and apparently the child traffickers had not anticipated a police raid. As for Chetan, he realized the risk he had exposed himself to but, nevertheless, took pride in the fact that he was instrumental in the rescue of so many innocent children.


> I’m not sure how to write this, or what to say. It’s been so long since I wrote anything that I’m afraid that I’ve lost the hang of it. I take my fingers off the keyboard and sit for a moment with my hands in my lap. The cursor blinks at me like the warning light of a cartoon boiler edging towards higher and higher pressures. What are you doing, you worthless fuck? It says with a sneer. Wasting time. That’s what you’re doing. My eye tracks to a terminal window open on my right. I’m Ok. Everything’s fine. But when I put my hands back on the home row, gently stroking the nubs of the F and J keys, they shake just a bit. A tiny, tiny bit. But I can feel it. > I need to tell someone. I need to make something. I’ve got to make something. Anything will do, but what my mind returns to again and again (like a fly to a pile of shit, I think mostly) is writing. Telling someone, even just myself- that I’m doing nothing. > It’s my job to do nothing. I do it for nine hours a day, five or six days a week. I have meetings about what I haven’t done with other people and they share what they haven’t done with me. We write specifications describing what we won’t be making and requirements codifying the things we won’t build and file them on a server where no one will ever read them. > People complain bitterly about things like “crunch time” and “productivity bottle-necks” and ask each other to come in on Saturday to do nothing. We have quarterly all-hands meetings where supervisors praise each other for doing nothing more efficiently and graphs are shared and analyzed showing that we’ve increased our production of nothing by 3.4% over last quarter and no one ever mentions, just in fucking passing, just says -- hey guys, we’re not fucking doing fucking anything. My fingers (which had begun to move more and more quickly as I reached the last words) lift suddenly from the keyboard, still twitching. I feel the urge to pound out a few more iterations of the word fuck, but I’m afraid that once I start going I’ll just hit caps-lock and never stop. That’s how you know you’ve finally cracked- when you write a lengthy manifesto and find that it’s just variations of the word FUCK for fifty or sixty pages. The most horrifying thing about such a manifesto is that it might be the most productive thing I could do with my time. I read what I’ve written. It’s not good. It probably never will be, even if I write it again. I wasn’t ever actually good at writing. I read insatiably as a kid. Over the short distance (the sprint, so to speak) I could throw together half-remembered phrases that seemed to fit and I had an intuitive understanding of how words went together. The longer I wrote the more obvious it became that I wasn’t any good at it. I just regurgitate what I’ve read. With an internal flinch, I realize that I’m staring at the ever-present terminal window and a line of red is cutting through the reassuring black and gray: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection handshake with network supervisor (port 7300)** I slam a key combination into my company-issued keyboard so hard that I feel as if I’ve bruised the tips of my fingers. The text editor and the logging window both vanish and are replaced by a new revision of the division design document on one screen and the requirements database on another. A soft tone tells me that another log message has been created and I don’t have to look to know what it says: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection established with network supervisor (port 7300)** Someone is watching everything I do. Methodically, I copy the contents of one cell in the requirements database into a table in the document. It says that information within section 12.3.7.21.1.3 of the requirements database SHALL be statements of the form “<item> SHALL be <property>.” I feel an intense urge to giggle. I carefully format the cell in the document to match the font, spacing and weight of the requirements database cell. This will be a point of contention at the document review. There is a vocal minority in my department who believe that documents should be formatted differently from requirements. Their argument is that the font and weight of the text in the requirements software is limited to the built-in options and there is no reason to adopt these constraints in traditional word processing software. These people are fucking maniacs. For twelve and a half minutes, I carefully add information to the design document, adjusting the formatting of the text as I go. It seems like twelve and a half years. Finally, another tone sounds, signaling the departure of my invisible visitor. I bring up the terminal window first, just to make sure: **[ 20450912 log::level::error ] connection lost with network supervisor (port 7300)** Groovy. I’m no longer being directly watched. Now I just have to worry about the activity monitor, the application usage tracking and the always-active key-logger that flags statements that may include sensitive data or intellectual property. I bring up my document again and stare at it. After a minute or two, I close it without adding anything else. A dialog asks me if I want to save my work (Yes/No) and I hesitate. What’s the goddamn point? What am I going to do with my awkward, disjointed, meandering manifesto? Publish it? That’s a joke. Seriously. No one would read it if I did. No one would care if they did read it. No one would do anything if they cared. I’d get fired if they did anything and jobs have become less plentiful in the last ten years. I hover over the No button for a split second and then quickly click Yes and hit enter to accept untitled as the file name. I don’t actually work in an office that’s owned by the company. I work in a fabricated block of offices that allow anyone associated with a partner corporation to work from the building. From a distance, the entire structure looks like a stack of bricks left behind after a bombing and I can’t help but think of it as Office. Not offices- but Office. A smooth mass of Office. Office as a concept, extruded onto the city. A pile of Office left by an enormous dog on a front lawn the size and approximate shape of a city. Buildings as grass.


