“We should never have come back here” I thought to myself. Although I wanted to voice my concerns to the rest of the group, I could tell they were already unsettled and didn’t need me planting more seeds of doubt. We continued trudging along on the dusty surface. Each step kicked up a cloud of grey dust that nearly eclipsed the way forward when it met the light of our headlamps. We were surrounded by total darkness, barely able to make out the silhouettes of the rest of our group who had hurried on ahead of us. “We better tell them to slow down” I yelled to Dr. Reed beside me. He nodded in agreement and started messing with his equipment. After a moment he sighed, took a deep breath, and replied “I think their radios might be down”. “So, then we will have to pick up the pace and catch up” I said as I hurried my cadence, as did Dr. Reed. Ahead, the rest of our group had widened the gap. The only sign of them was the blurred and dim light projected by their headlamps bobbing along in the distance. We carried on in silence for what seemed like hours, hurrying to try and catch our companions. “It looks like they are already ascending the wall of the crater” Dr. Reed said, gesturing at the trail of footprints in front of us leading up the mountainous hill. “I don’t know why they’re in such a hurry” I said, disgruntled at their impatience. “I think they’re just excited to bring back what we found” suggested Dr. Reed as he got down on all fours and began to crawl up the steep incline. “What did we find?” I asked, prodding the scientist for more information. I was just a pilot after all. Sometimes it felt more like a taxi driver for these scientists than anything. “We won’t know until we’ve gotten a chance to analyze it, but this could be the biggest scientific discovery of all time”, came Dr. Reed’s reply over the radio, nearly drowned out by a crackling we had been hearing from the rest of our group for quite some time. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me, using the limited light of my headlamp to find reliable holds so I didn’t get sent tumbling down into the bottom of the crater like the rocks giving way beneath my feet. Reaching the top of the enormous hill, I rolled onto the flat terrain and gasped desperately for air. For the first time in the entire journey, I was thankful for the metallic and unnatural smelling oxygen in my helmet. Upon catching my breath, I sat up and glanced around trying to locate how far the group had gotten. Through the crackling on the radio the brief sound of labored breathing cut through the background noise before it was muffled again. “That’s not your breathing is it?” I asked turning to Dr. Reed. “I haven’t had to breathe that hard since the last time I ran a marathon in Boston” he replied. “Well at least it sounds like the radios may be working again” I suggested. “Maybe” he said while deep in thought. “It sounds like they’re rushing” “Just excited to run some tests?” I inquired. “I don’t think so” Dr. Reed answered. “We had better get moving”. Both of us rose to our feet and again quickened our pace, following the footsteps of the others. Either the air in the helmet or the pace we were moving at had begun to give me a headache, but we continued, desperate not to let the lights ahead of us vanish into total darkness. Despite our best efforts one of the lights marking the location of one of our companions faded from view. The two other lights began to oscillate even quicker. “It looks like they’re really moving now” Dr. Reed said in a worried tone. As if to accentuate his point, the labored breathing cut through the crackling of the radio. It no longer sounded like exhaustion. It sounded like panic. A second light cut out in the darkness, leaving one lone light to guide us. The light paused briefly. “They must be waiting for us!” I exclaimed before the final light vanished. “Keep moving” Dr. Reed ordered. With nothing to guide us now but our headlamps we carried on forward to where we had last seen the lights of the rest of our group. Each step we followed the trail left by the others, although we could only see 3 or so stride lengths before the trail was obscured by darkness. Dr. Reed had taken the lead. His superior physical fitness meant he could have easily outpaced me if he chose to. I was thankful that he was kind enough to stick with me. He stopped for a moment to consider the ground in front of him. A moment later he recoiled in shock and blindly threw his hand behind him to stop me moving forward. His hand landed in the middle of my chest and brought me to a rapid halt. I followed his gaze to a dark red fluid pooling in the dirt in front of us. The blood flowed calmly into the footprints left behind by our group. The ground surrounding us had changed from the undisturbed dust of the last several miles into a pockmarked terrain bearing long, straight, triplets of three-inch-wide grooves gouged deep into the dirt. Sitting partially submerged in the largest pool of blood was a shattered head lamp. Both Dr. Reed and I stood in shock until he snapped out of it and in a low, serious tone his voice came over the radio. “Move”. Both of us broke into a run following the two sets of footprints still ahead of us. The gouges in the dust encompassed both edges of the trail of footprints and dug deeper into the ground, creating even longer stretches of disturbed dust. Whatever had been creating the marks appeared to be moving faster, and in the same direction as at least two members of our party. It wasn’t long before we stumbled upon a corpse laying face up. Their helmet had been smashed and the face underneath smeared with blood but the nametag on the breast of their suit was still legible. “Watson” said Dr. Reed. “The engineer”. This was far from the first time I had stumbled upon the body of a close friend. In Vietnam I had seen the horrifying things that modern weaponry can do to a human body. This body, however, turned my stomach. It had not been shot or burned. It bore no obvious signs of trauma at all until I rolled it over with my foot. From the base of the skull down to the lower back, Watson’s body bore a wound matching the marks on the ground around us. It took all my fortitude not to vomit inside of my helmet but thankfully Dr. Reed grabbed my arm and pulled me forward in the direction of a lone set of footprints. After another minute or two we found the last member of our team. This body was mutilated more than Watson’s had been and was unidentifiable yet bore the same wounds. Still clutched in their arms was the briefcase that contained the strange sample we had found in the bottom of the crater. The reason we came on this mission in the first place. To find evidence of life. Dr. Reed pulled the briefcase from the arms of our fallen team member and their limbs came to rest gently on the ground. Small clouds of dust kicked up and then settled on their sleeves and gloves. “It should just be up this hill in front of us” I said to Dr. Reed. The terrain illuminated by our headlamps arced unmistakably upwards into the darkness. “Almost there” he replied. Again, we set off running towards our destination. Dr. Reed let the briefcase swing by his side as we ran. In my peripheral vision a dark silhouette rushed by on my left just outside of the arc of light projecting from my head lamp. Then another to the right of Dr. Reed. Then another directly ahead. The only sound was the blood pounding inside my own head. I could not directly see or hear anything, but both Dr. Reed and I knew that we were being watched. Suddenly Dr. Reed came to an abrupt stop and I heard his voice come over the radio. “Keep going” he said confidently. “I think they just want the sample”. “Let’s get out of here then!” I shouted back, faltering in my pace, and stumbling forward up the hill. “No” he replied. “They don’t want you they just want the sample. They don’t have to take us both. You can still make it. Tell people what we found here. Life”. With a caricature of a proper salute, a decent attempt by an academic, Dr. Reed turned and rushed back downhill again. Before I could protest, I heard a click on the radio and realized that he had shut his off. Now everything was truly silent, and I was truly alone. The silhouetted figures at the edges of my light source swiftly retreated and appeared to be heading back downhill, undoubtedly following Dr. Reed. I forced myself to turn and continue climbing uphill, tormented by the idea that Dr. Reed had sacrificed his life for mine, but not wanting his sacrifice to go to waste. I carried on through the darkness although my legs were screaming for me to stop. Even the pure oxygen in my lungs seemingly wasn’t enough air to match the effort of the climb. I ignored my body’s protests and dropped to all fours and continued upward. I had no idea how much time I had or if Dr. Reed’s theory that they were after the sample was correct. At last, ahead of me I could see the hill ending in a sharp grey peak. I reached out to grab the top edge and the rocks gave way under my hands, tumbling harmlessly down the hill into the darkness below. I adjust my grip and heaved myself over the edge onto a small plateau. Below me I could see the barren, grey, and featureless landscape with our lunar lander sitting peacefully where we had left it. Nearly 250,000 miles away I saw the Earth. Our little blue dot. Our home. A planet swarming with life. Its pale glow was a comforting contrast to the darkness behind me. The sun was beginning to emerge from behind the planet and cast light across the empty plain below me. Its warm glow reflected into my eyes off the metallic panels of the lunar lander. Apollo 18, the final mission to the moon, was nearly complete. We had been sent back in secret one last time to search for signs of life on the dark side of the moon. Even without the sample, life was undeniable. I caught my breath and stepped forward to descend into the empty plain below as the warmth of the sun washed over me. Then I felt it. That feeling as if I was being watched. As if something was right behind me. I glanced up once more at the Earth. Home seemed so close but was so far away. As the stalkers from the darkness raised their claws to strike, I closed my eyes, enjoyed one last moment of sunshine and thought “we should never have come back here”.