(Doing a little challenge to get ready for Nanowrimo, one short story every day for October, here's my first intended to write a horror story, but I'm not sure this counts, kind of turned into something else) My name is Amelia Kemper, and after an unfortunate legal incident, I have found myself having to repay a debt to society by way of a sentence of 24 hours of community service. My sentence is to work six four-hour shifts at a local nursing home. The work is easy. They said I would mostly be in the kitchen preparing food, which didn't sound so bad as I do like to cook. This wasn't exactly cooking so much as heating ready-made trays of TV Dinner-like meals that would be delivered by rolling carts to the various Shady Pines nursing home residents. On my first day, I met my supervisor Anita. She's a five-foot Jamaican woman who came to this country legally, worked hard, and obeyed rules to get where she was. Chief wellness coordinator for Shady Pines. Her accent is thick, and her tone doesn't take any guff. I also met Mr. Montechello. Mr. Montechello wasn't an employee of the nursing home but rather a volunteer resident. He had been a chef in his life before these walls and found some waning success in the eighties publishing his own cookbook. *Gourmet simp'le.* He was actually one of the first gourmet chefs to cash in on the early eighties who cashed in on the then in vogue health craze of the low-fat diet before all the diet scientists who whoever it is that's in charge of telling us what's good to eat figured out that it was those delicious carbs, who made up a good third of next decades food pyramid said was so important to the diet of a healthy and happy worker. While the heated TV Dinners were a far call from the gourmet cuisine he used to prepare, his mind was starting to go a bit earlier than most people, and his money had dried up once the second printing of his book failed to achieve any kind of repeat success in the ever-changing world of fad dieting. Like many patients with his particular mental condition in the home, he had his good days and bad days. On his bad days, he would relax in front of the television, get his daily dose of Judge Judy, and, if he was still awake by two o'clock, he would watch General Hospital with those cute and spry seventy-something-year-old back in the game bachelorettes. But, on his good days, he liked to work with his hands, be productive. He loved getting back in the kitchen as simple as work in this kitchen was. He would stack meals and watch times. He couldn't be trusted to set them, but he would watch them and alert the people in charge of the day's meals just before the timers went off. "Now remember, the instructions say you have to heat it at 250 for twenty minutes," he said, giving me the tour under the watchful eye of Amelia. "I have found, you get a more even cook putting it in for five minutes at 200, and then finish off with thirteen minutes at 275," he said. His voice was raspy and old, the kind of old that could be thought full of wisdom, but also spackled and duct-taped together by a slowly unraveling psyche that the last couple of years were not kind to. "We cook the food for what the box says to cook the food for," Amelia said, "Don't listen to him child, you follow directions," she said. I did, followed directions, was just here to do what I was told to do. Finish my time, and get back to my rather uneventful life as a College drop-out with a part-time job bookkeeping for a company that runs management for home owner's associations. That first day I did what I was told. When the first batch came out of the oven, the one to be delivered to the third and top floor of the senior living community, Mr. Monticello took a small gold spoon, a keepsake from his wealthier days. He took a taste of the mashed potatoes when Amelia wasn't looking. "Came out good, heated evenly, good texture, good flavor," he smiled. He held his spoon up to me, "You know why anyone would have a gold spoon?" he asked. "No, I can't say I would know why anyone would have a gold spoon," I said. "See, this is what professional tasters use. Steel has its own flavor. When your tasting, you need a gold spoon, has a neutral flavor, doesn't confuse your tongue. How's it feel knowing everything you've tasted you've tasted wrong?" he asked, laughing a bit. "I'm not sure," I said as he quickly hid his instrument and worked to get the warm trays on the cart for me to deliver. I made my way up to the third floor as Amelia got the meals for the second floor ready. I met all sorts of people, people with stories, people with worries, and people slowly falling into senility. I got to the last room on this run, room 322, and was greeted by a friendly and weak voice, "Are you here to read to me?" an old, overweight