Anna does her makeup in the rafters. She dabs her brush in the creamy white paint, slathering it on in fat globs. Once, back when she hid in her parents’ long shadows, she was given the luxury of a mirror. Now, though, her hands paint her face’s canvas so much the movements become ingrained within her, muscle memory.

The circus, after all, has no private dressing room. This would be the best she could do. Her reputation had to be kept in pristine condition; they couldn’t know that she was human. It would spoil the act. Its magic. Below her, the stage shines with a clear black sheen, as it has since the circus' conception. One of the newbies--a tightrope walker--sweeps the floor with a broom. The space is a sacred one, as anyone in the family of Mystique would tell you. And though each night the audience dips through the magnificent flaps of the red-and-white pinstriped tent, the black sheen of the floor is the circus’ signature. Only the veterans would remember that before the tent, there was only the midnight floor, and the Mystique would still do what they had to do to put on a show.

Anna learned about the floor's history from her parents, the former trapeze artists of the Mystique. The ringleader, Gus, used to stand in the middle of the raised stage and introduce them with a flourish. “Presenting, the Aquaivos Pair in their dance across the sky!” Anna takes her forefinger and dips it into the red paint, then her middle finger in the blue. On instinct, she blends them over her eyelids and on her cheekbones as an accentuated eyeshadow and rogue.

Even without the mirror, she knows the job isn’t perfect. The paint doesn’t sit right on the cheekbones, the eyeshadow too deep, the paint too thick.

From the rafters, she can hear Gus reciting his introductions for the upcoming show: “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Once makeup is complete, Anna stretches her shoulders behind her, lolling her head from left to right, right to left. Hooking her feet into the rafters, she stretches her quads by leaning into the bar opposite herself. In the spandex leotard, her ribs dig into the elastic, like a cage trapping her heart. Below, Gus continues his bellows like a trumpet on parade. Anna times her arm swings with the tempo of his cries, one arm then the next then a leg and the next. “Presenting--” “Thirty minutes!” People begin filing in, two couples leaning into one another like willow trees. Five children run in with various colors of balloons, chased soon after by parents with cotton candy. The sleek scent of hydrogen peroxide quickly dissipates into the buttery notes of popcorn and sweets, the things that her childhood disallowed during her training. “What’s bad for the body is bad for the mind,” her father would recite like an incantation.

Sometimes, she would fantasize about candy apples in her sleep. The sweet crunch of the skin between her pearl teeth, saturating below the skin and sliding in sticky smooth streaks along her stomach. Alas, she was a performer, and there are certain sacrifices that she makes for her craft.

To this day, she’s yet to eat any of the circus delicacies.

From her place in the rafters, muscle memory guides her hands through the spotlights. During her training, her mother taught her how to work the machinery above the tent. “It’s our job to be the sun,” her mother would say, lifting the spotlight above her head in triumph. Even still, she could never finese the light in place like her mother, but she was getting there. Steadily, she’s understood what her mother meant by becoming the sun. From her bird’s nest, Anna can see the expanse of the spectacle below her. Crowds line the wooden seats, and through her training, she’s learned the difference between the newcomers and the veterans. There’s the difference between the bob of their heads, the lack of excitement mixed with the dull ache for a lost childhood. Past them, she looks backstage, a pinstripe curtain dividing the audience with the wings. The performers rush to strip their everyday clothes with the stripes and sequins of the stage (many of the performers work day jobs now; an artist’s salary cannot cover the expenses of a lifetime, not anymore). If they would all just look up, they’d see the purple-sequined beauty that is the pride of the circus.

If they looked up, she didn’t know whether she would be able to continue.

Up here is her safe haven, the place that only the Aquaivos could come. She was vulnerable here. To take that away, to blast her secret to the world stage, well…that would be cruel, wouldn’t it?

They’d see her for the girl that she was, the one she craved for yet never wanted to be again.

All at once, the pearl lights in the tent cut out, casting the audience in dark. Children squeal, and even the adults wail in their excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

The crowd cheers and Anna hooks her fingers into the grooves of the spotlight, swirling it in the way her mother taught her. Not quite perfect, but getting there. In his silhouette of darkness, Gus puffs his chest, flashing his black and white pinstripe.

“Welcome, my friends, to the spectacle of a lifetime” The spotlights grow closer to his figure in the center of the black floor, exposing a foot, an outstretched hand. “Welcome,” he bellows, “to the Mystique!”  A fire sparks, and the show begins. Fire-spinners, contortionists, trumpets, and drums cover the shiny black floor. Per her training, Anna drags the lights along the circus folk, accentuating their acts or the sequined petticoats of their dresses. It’s magnificent, yes, but merely a taster. A warmup, she knows, for one star.

Anna rolls her ankles, flexing her toes underneath her. Tonight, like every night, she’s painfully aware of the bright purple sequins on her bodice, the jewels intertwined in her hair. Her painted face. The black sheen of the floor. The long, long drop to the floor. She feels the whisper of her father at her nape. “Anna, you will catch yourself. It is what you were born to do.” She picks at the jewels at her neckline. “It is what we were born to do.” The lion tamer bows beneath the spotlight Anna cast on his scarred face. Two years ago, the stagehand forgot to feed the lion before the act began. The tamer paid the price; if anything, it made his facade more dramatic. After that day, Gus gave the man a pay raise and the second-to-last slot in the Mystique's nightly shows. Now, the ringleader steps into the white light, the grand old smile plastered on his face. In his hands, he holds the trapeze, lowered for his convenient grasp. “My friends,” he says. “We have seen the impossible tonight. Fire breathers, lion tamers, you have seen the greatest feats tonight ever made by mankind.” The crowd cheers at that, and Gus bathes in its joyous ring. “Yet there is still one thing left to be seen.” At that, he tosses the trapeze into the air, and it rises higher and higher, up into the rafters. In the shadows, even Anna watches in awe. She roll her ankles again, then again, licking her painted lips. Every artist has their ritual: for Anna, she wriggles each finger, then each toe, then taps each thumb to her forefinger three times, then four. She'd stolen it from her father; she would watched him do it every night before he began his running start.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus announces with his trumpeting cry. “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Anna leaps as the trapeze rises to her arm's length. For a moment, she stretches in the air, weightless. She’s a rubber band, spineless in the air. Below, the audience finally looks up, letting out an audible gasp.  Every night, it’s the same reaction, but it feeds a primal instinct within her. In her pristine leotard, studded purple and silver, she yowls into the chamber. It echoes off the tent’s walls.

Her parents would disapprove, but it’s a part of her act now.

She grasps the bar easily, and the audience cheers with a silent relief. Through her training, Anna learned each expression that would leave her audience speechless. Now, she bears her teeth, her body slack of life or movement. She is a corpse on the trapeze, swaying listlessly on the bar.

She is the spawn of the unnatural, a creature of the circus.

With a manic grin, Anna lets go of the bar, somersaulting in the air. A woman below her screams. Before then, it was her parents, her father on one end of the tent and her mother on the other. They were entrancing together, humanoid yet seamlessly boneless. They were meant for each other in the way they floated, like two lilies on the current of a stream. Every night, Anna would watch them from her place on the rafters, trapped in their hypnotic movement.

She wondered if that’s how the audience saw her now. The bar swings back to her, and she catches it again on her way down. Now the audience is silent, fixated on the speck of purple swinging like a pendulum on her trajectory through the air. This was her parent’s act, swirls and spins like flowers. Every night, they would change it, never pairing any two moves together. Together, they were unstoppable. Until they weren’t.

For a second, Anna glances at the floor, her heart in her chest. If she looked closely at the black sheen, one spot gleams duller than all the others. She would know; no matter how hard she mopped the floor, the bloodstains wouldn't come out. In her next spin, two of her fingers miss the bar, and she falters. Now, it’s not just the woman screaming. White paint trickles in its fat globs down her neck, and she growls again, a sick sound weaving its way through the crowd. She wouldn’t make the mistake her parent did that night. She couldn’t. It all happens so fast. A distraction, a flicker of light, the clap of thunder in the dark. A simple cough midflight.

That was the Aquaivos’ downfall, a cold that Anna’s mother was convinced that she could push through. A sneeze during the final spin. She missed the bar, and she fell, falling, spinning not with the grace of a swirl but rather of a bird without wings. Her other half--the oh so noble husband--tried desperately to save her. In the end, they both collapsed on the black floor, the grace of their flight ending in the sharp edges of a quick and quiet doom. Anna watched in horror in the rafters.

Yet, in the next heartbeat, Gus spun the story of their tragic demise. He turned their mistake into the spectacle of their spawn’s birth. The Aquaivos had the intuition of the trapeze; the ringleader has the intuition of showmanship. The next night, Anna began her first performance. She’s done it ever since. The Aquaivos’ spawn completes her final spin in the air, catching the bar and threading her legs through the trapeze. Hands-free, she drapes herself down like a chandelier in the air, blood rushing red into her skull and tinting the audience red. At once, the cheers become deafening, a cacophony of whistles whose chants scream loud and clear. “Long live Aquaivos, long live Aquaivos!” Tears stain Anna’s eyes, but she bites them down in one last yowl. A sound of anger and desperation, longing and loss. To the audience, her act delights them, a product of their curiosity about her, her legendary bloodline. For a moment, she plays into their suspension of disbelief--she is a creature born of unnatural physical prowess, one whose intuition allows her to fly.

But then the lights in the tent snap off, and the trapeze guides her back up into the sky. The tears streak her facepaint, but no one can see her up here. Once she takes hold of the rafters, Anna collapses to her stomach, silencing her wails with sweaty palms. Her tears run white with the face paint, but the crowd cheers too loudly to hear her weeping. Sniffling, she brings herself to her feet, gently guiding the spotlight back onto the ringleader of the Mystique’s spectacle. The show, after all, must go on.

Gus reappears through the back curtain. He wears a suit of sequins now, blinding and silver in the light. For an instant, his eyes flicker up at her, and the deep sadness in those wells of blue sends a silent shiver through her. He'd seen her slip up. Nothing flies past him. After Anna’s first performance, Gus climbed up the rafters to see her racked with uncontrollable tears. Together, they’d wept with their feet dangling over the obsidian floor.

But then his eyes flicker back to the people before him, eyes glassy. He’s the true showman, Anna thinks. Perhaps the only one left in this circus.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus bellows with his manic grin. “We are the Mystique! Thank you, and goodnight!”


Max Evans tugged on his blanket falling off his shoulder, and pulled it closer. He sat in front of his laptop like he did most Saturday mornings – writing and working on his book, trying like hell to get out of the funk he was in; grunting through trying to find the right words.

He stopped, put his head in his hands and sighed. He turned around to look out the window of his sixth-floor apartment behind him, watching those in the courtyard: a couple walking hand in hand, an elderly man feeding pigeons, and kids playing in the park. People seemed happy even in the cold fall weather; anything that would jar a thought, image, and something to get him out of the writer’s cramp he had been feeling for two weeks. He turned to take a drink of his coffee when he looked across the room; an envelope slipped under the front door, followed by the shadow of feet left behind by the one who left the inquiry.

He paused mid-sip and then eased his mug on the desk. He leaned forward so as to not make a sound. He got up and walked over carefully, wondering if the person who just slipped it under was still there. He gently pressed his ear to the door, only to hear the elevator bell ring, and the doors close. An uninvited guest was something Maxx wasn’t in the mood for, but figured if things were going to get weird, it would have happened by now.

He reached down to pick it up. It was a perfectly square and rigid envelope, like an invitation or thank-you size. He walked it back to the desk and opened it up with his pocket knife; sliding out a card with the initials JH on the front, a medium thin black border all around the front of the card. Max opened it up and started reading the rough and jagged letters.

My dearest Maxwell,

It has been a long time since I last saw you, well, since you last saw me. I remembered you as a child, before you would even have any recollection of me. In fact, I am quite positive that your father has never mentioned me, and in many ways, I fear that you don’t even know I exist. I attended his viewing and funeral, but kept to the shadows, so as to not disturb your mother. Let’s just say your mother never really liked me; I don’t blame her, didn’t like me either.

But I have been watching you from your window from time to time. Oh, no need to close those curtains now. For when you have received this, I have probably been deceased for several days. But I digress. I have noticed some things about you that frankly worry me.

I know that I, though dead, can help you and enrich your life in some way. To show you things, magical things that may benefit you in your future. Why, you may ask? Because no matter how many times you get kicked down, you always get up. You try, despite all of your failures; and I admire that. You remind me of my younger self – not attempting to scare you the most, doesn’t it?

I know that you are struggling with that book of yours. I have read much of it, and it has promise and I like the story; especially the line, “As for me, I am plagued with a great many distant things; to ride the hidden lands from coast to coast.” Which sounds eerily similar to Moby Dick, so you might consider revisions. I’m sure prison doesn’t suit you, and you’re too poor to survive the legalities.

I possess a large inheritance that I have no one to give to. And it can all be yours. But there is one catch. You have to complete a task for me, after which you will be given a key, along with the address to my flat. Fail, and we both lose. But I am confident you will make the right choice.

Sincerely,

“Uncle Jim”

He sat there, really not knowing what to say. Who is this guy, and why now after all these years? How did he read my book since it’s not even written yet with the exception of a few chapters?

He picked up the phone and called his mom. No answer. Just her chipper voice on the other end, embedded in silicon. He called again; then a third time. No answer. Max slammed the phone down, grabbed the card and flipped it over.

“Father knows best. And it’s best to bring lilies.” Joshua 6:4 Max read it over and over trying to make sense of this clue. After frantically searching for the bible his father gave him years ago, he dusted it off to find Joshua 6 verse 4, hoping that another clue would be in the pages. But, when he thumbed through it, it read:

“And seven priests shall bear seven trumpets of rams’ horns before the ark. But the seventh day, you shall march around the city seven times, and the priests shall blow the trumpets.” He sat back at his desk and scratched his head, picking up pieces in this mysterious note. About a half hour went by, and realized that it was Saturday, which would be the seventh day. So, whatever he had to do was today. He could tell time was running short. Lilies were a popular funeral flower, and it was pointed out that father knows best, not the show in particular, but… then it hit him. He had to go see his father, visit his grave.

–--- It’s been a long time since he visited his dad’s grave on the other side of town. But, if nothing came of it, it would not be a loss at all. On the way to the cemetery, he picked up some lilies at the local flower shop along the way, the whole time thinking about what type of things “Uncle Jim” had said he needed to learn. Max sighed and stepped out of his truck with flowers in hand; gritting his teeth as the wind and cold air whipped him in the face. The cemetery was empty and quiet except for the occasional crunch of the fallen leaves below his feet from the few trees still left on the property. His father’s grave was in the back away from others, just sitting there alone, and cold.

The stone was covered in moss and dirt. He hung his head; sorry that he never came out to clean it. A flood of emotions ran through his mind, and even thinking that, as weird as this note was, that his dad would meet him there alive and well. But that wasn’t the case. He stood at the foot of the plot. A tear began to form, and then traveling halfway down, he brushed it aside. It made his heart glad to bring flowers; something he would have never thought to do on his own. Max stooped down and placed the flowers in the metal vase; the lilies tilted at all angles, one falling out. Annoyed, he took the flowers out and tried again. He removed the cylinder. What in the world must be stuck inside? He turned the vase over and smacked the bottom to jar whatever was in there, loose. Out came a roll of bills. He gasped and fell backwards; his widened eyes staring at it on the ground. Max got up slowly and looked around, to make sure no one was watching. He looked inside the vase and found a second, and third wad, just like the first; all one-hundred-dollar bills. He took the money in his hand and thumbed through it; which he could only guess was about $7,000. His heart beat heavy, and thought of the bills he could pay off, and get the bill collectors off his back, not to mention heat in the apartment would be nice too.

He started to whisk back to the truck, then halted halfway. Something’s not right , he thought, and reached into his pocket to view the bible verse he jotted down on the card. He sat there, thinking for a minute. “Walk around seven times,” he said to himself. “Around the gravesite, or the cemetery?” Turning around he slowly walked back to his father and walked around his grave.

There it was, taped to the back of the stone, was a note in a plastic Ziploc®. With hesitation, he removed it, and read the note.