lady with a curled bunch of thinning hair on her head asked through a mouth missing more than less of her teeth. I had learned later her name was Mrs. LeBlanc, and that she was the oldest residence in the care of Shady Pines. "No, not the reader. She should be in later," I said, "it's dinner time," I brought the food to her as she sat up in a bed she probably hadn't left for at least a few months. "Could you read to me? They send a girl like you to read to us," she asked me. "I don't know. I have to get back downstairs to get the rest of the dinner," I said. "Gatsby, I love the Great Gatsby," she said, pointing to the book on her nightstand. "Would you believe I've read that book over a hundred times, but my eyes, they're so old now, I can't read anymore, Gatsby always made me comfortable, you know my husband was in the war too, he came back, and he won me," she said. Her voice was so horse and raspy, raspy like all the old people here. "Just read to me, the last girl didn't read to me, I thought when we had a new girl maybe she would, oh, I would love to just hear the first chapter," she said. I looked at my watch. The next meal wouldn't be ready to be taken up to the second floor for at least another ten minutes, "Okay, I guess I could, just the first chapter?" I asked as I took the book and pulled a small chair up to the bed. I began to read as she ate her re-heated dinner. As I neared the end of the first chapter, she dropped her fork and fell back on her three-layer bunch of pillows and drifted off into sleep, and it appeared to be a very deep sleep. She was out. I shrugged, got my cart, and wheeled it back to the service elevator to get back to the first floor and back to the kitchen for my next set of deliveries. On my way back to the kitchen, I passed one of the rooms, room 106, and an angry, old greybeard with a bald head lashed out at me, "It’s supper time, where’s my damn food,” he said. “It’s coming,” I said, jumping back a bit. He had nasty yellow teeth, most of them missing. Liver spots stuck out all over his skull and his beard was patchy in places, looking as if it had no care or concern for itself. He balanced himself on a cane with a silver wolf’s head on the handle of it. I would later come to learn that this was Mr. Abernathy, the resident grump of Shady Pines. The word I heard from the other residents was that he would just trudge around the common room the few times he wasn’t sequestering himself in his own room. He said he was just waiting to die. His kids were dead, his daughter was killed in a drunk driving accident, she was the drunk, and his son died of an OD after getting his first big acting job as a side character in some science fiction straight to DVD movie. I went back to the kitchen and got the next collection of trays. I delivered them to the second floor. Got my share of kind hellos from the little old ladies and got more than a few lecherous looks from some of the younger seventy-something men who fancied themselves on the market now that their wives were dead and the house sold to afford a nice nest egg for their comfy retirement and enough to leave a bit to their sometimes thankful children. Thankfully, I finished my run on the second floor without another request to read or provide some other such service. And I came back to Ms. Amelia and Mr. Monticello as they were cleaning. Well, really, Amelia was doing all the cleaning, being that it was later in the day, Mr. Monticello was basically taking a wet rag and wiping down the same spot he had been wiping for the last hour of my shift. With my four hours for the day done, I gave my apron to Ms. Amelia and clocked out for the day. When I pulled my civic into the parking lot of Shady Pines, I saw a big black van at the side of the building is loaded with a gurney and a black bag atop it that could be nothing else but a body. When I went inside to clock in with Amelia, I asked about the truck, and she told me that “Mrs. LeBlanc died last night,” she said, “Get used to it. How long you here? Six shifts, you most likely going to see at least three while you’re here, ” she said. Mrs. LeBlanc, that lady to who just yesterday I read the first chapter of the Great Gatsby. “Wait, I just talked to her,” I said, “I mean, I talked to her yesterday,” I said, “Was she really that bad? She looked healthy, I mean, at least I think she was healthy,” “People go when they go, no one controls it,” Amelia said. I shook off the haunting thought of maybe being the last person someone had talked to before they died and focused on my work. I just wanted to finish my shifts and get out of here. Said shifts were pretty simple, sometimes I would work the kitchen, and sometimes when I worked the kitchen, Mr. Monticello would try to tell me how fat is the number one killer in the middle of one of his foggier periods of men younger than he was. How it clogs one’s arteries and leads to heart attacks. He even told me that a heart attack is what put his younger brother in the grave at the tender age of sixty-nine. “You know you’re a nice girl. If my grandson wasn’t married, I would have liked to introduce you,” Mr. Monticello said. “Oh, that’s really nice,” I smiled and laughed nervously. Once again, after we heated the meals to Mr. Monticello’s instructions as Ms. Amelia was busy tending to a disruption caused by Mr. Abernathy, I had one of those bad days that Ms. Amelia warned me that tenants could have here at Shady Pines. I had finished my last delivery of the day, room 122. The door had a well out of date easter decoration, most likely from the tenant’s grandchild, that said the man in this room was a Mr. Schedony, “Is that you Karen?” he asked. I had learned later he was blind, like, blind-blind. “I can’t see, Karen, lovely Karen, just tell me you’re here,” he said. I learned later he was talking about his daughter, who hadn’t visited him in going on six years now. He was put in Shady Pines seven years ago. “I’m sorry, I’m not Karen,” I said, creeping into the room. “Oh you, you talked to Elizabeth,” he smiled, “Oh, I know you, I heard about you,” he said. Elizabeth, Mrs. LeBlanc as I knew her. “You like to read to us,” he sat up in his bed, his head looking around “The nurse brought me this book I had loaned Elizabeth, Great Gatsby, I loaned it to her what, two, three years ago, since my eyes went and I couldn’t read it myself, why don’t you read it to me?” he asked. “Umm, I kind of have to get back to work,” I said. That was a bit of a lie. He was my last delivery of the day. I would just have to wipe down some surfaces and set the oven to cleaning mode before my shift was done, and I could head out for the day. “Oh please, please read to me,” he took a deep breath. It sounded like it was hard for him to take a breath that deep as he fell back against his pillows. “Okay, I can read for you,” I said. I felt bad, this poor blind old man. He just wanted someone to read to him. I would discover soon that all any of these poor tenants wanted was just for someone to read to them. I went to the chair by his bed and took the book that was sitting on the nightstand. “Okay,” I shrugged and opened the book, and began to read the words. “Oh, thank you, such a nice story,” he smiled. I was halfway through the fourth page before he was passed out and snoring. The next day I arrived at Shady Pines, ready to bang out another shift and secretly hoping that I wouldn’t have another awkward encounter with a senior citizen who wanted me to read to them. I read The Great Gatsby in high school, and that one time was more than enough for me. Reading to these octogenarians, I found they passed out just before I finished the first chapter. As I parked my car, I saw the ambulance loading another black-bagged body into its carriage. I clocked in with Ms. Amelia, and sure enough, she told me that Mr. Shedony had passed last night, maybe earlier, the morning check-in at his room found him dead. The proper authorities were called to dispose of another dead resident of Shady Pines. “I got to tend to clean out the rooms of our recent vacancies. I’m gonna trust you with preparing the food. I can count on you, right?” Amelia asked. Mr. Monticello and I were in the kitchen being addressed by her, but I could tell she was only talking to me. It was a simple job, and after three days, I figured out how things needed to be done, and Mr. Monticello told me how things could be done better. I cooked the meals and delivered them as Mr. Monticello prepared the next round for the next floor. On this trip, I wasn’t badgered to read for someone. In fact, the tenants were a bit reserved to accept food from me. The ones happy to be in Shady Pines were at least. When I got to Mr. Abernathy’s room, he scowled and scolded me, “Where were you? Why don’t you do what you’re supposed to do?” he asked, angry and curmudgeonly. “Umm, I am. Here’s your dinner,” I said, handing him his heated tray. “Just bringing me food, can’t even do what you’re good at,” he said. I shook off his scolding and made my way back to the kitchen. Ms. Amelia was still busy dealing with cleaning out Mrs. LeBlac and Mr. Shedony’s rooms. Mr. Monticello came to me after we, I, was done wiping down the kitchen and getting it ready for another day of heating ready to eat meals. “I heard you’re leaving us soon,” he said, smiling. He was always so nice when he was functioning. When the demon of old age wasn’t putting him through the wringer, he really was a nice man. “Yeah, I’ll be here one more day, but yeah, I’m leaving,” I smiled. “I want to give you something,” he said. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m just working here. There’s no reason for you to give me anything,” I said. “No, no, my grandchildren don’t visit me, my children don’t even visit me, I’m not just going to leave this for them to pan through and fight each other for once I’m gone, and I hope to be gone soon,” he said. “Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re not going to be gone for a while, what are you? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, if you can crack seventy, that’s a good sign, and you were a health food chef,” I said, “If anyone here can crack ninety, it’s going to be you,” I said. “Oh, I’ve no intention of cracking ninety, come with me,” he said, leaving the kitchen as I followed him back to his room. Room 124, a room I skipped while he was busy in the kitchen. Ms. Amelia would bring him his meal after our work was done, give him some time to rest after a job well done. Once I followed him into his room, he went to his dresser and dug through his socks and underwear to find a trinket, a small pocket watch, gold shell, gold just like his tasting spoon. “This is the only thing I bought with the one big score of money I made. I put the rest in the nest egg that allowed me to retire in all the luxury you’ve seen that I live in,” he smiled and approached me, dangling the watch in his hands. I looked around, a modest, single bedroom. Small, cozy as someone trying to sell a person on living here would say. Spackled wallpaper with a flower pattern and a small bathroom with a walk-in bath lacking a rim that could cause the senior clientele of this building to trip and die before, or maybe after, their time. This room looked exactly like every other room I had seen while delivering food to the elderly resediments of Shady Pines. I reached my hand out. My only thought was to not look rude, not disappointed this poor, nice, old man who wanted nothing more but to give me a gift. He dropped the watch in my hand, and its chain fell into my palm, “I don’t need to know the time anymore. There’s no need for time, not here,” he smiled. “For this gift, I just have a favor,” he said as he took a seat on his bed, kicked off his shoes, and laid back, resting his head on a stack of two pillows. “What’s that?” I asked. Mr. Monticello pointed to his nightstand, “I got a gift from a dear friend, who himself got it from a dear friend, open the nightstand,” he said. I did, and inside the drawer was the well-worn copy of The Great Gatsby. The same copy I read to Mrs. Leblanc, the same copy I read to Mr. Shedony. “I’ve heard you like to read to us, please, would you read to me?” he asked. My eyes were wide as I saw that damn book, as I thought of the fate that the last two people I read this book to was, “I…I don’t know if I should,” I said. “Please, just read to me,” he said, getting comfortable in his bed, making sure he was well supported, in a position with little neck or back pain. “I’d really like to be read too,” he said. I gulped, my heart beating, it was just a coincidence I said to myself, “Okay, Mr. Monticello, I’ll read to you,” I took the book, I looked at the pocket watch he gave me, my four-hour shift was just now over, my last shift as just now over. Right now, I was just a volunteer helping out. I took a seat by the bed as Mr. Monticello folded his hands over his chest and found the sweet spot lying in his bed. I opened the book and took a deep breath, “In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.” I read to Mr. Monticello, and just before I finished the first chapter, he was passed out in a peaceful sleep. He looked so peaceful. I got up and found a spare tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away and left back to the kitchen to check out with Ms. Amelia. This was the last day of my service to Shady Pines. I had no reason to ever come back here. I came back the next day. I made sure to get there at seven o’clock when the residents awoke the seniors. Sure enough, there was an ambulance there, loading in a body wrapped in a black bag. I rushed inside through the front door. When I was an employee here, I was told to use the side door, but I was no longer an employee here, so I came in through the front. I made my way to the back room where the kitchen was, my eyes looking around, desperate to find Mr. Monticello. “Oh, you want to volunteer now?” Ms. Amelia asked, “You volunteer?” she asked again. “No, I don’t want to volunteer,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was force myself to carry more of those horrible meals to these old people who wanted me to read to them, “I just wanted to visit. Where is Mr. Monticello?” I asked, “Is he in the kitchen?” I asked. “Oh, sweety, Mr. Monticello is not with us anymore,” she