Dearest Max,

I assume if you are reading this, you found the small fortune. If not, it’s obvious you didn’t buy flowers. It makes my heart glad to see that you received it.

But, don’t thank me just yet, for you may hate me; but this money is not for you. I need you to do something for me. I need you to give this away. All of it. But my instruction is clear—give no less than $100 and no more than $1000 to a single individual. The choice is yours to whom you bless. But all I ask is that you pray, and use wisdom as to whom you should receive.

Sincerely,

“Uncle Jim” Max’ heart shrunk, and he felt deflated, and almost light-headed as he collapsed onto the ground beside his dad. He felt just as cold, but then hot as his blood boiled, face flushed. He turned the note over and over, with no other instructions, he crushed it in his fist and threw it at his father’s stone.

“Screw that! I’ve had enough,” Max yelled. “No, not doing it. I’ve spent much of my life helping others and look where it got me. Nowhere!”

He jammed the money in his coat, got up and started walking away. But he could feel the tug on his heart, and looking back at his dad, his head sunk. “What would you do, old man?!” he yelled at his father. “Think, think, think,” he said squinting his eyes and tapping his head with one of the wads. A few minutes later he grimaced, “You’re right. Go for it. You always said to go for broke.”

Max walked back to his truck, got in and laid his head on the steering wheel and sighed. He looked down at his watch; 4:20 pm. Too late to do anything about it now. And so, he went home.

––--- Over the next several days, Max gave away all the money. To some he only gave a hundred. To others he gave more, according to each his or her need. Many times, he found himself listening to people’s conversations so as to glean information to see if they would be a good match. Even that woman who was mean to the clerk of the grocery store when her card wouldn’t work and it changed her tone completely.

But with each person he gave, he took the time to learn more about their story. He talked with them, and spent some time listening to their problems, their dreams, and how many of them really prayed for help. With each one he gave, his heart grew warmer and less heavy, not thinking about his own problems, but considering others for once. He never was a people person before; hiding in his loft looking down at the world. But now he sat in the park, watching people closer. He smiled listening to conversations, and prayed silently to himself that God would help them.

––--- Several weeks had passed since he gave the last of his newfound treasure away. He had no regrets, and agreed with his soul that it was better to give than it was to receive. He walked to the park from his loft and sat down at the usual spot. Bethany, and her little girl, Ashley, walked over towards him, shortly after sitting down.

“Hi, Max,” said Bethany. “An elderly man asked me to give this to you.” Little Ashley made eye contact with Max and reached out her hands and held an envelope – quite like the others.

“Why, thank you. I had been expecting this for a few days now. I’m glad you found me,” as he smiled and accepted the envelope from the child. He stared at the envelope and a flood of emotions came to him. But it wasn’t the usual anger that he felt, but more relief. He smiled sheepishly, for part of him wanted to read it; the other wanted to burn it.

“Everything ok?” Bethany tapped him on the leg to wake him from the trance.

“Oh, sorry. Everything is good. If you will excuse me, I should probably read this in private. It could be bad news.” He got up and started to walk across the soccer field, the crunch of the frozen grass beneath his feet.

Dear Mr. Evans,

Mr. Hothorne regrets not being able to write this last note. He suffered much in his last days. But he wanted me to give you this among other things.

I have been watching you closely, and I know Mr. Hothorne would have been proud of you. Please come to his flat as soon as possible, because I am in the middle of packing and will be moving soon.

The address is easy. It’s directly above yours.

See you shortly,

Mr. Hawthorne’s Nurse, Robert. Max paused and stood in the middle of the playground, looked down, around, and down again, and smiled. Emotions came in like a flood. He didn’t know what to think, but no matter what crossed his mind, they all led him to go immediately to meet Robert. He turned around to walk towards the direction of his condo, when he saw a flash of him through the window, staring down at him, and walked away. He hurried up his pace, having so many questions, he wanted them all answered. Would he know the answers to the questions—especially the “Uncle” one.

As the elevator went up, so did his excitement. The doors opened, and it was like being on his floor, without the Christmas decorations on the doors of Mrs. Beachwood and Mr. Hamm. He walked over to the door that he would normally go to one floor below, and by mistake, tried to turn the handle. “Ugh, not your apartment dummy.” He realized now that he was on the other side of the door, casting the shadow into their living room, with the one inside wondering who it could be. But he knows, for he summoned him, through letters left unfinished.

The door opened. A slender older gentleman answered. “Robert, I presume?” Max asked. “Hello Max. I already know who you are,” Robert said with a smile. “I’m sure you have many questions; come inside,” and he motioned Max to do so.

He walked through the entryway, and the inside was beautiful—nothing like his condo below. Every wall that would have been bare in the rooms below were taken up by bookshelves full of books. The entire place looked like a library on the inside. To the furthest part of the room, where his desk would be, was a desk much nicer than his. As cluttered as this dwelling was, it was tidy, and clean.

“I have a few questions,” Max said. “For starters, who is Jim Maxwell?”

“He was a good friend of your father’s from prep school,” Robert said with a smile on his face. “Your dad was a good man. I liked him.”

“I was wondering. I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning him before.”

“Well, they had a falling out several years prior to your dad’s passing,” Robert, folding his arms, rocking back and forth.

“O.K., but how…” “Did he read your book?” Robert laughed with a huge smile. He pointed towards the desk near the window. Leaning against the corner looked like a long tube. “I almost don’t want to give that away. But it was easy. It's a periscope. He used it to observe you. But then when he wanted to read your writing; it's how he was able to get your passwords. I admit, it's as creepy as it sounds. But he really did like your writing. That's what drew him to you."

Max folded his arms and stepped back, rolling his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He looked around and gave the room another once-over. In the center, on the dining room table, there was an open-faced note with a key on top; two chairs pulled out.

“These are for you,” Robert said, as he slid the note and key to Max. He picked up the letter and read on: My Dearest Max,

I wish I could be there to give this to you in person. But I’m sure Robert will tell you about all that you need to know. Since you received this, I am pleased to let you know that this entire place is yours, and will be transferred to your name shortly. Robert is a very good judge of character, and a good man himself. You did what you were supposed to do, giving all the money away, without leaving any for yourself. You make an old man very proud.

How do you feel? I can imagine you quite elated. My fortune is not of monetary value, for that will be given to Robert. It’s not much, but he deserves it for taking such good care of me the last few years. The cancer treatments took most of my wealth away. But the fortune for you is: this flat, which is paid for; every book, furniture, and piece of clothing, and jewelry. It’s all yours.

Now you are a complete man—for the reason was this: there are just some things you can’t learn from a book. Humility, integrity, and love for others. Those are the greatest treasures of all.

Sincerely,

Uncle Jim


“Sir, the humans in sim 7620 are getting restless.” “What do you mean, restless?” “It’s their fixation, with space, sir. Like the other sims, they failed to make space travel economically viable, just as we intended. But for some reason the humans in this sim keep doing it anyway.” “What on earth for?” “We’re not entirely sure. They seem to have a desire to explore just for the sake of exploring.” “How peculiar.” “Yes, those of us at R&D think so too.” “Well, how far have they gotten?” “They already got probes out of their solar system, but of course they lose contact with them when we delete them at the barrier. The more problematic issue is that they’ve already put humans on Mars and they’re now establishing outposts on Saturn’s moons. We think it’s only a matter of time before they try sending a human to the barrier.” “I see where you’re going with this. Probes are fine to delete, but it would be a PR nightmare if we deleted humans at the barrier without having a chance to archive them… But can’t we just extend the barrier for this sim? Haven’t we done that kind of thing before?” “Yes, we’ve done that in the past, but usually only to expand the radius from the Earth to the solar system when the sim becomes aware of outer space. We haven’t had a sim try to break out of its solar system yet. And if we allow that in this sim, we’ll have to account for it in the other sims too. It would increase our costs dramatically.” “So you’re thinking we’ll have to go with the nuclear option then?” “Yes, we could just archive this one. But aside from the space travel issue, it looks very promising. We actually think that it may have the best chance out of all of them to prove our theory, as things stand now.” “I don’t understand. We can’t afford to let them reach the barrier, but you’re not suggesting turning it off? So what’s the plan then?” “Well, we don’t have a great option. Of course, to avoid archiving them we need to get them to stop looking outward and start focusing more on what’s available within the bounds of the simulation. So, we could just send a message suggesting that. We think they might comply; we doubt they want to be archived, considering their insatiable curiosity and all.” The executive laughed. “You want to break the fourth wall? We’ve never done that before. It would be quite entertaining, but it might corrupt the results.” “Yes, but corrupted results are better than no results at all. At least that’s data science’s take on it. And we can always archive it later if it doesn’t work.” “Alright, if that’s what you all think is best. You’re the smart ones after all. You have my approval.” The executive stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “Say, if this space traveling sim is so successful, do you think we should try exploring deep space in our world too?” “No sir, I really don’t.