said. I had to collect myself for a moment. I looked down, blamed myself, “He was smiling when he died, child. He was happy,” she said. “Can I go to his room?” I asked. “Child, we ain’t done cleaning it,” she said, “You don’t want to go to dead man’s room. What do you need there?” “There is something there, something that,” I shook my head, I had read the first chapter of that stupid book to three different people, and they had all died after I finished reading to them. That book was killing people. I had to get it out of here. “Can’t let you go into his room, that’s for his family to do, and after his family, we send people in to clean it, he died there, his son in here earlier, asking about some watch,” she said, “You see some watch he had, I have never seen him with some watch,” she said as she went back to her work, setting the oven to 250. I held my tongue, “No, I don’t know about any watch, how did…How did Mr. Monticello die?” I asked. “When someone that age dies, you don’t be asking questions. People that old just die said he went in his sleep the ambulance did, just a death, natural,” she said. “Natural death,” I nodded, taking another deep breath. “Where’s his funeral? Is he even having one?” I asked. Mr. Monticello was so nice, and he was nice to me. He told me that his kids didn’t give a damn about him. I gave a damn about him. He gave me his watch. I was maybe the last voice he heard before he passed. I wanted to go. “His family cremating him, no ceremony, I’m sorry, dear,” Ms. Amelia put her hand on my shoulder. “I just-” I was cut off by the sound of a gunshot ringing through Shady Pines. Ms. Amelia shrieked, “Oh God! oh god!” she cried out as we ran to the common room. Most of the tenants of Shady Pines were in shock, and for a good reason. Mr. Abernathy’s body was lying in the middle of the room, on the ground, a luger held loosely in his hand and a hole in the back of his head as he laid collapsed in the middle of the room. “What happened?” I asked. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” one of the younger ladies said, she was in her late sixties and new to Shady Pines, “He just came in and asked where the girl who reads was,” she said, she was crying, her wrinkly skin contorting as she tried to wipe her tears away. “What girl who reads?” I asked. “The girl who reads, he said, asked where’s that damn girl who reads, he said he just wanted to die,” she said.


“I think it came from 2 o’clock.” he has to shout over the sound of AK-47 fire. “Not a hundred percent but… yeah I’ve got muzzle flash third deck. Farthest right window.” the Iraqi soldiers continue to fire in apparently random directions. The Marine Sergeant’s keen eyes have done a trick that most times is impossible.They found the enemy. In this combination of the two worst case scenarios, an insurgency in a city, it is a rarity. Often times the only motivation behind an attack is money. A foreign born Islamic extremist supplies a local boy with a rifle and promises him five American dollars to go shoot at Americans. The boy dutifully goes out and finds some Americans, empties the magazine as fast as he can and runs away to return the rifle and collect his 5 bucks. Sometimes a similar scenario plays out because of threats to the boy's family. Not many residents of Fallujah want to fight anymore; especially in this goddamn heat. The last few months, most of the guys being captured are Somali, Egyptian, Libyan, Saudi etc. Regardless of who, what, when, where or why it happens, the Iraqi Army soldier’s response is the same. Ninety percent of them will just start shooting. Randomly. Sporadically. Dangerously. The Captain and his team call it “The Iraqi Death Blossom.” To be fair, it does make you feel better to do something, anything, when the shooting starts. While moving with a foot patrol, the Captain’s unit has taken fire. The Captain and the Sergeant do not fire, they just take cover and try to identify the direction of fire in this concrete canyon. The interpreter does not fire because he really wants to be a Marine. Even though he is from Basra, Iraq; he models his behavior and speech after the U.S. Marines he lives and works with. His name is Crash and he carries a folding stock Kalashnikov rifle with a laser pointer pen taped to the side. “Ok, good shit! Crash get on the IA (Iraqi Army) freq (frequency) and tell the mulazim (Arabic for lieutenant) to set security and get me a clearance team...tell him over there in the alley to the left.” Crash follows the Captain as he translates the Captain’s order. The Sergeant brings up the rear. Together they make their way to the corner of the building the Captain indicated, using as much cover as they can find. Two Iraqi soldiers and a sergeant meet them there a few minutes