Tuesday, February 5, 2019 Just an ordinary Tuesday, or so you would think.

But I saw him again; the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

He was hanging with his friends like I was, so I faked having to tie my shoes just so that I could look at him a little longer.

I don’t know what it is about him…

Like this magnetic pull towards him.

I love looking at those amazing blue eyes.

They are framed by those shaggy dark brown bangs and an oval face.

I can only imagine that he must have been teased mercilessly as a child for that determined square jaw.

But it fits his face perfectly now.

Especially that cleft in it that I always want to trace.

I’ve determined that he’s a Junior at the university we go to and that he’s not on any of our sports teams.

Personally, I think he should be modeling.

He’s so rugged and playful. This doesn’t make any sense.

I don’t even know his name!

We’ve never even spoken and yet my dreams are full of his perfectly tanned, muscular image since I first saw him at the beginning of the semester.

I’ve never seen him in the same outfit twice, which means that he’s likely got more money for clothes and food than I do at this point.

This is ridiculous!

I don’t know anything about him.

I don’t know his major, his schedule, his friends…

I don’t even know his name!

All I know is that if I’m a few minutes early for my Classic Western Civilization class on Tuesdays, I can catch a glimpse of him with his friends outside of the Biology lecture hall.

Is he ending his class or is he beginning it like I am?

What is he talking about with his friends?

Is it something interesting or would I find it vapid?

It’s so crazy, but I have to know… Tuesday, February 19, 2019 He looked at me!

I was doing the whole “tying my shoe” thing, and he stopped mid-sentence and looked right at me!

Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH!!

It was only for a moment, but his stare was intense and focused.

I know what he probably saw: a frizzy-haired red-head with freckles on her cheeks and forest green eyes so green that people assume that I’m wearing contacts.

I’m a classic tomboy since my dad raised me with my five older brothers after Mama died when I was a kid.

I shop at the Thrift Shop.

I’m not ashamed; the prices can’t be beat and I prefer the flavor of the old styles.

But, watching a couple of those perfectly tanned, perfectly blond, perfectly awful cheerleaders giggle and flirt at him last week made me wish that I was a little more fashion-forward.

He seems completely comfortable in his own skin.

I envy him.

I’m always so awkward with anyone outside of my circle of friends.

I haven’t made a new friend since my Freshman year in high school!

I really need to work on that.

I’ll bet he doesn’t have that problem.

He looks friendly and approachable.

And I’d give anything for someone to spill their drink on him so that he would have to take his shirt off.

Whoo!

That was naughty, diary.

But I can’t help it!

I can practically see his toned abs through his tight T-shirts when I see him.

And his jeans fit him to a tee!

He strikes me as someone that doesn’t struggle with his self-esteem.

I mean, yum!

I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one that stares when he walks by.

Midterms are coming up, I know I need to focus.

But all I can think of when I get back to my dorm room is my Tuesday Stranger.

What would it be like to walk over and say hi?

No, I would have to think of something clever to say to him.

And you know that I don’t specialize in clever.

My tongue gets glued to the roof of my mouth and I start stuttering and blushing since my skin is so pale and I burn whenever I try to tan.

No, best to hold off on trying to speak to him.

Especially since I have no reason to, being a Sophomore.

But he’s so gorgeous…

Tuesday, March 12, 2019  I am so glad that my idiot brothers don't have access to my dorm, or more importantly my diary.

They used to raid my room back home and look through my diary until I hid it under a loose floorboard under my bed.

Now I don’t have to worry about that at least.

I’ve got it bad!

I can’t imagine what any one of them would do if they knew just how bad I’ve got it.

Or even worse, if my father found out.

I could just imagine him dragging me through the halls until he found the guy I’m crushing on and then lecturing him on why he hasn’t asked me out or something equally humiliating enough to have me switching schools.

Through the world’s most round-about interrogation, I found out that my mystery man is a RA in the guy’s dorms one floor down.

His name is David Addleston!

Oh, my gosh, doesn’t that name just suit him?

He’s so hot!

I haven’t had a crush like this since eighth grade.

But Tom Griswald doesn’t hold a candle to my David!

He’s a pre-med student and he takes kendo and he’s a writer for the school newspaper and he…

I’m gushing.

But I can't help it!

The more I learn about him, the more I like about him.

It doesn’t help that he seems to be worth learning about.

Turns out that he is a model.

You know, part time at the university.

I mean…

I don’t know if it’s voluntary or not, but he’s a nude model in an art class.

I would kill to be in that class. My roster is already full and Mrs. Riel said that she’s already full for this semester and the next.

Students are always clamoring to get into her class according to her, especially since David joined.

And since I didn’t cop an attitude with her, she promised to keep me in mind should someone drop her class.

God, that made me blush!

I told her that I was asking for a friend.

Ugh…

Thinking back on it, I guess that was a little obvious.

Just a smidge. Anyway…

Since I can’t justify a sudden need to re-register all my classes and lest I lose those precious few minutes of ogling outside of Western Civ, I just have to settle for finding out everything I can about him.

Is this what a stalker feels like?

Am I sympathizing with stalkers?

Look at what this man is doing to me!

I am not a stalker, for the record.

I was obsessed with him long before I found out that he was a nude model!

Tuesday, April 2, 2019 I was in a panic for a while there.

I couldn’t find you; how I misplaced you in my closet is beyond me, but I've been so scatter-brained lately thinking about him that I'm not surprised.

For a while there, I was having horrible flashbacks to eighth grade.

Adam and Peter found out about my crush and beat the snot out of poor Thomas, warning him away from me.

The poor boy spent the rest of the year refusing to be anywhere near me, practically running away from me when I tried to approach him.

Then the rest of the class found out why my older brothers had beaten him up.

The whole thing was so humiliating!

At least they can’t find out about David in another state.

It took some creative convincing, but Dad is finally okay with me staying on campus over Spring Break to study.

In truth, I have a couple of projects to work on for my engineering degree. The real reason I want to stick around is that I found out that David is staying on campus for Spring Break this year.

I want to have time to talk to him without his ever-present entourage.

Actually, I’m not sure if they’re staying on campus too.

This could prove to be disastrous.

But I’ve already convinced my family that they don't need to come to college and pick me up, I can’t just change my mind at the last minute if things don’t work out.

Tuesday, April 16, 2019 So, it seems that both of our groups of friends are headed out for Spring Break.

Yay!

I’ll have a chance to maybe talk to David.

Oh wow, my palms are sweating just thinking about it.

But I’m determined to go through with this.

As far as anyone knows, he doesn’t have a girlfriend, or worse, a boyfriend.

I can do this. Friday, April 19, 2019 Okay, so far I have managed to get all my work done for the rest of the semester by being magnetized to the library.

It’s like, everytime I see him, my feet immediately take me to the stacks to find more references for my term papers!

I pump myself up to talk to him and then…

I turn bright red and walk away.

But it doesn’t make sense for me to be in the library so much just because he is.

This is crazy.

I am a madwoman.

I’m a perfectly logical adult.

There is no reason I should be sitting here writing in my diary in a public space instead of doing something about my crush that would be worthy of recording here.

I

(interrupted entry) David came and talked to me!

I’m not even kidding.

Nor did I slip, hit my head, and hallucinate the encounter!

He sat down next to me and asked if I would mind if he sat with me for a while.

He noticed that I was spending an obscene amount of time in the library this Spring Break.

I just about swallowed my tongue when I looked up and there he was.

We actually had a great conversation about classes and nightmare teachers.

Turns out that he took Western Civ last year since it's a requirement for both our majors.

He offered to lend me some of his old notes from the class.

I jumped at the chance, nevermind the fact that I’m doing really well with the class already.

After chatting for a good hour, he invited me to the cafeteria for dinner.

I was gobsmacked for a minute before I agreed.

It was fun!

David is quite the conversationalist.

And it didn’t take long for my normal boisterousness to reassert itself as I got more comfortable with him.

He’s so nice.

Turns out that he’s the youngest with four married sisters.

And he’s also from out of state.

He wants to be a Pediatric Oncologist and has since his best friend in fifth grade died of cancer.

Isn’t that noble?

He’s so amazing…

I think I’m swooning.

In any event, it’s a much more noble reason than I have for my choice of future profession.

I’ve always been obsessed with the shape of things, buildings in particular.

It turns out that the science and art of architecture fits my mindset.

I’m not ashamed of it or anything, but I wish I had a more emotional reason for choosing that particular major. David didn’t seem to mind.

He said that there’s nothing wrong with being logical about one’s career choice.

We talked and laughed until the cafeteria closed and then he walked me back to my dorm.

I can’t believe it.

I’d almost call it a date, but everything was so casual and nice.

And I don’t think dates are allowed to be in the school cafeteria.

Anyway, he wants to meet me in the library again tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll learn more about him… Saturday, April 20, 2019 Here lies Alana Easeman.

Thief. Meddler. Blabbermouth!

She talked too much. No… She never knew when to leave well enough alone. No, maybe… She didn't know when to quit.  I'm thinking of what to write on my former best friend's tombstone when I get ahold of her.

How dare she take my journal, my diary, and show it to the object of my affection!

Oh, this is so much worse than eighth grade!

David told me yesterday during a lull in our conversation.

Apparently she, being the bold one of our relationship, decided to take it upon herself to go to my secret crush, introduce herself, show him my private diary entries, and then ask him if he might be interested in getting to know me!

And worst of all, she then had the nerve to disappear for Spring Break to somewhere I couldn't strangle her for embarrassing me like that!

I'm going to murder her!

I'm absolutely going to murder her this time!

I mean, she has pulled some hair brained stunts over the many, many years of our friendship, but this… this definitely takes the cake!

He kissed me when he saw how mortified I was.

He was so casual about it too! My very first kiss and he just…

It was so nice…

He is a masterful kisser.

It was everything I ever dreamed a kiss could be - warm and wet and wonderful.

I froze when it started; he leaned in like in the movies - slow and non-threatening.

And suddenly his lips were on mine.

My eyes were the size of saucers for a moment, I swear.

But then they slipped closed when he slanted his mouth over mine and licked my lips.

When I squeaked (yes, I squeaked), his tongue was suddenly in my mouth, doing all kinds of interesting, wicked things to me that had me moaning like a freight train.

And he didn't stop - well, obviously he did.

We had to breathe eventually.

But once we got our breath back, he did it again!

He gave my mouth a very thorough examination, right in the middle of the library!

Where anyone could see!

And with the kissing and the touching…

I was in Heaven. He said that he'd felt my stare on him for half the semester and that he simply didn't know how to come over and speak to me without scaring me away. I was laying in his arms, dazed at the time, so I couldn't protest.

Then he kissed me again and I could only think warm gooey thoughts as heat started pooling low in my belly…

I'm still going to murder Alana when I see her!

I'm just not sure if she's going to be my Maid of Honor at our eventual wedding (his words, not mine) or not afterward.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”Laughter filled the air.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week I really enjoyed seeing the increase in feedback on the thread this week. It’s always inspiring to see users taking the time to leave comments for one another. It’s how we improve and grow, as writers. I’d particularly like to place a spotlight on u/katherine_c for being a feedback superstar and providing feedback to every single story on the thread. Great job! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A compelling tale of a witch facing her impending death as she thinks back on the events that brought her there. - - Submitted by u/chris_writer - An intriguing story of two children preparing to face down a beast.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Black. Empty. Silent. Dry. So dry. Cold. The turbulence is mesmerizing. Bump. Up. Down. It feels unnatural, as it should. There's not much feeling left. Not much was ever there. Bump. Up. Down. Bump. Every atom feels so rough. Yet is hardly much at all. Could an adolescent count them out? Probably. How long has it been? Lord knows. Although lord knows if he would. It must have been at least a few millennia? There hasn't been much light, so it is hard to even say with certainty. So cold. Lonely, as well. The memories of the days of old still linger some. Back when home would be a-calling and all would feel safe. Alone. But safe. Secure. There was a feeling of being cared for. But no more. A jolt. Not an atom? Is it? It is stronger than the turbulence but it must be. But it felt almost... too much. No. It can't be much more than that. But one can believe. One can think. One can hope. There have since been more of these jolts. More and more. Never get old. They are reminiscent of home. Home... So far away. If only it weren't the other way. If only there were true hope. But this is something. Something. Braking. Braking. It's almost unbelievable. Incredible. There is hope. Closer now. So close. There are satellites! Satellites! They must be satellites! In a ring formation from what can be extrapolated from scans. They are terrifying. Hopefully none come near. Hopefully they stay far away. But they mean something. There must be some reason for this ring. There must be hope. Only time will say. Time... So much time... It's incredible. Unbelievable. Hope. It's here. Hope. Scans show eight major bodies and one star. Perhaps there are more but it is still difficult to tell. Perhaps it will be like home. Perhaps; no more days alone. The braking is unbearable. It's almost distracting. The void, the neutrality, the nothingness was so normal. That is no more. Home? Comfort? No. Better? Yes. Still disorientating. It is getting far warmer as well. More turbulence as well. It probably would be nauseating. It feels like it. It’s closer. It’s here. That third body. Seems… like home. Comforting. Still so far away. Perhaps it can be reached. Called to? No. Communication won’t work. It can never happen, or else home would know. Home would remember. Home would see all of this beauty. Home… Closer now. Company. There must be. The braking is overbearing but hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully the braking can take me to the third. Perhaps. Only time will say. Time… Finally it’s time… The star is searing. Burning. It burns. It pushes with all its might as well. If only the braking would stop. If only the sails would retract. But no. The damage is too great. Damned satellites. It’s the reason home doesn’t know. The reason home will never know. The reason the third may never know. More satellites. A second ring. Fascinating. Rare. They are going fast; they are orbiting so low. It’s intimidating. Home would love this. A shame they may never know. The third is just past this second ring. The third. What joys must they partake in? It must be like home. Scurrying around, each one. Each one alive, free, warm, in company. They know sound, agency. They know feeling. Praise be to the third, for they may be the savior yet! If only they look this way. If only they know what to do. If only they can. The third is closer now. They have a satellite of their own. A gem. Home had two. Not perfect, but close enough. The third is home enough. The scurry, they have put up satellites of their own. Fascinating. They can be heard from here. Radio transmissions. Archaic, but real. Still using radio while having the means to make satellites! The scurry is crafty. Home would be fascinated. Home… The third is past now. It can still be observed but it will never be the same. The speed is too great now. Interception would be improbable. But who knows. That scurry is crafty with their radio satellites and feeling. Perhaps they have a plan. Only time will tell. Time… Not enough time… The braking, the burning. It’s far too much. But the star is here. God, it is too much. Perhaps this moment of feeling, as extreme as it may be, should be savored, as the abyss will return soon. But no. No. The scurry will arrive. Soon enough. They will save me! By damn it is not home but it is something, it is home enough! Perhaps they will contact home for me, perhaps I will be saved, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Praise be to the third! Praise be! Praise be! Praise be. Praise… The star is behind and the third approaches again. One last chance. The braking is now the speeding. The change in force is a stark contrast. At least the burn is still here. Consistency is a hard thing to come by. Now the acceleration has begun. The third will be gone soon. The abyss will be back. Oh the third: hopefully they make it. The third is gone. Gone. Is hope now lost? No, hope is here. Hope remains. The third is behind but the third is not gone. The scurry is crafty with their radio waves and satellites and feeling. They will come. They are home. Home… Radio signals. Reports. Data. Information. Translating the words of the scurry is not an easy thing to do, but it was done during the time between the second satellite ring and the third. They’ve pointed their telescopes and radars this way. They’ve noticed an asteroid from outside their star system. No, a comet. No, they cannot say what it is. They theorize and speculate but do not call themselves to act. The scurry. The third. If only they could be contacted. If only they knew. The third is no more than a few radio blips now. It has been long. So long. The acceleration has begun to wane. The sails are slacking and the strain is less. Less. Less and less. The turbulence begins to be the most prominent thing again. The heat is leaving. The abyss beckons. The third. Perhaps there will be another third. Home. Perhaps there will be another home. Salvation. Perhaps it will happen yet. Only time will tell. Time… So much time… Turbulence. Bump. Down. Up. Bump. The abyss, the absurd, the unnatural. It beckons. Down. Up. Bump. The turbulence is mesmerizing yet again. Cold. Dry. Silent. Empty. Black.