later. “Crash, get these three to follow us and help clear the building. Sergeant M you stay with the Iraqi Sergeant no matter what and try to keep them moving. Alright, Crash, are they good? Yes? Ok good, let’s go.” the Captain stands and moves toward the door of the three story building. As usual in this type of situation, the words “kill zone” repeat over and over in his mind. This happens everytime he clears a building. In training exercises the words were used over and over. “Stay out of the kill zone! Get inside.” the one-eyed Gunnery Sergeant would bark. The exterior of the building is a kill zone. The doorway is a kill zone. Hallways are kill zones. Stairs are kill zones. Everywhere is a fucking kill zone in these buildings. His body ramps up. Senses on high alert. Totally focused on the task at hand. His nervousness falls away. Pausing at the doorway he tries the latch. The door opens silently. His left hand comes up with three fingers extended. A hand comes down on his shoulder indicating the man behind him is set. Breathe. Fingers drop in sequence three, two, one. The rifle’s light comes on with a squeeze of the front grip. Front kick the door. Go! Button hook to the left. Weapon sweeps, “Left side, clear.” The building looks to be abandoned “Right side, clear” comes the reply. “Overhead, clear. I have a small room and stairs far corner. Stack on me.” The Captain notices that it is only Crash who has followed him in. There is no time to waste in these situations because speed of movement and unpredictability are slim advantages that must be exploited. He moves to the base of the stairs and raises his left hand again. A hand comes down on his shoulder. Fingers start dropping three, two….”Grenade!” he shouts and dives back into the first room. Crash lands next to him just as the Whump! of the explosion reaches their ears. As metal shards are still clattering, the Captain is up and running toward the stairs. Someone is there at the top of the flight of stairs. They are either on their way down to check on the result of their grenade or they are somewhat stunned and blinded. The explosive force has kicked up enough dust to obscure the entire stairwell. This is his best chance. Up the stairs he goes. Weapon in his shoulder and barrel pivoting rapidly up the stairs and back up the next flight. As he turns the corner a shape appears in the dust cloud. He knows he should see a weapon before he shoots. He sees something that looks like a rifle held sloppily. A shot and then two more ring out. It isn’t until he feels his own thumb on the safety lever that he realizes he has fired. No time to stop now. The shape is gone and he steps smoothly and steadily up the stairs. Second floor has two closed doors and a hallway. Dust still hasn’t settled yet. The Captain pauses with his rifle pointed down the hallway. There is a body sprawled with a rifle at the head of the stairs. There is no response when he grabs the AK-47 and slings it around his body. “Set,” he calls. Quickly pivoting between the hallway and the rising stairs he waits. A hand lands on his shoulder and Crash says “Set.” Together the two of them ascend to the next level. Crash knows this business after a year with the Marines and they work their way from the top to the bottom. In a top room they find a small pile of brass. This looks like the room the shots came from. On the second floor they find the gunman but nothing else. On the first floor they find the Marine Sergeant. He peeks out the front window and grumbles. “So, they didn’t come in?” The Captain asks. “Fuck no,sir. I have no idea why.” the Sergeant almost spits the words out. Crash gets on his radio that is tuned to the Iraqi Army station and begins to ask questions in a loud authoritative voice. After a minute he launches into an explanation about the wrong IA sergeant coming to the building and the soldiers wanting to wait for their own sergeant. The Captain stops listening. His mind is back in Camp Lejeune thinking about the house to house fighting training they received. He remembers being told that one should never assault a building with less than three, four man fire teams. Well, he thinks, I guess one Marine and a terp is good enough this time. Well, as long as the terp is like Crash. On the next trip to Camp Fallujah, the Captain goes to the PX and buys some Lance Corporal chevrons. In a small ceremony, reciting the promotion warrant from memory, he promotes Crash the terp to honorary Lance Corporal, USMC. He earned it and upholds the proud tradition many times after that. (Footnote: Crash came to the United States in 2009, sponsored by one of the Marines he served with. He became a Marine at the age of 26 and was stationed in Camp Lejeune at last report. He was a Lance Corporal for a second time.