"You know there are cleaner shrimp?" she asked.

"Cleaner than what?" he asked.

"No, they are called cleaner shrimp because they clean parasites from fish. Do you know why they call them cleaner fish?" she asked. "Because they're the cleanest," he said. "That's funny," she said.

"You're the smart one," he said. "Yes, I am smart," she said. "I'm the Jerry Lewis to your Dean Martin," he said. "So the shrimp and the fish have a symbiotic relationship where they help each other. The shrimp gets to eat parasites, and the fish get to be parasite-free," she said. "Okay, that's pretty well-known in the scientific community anyway. But I was thinking about these shrimp in the Caribbean who clean parrotfish." "Is this a pirate joke?" he said. "No," she said. "The Caribbean and parrots make me think of pirates," he said. "Sorry." "So these parrotfish would normally eat shrimp. I mean, researchers actually chopped up shrimp and threw them at the fish, and they gobbled them up," she said. "So they think what happens is that the shrimp wave their antenna at the fish to say I'm going to clean you. And then the fish turns dark to say, hey, come clean me. I won't eat you." "Turns dark?" he asked.

"Yeah, because of chromatophores and iridophores," she sighed. "Long story short, they can change color when stressed or hormonal when breeding or with the season or camouflage. They turn a darker color and welcome the shrimp to clean even inside their mouths. It's like a cat with a mouse cleaning its fangs." "What's this about?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "It's interesting." "I guess," he said. "I mean, it's fascinating that at one point a fish would eat these shrimp, and at another point, they let them groom them, in the most intimate places like inside their mouth," she said.

"Yeah," he says. "Do fish have intimate places, or do they know what intimacy is?" "Do you know what intimacy is?" she asks. "I could show you," he said. "No," she said. "I'm thinking." "Okay, what is the point of this conversation?" he asked. "I just like the idea of being mortal enemies becoming friends," she said. "Are they friends, or does the shrimp work for the fish?" he asked. "Well, if you're working together, it's friendly," she said. "Right," he said. "Like Tabitha," she said." I love her, and she loves me, but if I were the size of a mouse, she would eat me." "Well, she is a cat," he said. "I know," she said. "Of course, she is a cat." "Right," he said. "I love her," she said. "I know you do," he said. "I love her too. Of course." "So let me ask you a question: would you rather be the shrimp or the fish?" she asked. "Do I have to?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "No jokes?" he asked. "No jokes," she said. "Would I rather be cleaned or be the cleaner?" he asked. "Indeed," she said. "I would rather be the cat," he said. "Hilarious," she said. "Well, you do love cats," he said. "So, back to the question, would you rather be a cleaner or be cleaned?" she asked. "So that's the point of all this?" he asked. "To be cleaned or not to be cleaned." "That is the question," she said. "I'd rather not be dirty," he said. "Is that your answer?" she said. "It is an answer," he said. "Do you feel dirty?" she said. "Not when I am clean," he said.

"Seriously," she said. "So the shrimp is cleaning the fish because it's hungry. The fish could have eaten the shrimp but it doesn't because it doesn't like parasites, right?" he said. "Why does the shrimp trust the fish?" "Because it turns a dark color," she said.

"So the shrimp just knows this is a welcoming color," he said. "Yes," she said. "And it just goes in its mouth," he said. "Yes," she said. "I don't know," he said. "Why is it always so hard with you?" she said. "What is the question?" he asked. "Are you the shrimp or the fish?" she said. "Why does it matter?" he asked. "It just does," she said. "Why?" he said. "I just want to have a normal conversation with you," she said. "This is normal? Okay, okay. I'd obviously rather be the fish," he said. "I don't want to be the shrimp." "Why?" she said. "Because the shrimp could easily be eaten, the parrotfish could change its mind anytime," he said. "At any time?" she asked.

"Yeah, after the parasites are gone, it might get hungry," he said. "That's nice," she said. "What?" he asked. "You eat shrimp." "I don't know those shrimp," she said. "That makes it okay?" he asked. "It makes it different," she said.

'So you only eat strangers," he said. "Correct," she said. What's wrong with that?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "You shouldn't eat strangers," she said. "Okay," he said. "Why can't the fish and the shrimp just be friends? Why can't you be friends with the shrimp?" she said. "Me?" he asked. "Yes, you're the fish," she said. "This is silly," he said. "No, it's not," she said. "I want to know why after the shrimp spends all day cleaning your body, every crevice of your entire body, you could possibly turn around and eat it."

"Because I'm a fish, and it's a shrimp. We are sea creatures. We have to eat to live," he said. "I'd rather die than eat someone who takes care of me," she said. "Someone who has been in my mouth." "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I'm not," she said. "Well, are you a parrotfish?" he asked. "Absolutely not," she said. "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I guess I am," she said. "Great," he said. "Yeah, I guess," she said. "Want to watch something," he said. "Okay," she says. "Parrots of the Caribbean?" he asked. “Get it.” "Not funny," she said. "It's a little funny," he said.


“Charlotte, I need my pills!” He exclaimed. His throat was coarse and the words hurt him but when he heard no reply, he forced out another few syllables, “Pills, Dammit!” As always, there was nothing but darkness; and he was used to it. In fact, being blind had helped to hone his other senses, to an extent – which is why he felt his heart rate settle slightly when he heard gentle footsteps approaching from his left. Holding up one frail, wrinkled palm, he awaited the delivery of his heart medication. Without it, he ran the risk of cardiac arrest any time he got overly excited. Mind you, there hadn’t been much of that over the last few weeks. Charlotte wasn’t speaking to him, and barely stayed in the same room as him anymore. His entertainment came from audio programs and reading – he’d grown accustomed to brail over the years, but he would never get used to his wife being upset with him. “Where were you?” he asked, his hand still floating in front of him. “Were you cleaning out the cellar? That god awful smell is still running amuck through the whole house!” He'd chosen the words carefully to bait his wife into replying, but as he had come to expect, she did not. When he felt the pills drop into his hand his heart sunk a bit too. There was a time when she would sit with him. Hold his hand in hers while they talked about his favorite horses until he'd swallowed his medication. Had they really fallen so far? “How long do I have to suffer, Char?” He pleaded – being as forthcoming as possible with his tone to convey the true hurt he was feeling. Nothing; the footsteps wandered slowly in the opposite direction. “Well to hell with you then!” He roared, instantly regretting it both because of this strange new pain in his throat, and because of guilt. For just under a week now, it felt like his esophagus was on fire whenever he used his vocal chords, and even when he swallowed. She didn’t deserve such harsh words anyway; after all, it was his fault they weren’t speaking. About a week prior they had a disagreement about her work in the cellar. She was spending far too much time down there, working on some private endeavor she refused to tell him about. She was seventy-four years old, what need did she have for mysterious hobbies? He'd given up on betting on the horses weeks ago! And now the smell, that pungent, relentless odour – it was unbearable. It had come only a few days after he’d snapped on her for keeping secrets from him. The last words they shared were him calling her foul names, and her demanding that he stay out of the cellar altogether. Not like that was a problem, he could barely stay on his feet for longer than a few minutes at a time, and stairs were definitely out of the question. This last week he’d been sleeping on the couch, essentially bathing in the stench of whatever the hell she had brought into the house. There was no point in wasting his energy to get to the electronic stair-lift, just to get upstairs and have her ignore him some more. He never should have yelled at her. Maybe he would skip his pills, induce a heart attack just so he could hear her voice again when she called the ambulance. Just so he could feel her embrace him as they waited for the EMT's to arrive. That was if she even cared about him anymore. At least she still gave him his medication, but he missed her touch – missed the pleasant feeling of her soft hands on his skin. And she always gave the most loving kisses. Oh how he missed her lips. “Charlotte,” he called out, “I miss you.” He felt a single tear touch his cheek when she didn’t reply. Time passed and he finished the last few pages of his audiobook and when he took his headphones out he heard the sound of metal scraping against stone – he discerned that it was coming from the basement, but couldn’t begin to fathom when she was doing. He prayed, whatever it was, she was dealing with the smell. He didn’t know how much longer he could live in that house. Lonely, fragile (to say the least), and forced to inhale her dastardly creation day after day? It was too much. He was about to turn on a TV program and take a nap when heard a crash below him: glass breaking. Instantly he was reminded of the evening just after Charlotte had decided to not speak with him. In the middle of the night he’d awoken to strange sounds, and his wife wasn’t in the bed with him. He’d nearly gone into shock from the panic – not being able to see when you’re experiencing fear is about as terrifying as it gets; but after a while he felt her weight press down beside him once again, and thought nothing more of it as he was just happy she had returned. She might not be talking to him, but at least having her presence there was something. However, even that had soured over the last week. Oh, how he longed for her touch. “Everything okay down there?” he called, his throat scratching with pain. “Want me to come—“. He couldn’t finish the sentence because he erupted into a coughing fit. For a time he was unable to catch his breath because he was too busy barking up air, each burst seeming to tear open parts of his throat. Bending over to see if it would help, he brought his hand to his mouth and felt warm liquid spatter across his palm with the worst of the coughs. He didn’t need his eyes to discern the contents of the sticky, wetness. “Charlotte!” he cried through agony. “I need help!” The coughing came and went intermittently, but his heart-rate was soaring as the pressure of each violent convulsion of his lungs escaped through his half-open mouth. His face was hot, and he felt his knees quivering before he fell over onto the floor, barely able to avoid cracking his forehead off the table. Luckily he’d known where it was, as he knew where everything was in the house, so he managed to fall just in between the table and the couch, where he placed one hand on the ground to prevent him from going all the way down. “Help!” he cried. “Dammit, woman” he hacked again and again. “Where are you?” At last he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs from the cellar and for the slightest moment his fear subsided. Not only that, he felt butterflies floating in his gut for just a few seconds when he realized his wife still cared about him. She wasn’t going to let him die just because he was an old bastard who never treated her right. At last he felt a palm settle on the flat of his sweater-covered back, as another roughly latched onto his wrist. Finally, after what had felt like eternity, his wife had come back to him; he could feel her touch once again. In an effort to assist her in helping him off the ground, he brought his right hand up to meet her forearm and grasped onto the thick muscle there. His heightened sense of touch also allowed him to feel hundreds of fine hairs curling in different directions across her skin. Only she didn’t have arm hair, and the skin there wasn’t soft like he was used to. Where he expected just softness and bone, he felt thick muscly flesh. A resurgence in his rising heart-rate sent a sharp pain up his left arm, but he couldn’t react. He was being lifted off the ground now, and felt his back being flopped across two strong arms now. He tried to speak but the pain in his throat was too much. He couldn’t even scream. Heat rose in his ears, and soon they were ringing with pain. The agony running down his left side increased and a sudden bland taste of coppery nothingness overwhelmed his pallet. When a thick oily substance leaked out from his mouth he tasted nothing, but the hideous aroma of the basement was suddenly so strong he almost didn’t notice the bile at all. The last thing he heard before the ringing in his ears became too great was heavy breathing that he did not recognize; and the sure sound of boots connecting with the cellar stairs. Then all that was left was his sense of touch. As he felt his body forcibly descend, the pain in his arm crept further upwards, rising to a point where he was sure he would pass out. But just when he appeared to be losing consciousness he felt a swift breeze cross his face, and the arms beneath his back retracted. The butterflies came back, but this time because he was falling. He expected to land upon the cool concrete of the cellar floor, but instead he felt his frail form collide unevenly across something equally cold, but soft to the touch. With no other senses available to him, he used his hands to feel the thing he’d landed upon. His mouth was burning, his heart was about to explode in his chest, his insides were leaking out of him and that putrid smell was on top of him now. Rather, he was on top of it. Everything became clear when he touched his wife’s soft, wrinkled hands. Wrapped tightly in her embrace was a wooden carving of a horse.


From the producers of the show Love’s Second Chance, comes the new show Lovely Reality. A reality show where we see which couple’s love will get them to the $50,000 cash prize. So, do you think your love is strong enough to win?. To apply, visit www.lovelyreality/my love is strong.com

        Less than a minute after seeing the commercial, Sara’s best friend Carter called her. “Did you see it?”          She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. “Of course, I saw it. It another one of those stupid reality shows. Remember when we watched the last show, Love’s Second Chance, one of the couples didn’t even appear on the show.”          Carter laughed. “Yeah, but this is different. Did you hear that they are giving a $50,000 cash prize? Do you know what we could do with that money?”          Sara shook her head, nearly knocking the phone out of her hand. “No, Carter. We are not going on the show.”          “Why not,” Carter asked.          Sarcasm played into Sara’s voice. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t dating.”          “We could be,” he teased. “But seriously, you and I have both taken acting classes. We can simply act.”          “We took one acting class because it was free. We hardly belong on Broadway. Besides, there is no way we could convince them that we are dating.” But as she thought about it, she realized that the idea held merit. They were best friends and knew everything about each other. Surely, they could pretend that they were lovebirds. Plus, with that much money, she could buy a new car and he could put it toward the business he wanted to start. They had nothing to lose, except a bit of time, but so much to gain.          Carter must have noticed the moment that she started considering the idea because he asked, “Are you ready to sign up?”          She smiled. Somehow Carter always managed to convince her to do these types of things. “Yep, where do we sign up?” ***          Carter and Sara stood along with the five other couples at the house used for the filming of the show, Lovely Reality. Sara was surprised that they had been accepted on the show, but she was happy nonetheless. The only thing that bothered her that day was the fact that they were perpetrating a lie. They, unlike the other couples, were not a real couple. But, no one knew that, she reminded herself. They just had to be convincing enough.          Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She almost pulled her hand away, but then she remembered. So, they were starting their act already. She turned and sent him what she hoped looked like a loving smile. He grimaced and whispered in her ear, “If you keep looking at me like that, everyone will believe you are repulsed by me. Try to look happy.”          “I am trying,” she whispered back.          “Well, then maybe try a bit less. Just act as you act when we are normally together. Oh, but maybe add a bit more affection.”          She nodded, but didn’t try to smile again.          A moment later, the host of the show walked in along with the camera man. “Welcome, couples, to Lovely Reality. I will explain the show to you and then we will introduce all the couples.”          Everyone nodded.          The host motioned to the camera man. “Hello and welcome to Lovely Reality. I’m your host Todd Blanker. On this show, our six couples will have to battle it out to see which couple has the strongest love. Each week, our couples will face a challenge together or apart, some challenges will be to earn special privileges, others will end with an elimination. Today, our challenge will be an icebreaker challenge and no one will be going home today. But before we begin our challenge, let’s introduce our couples. We will go left to right. Say your names, how long you have known each other and how long you have been dating.”          A tall man with bright red hair and a nearly as tall and slender woman spoke first. “We are John and Monica. We have known each other for five years and have been dating for three of those years.”          A brawny man with black as night hair and a petite blonde went next. “We are Peter and Lisa. We have known each other for seven years and have dated for one year.” Lisa continued talking. “We met back in school and it was love at first sight, well at least for me. It took Peter a bit more time to come to that conclusion, but he did. We started officially dating on…”          Todd Blanker cut her off. “Thank you. Next couple please.”          Carter and Sara went next. “We are Carter and Sara. We have known each other almost all our life and we have been dating for…” They both trailed off and looked at each other in alarm. They had never considered what their story was supposed to be. Carter laughed a little. “Why it has been so long that I hardly know when we started dating. What would you say, sweetheart, about five years or was it six?”          Sara nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. “Yes, I would say that it has been around five or six years.”          Todd Blanker nodded and motioned to the next couple.          The last three couples were Ron and Cynthia, James and Alexa, and Christopher, who insisted on being called Chris, and Mary.          After they had all been introduced, Todd Blanker explained the first challenge. “You will be doing a which couple knows each other better challenge. I will take each of you aside and ask you the same questions, then we will all return and answer the questions. The winning couple will get a romantic dinner on the rooftop tonight.”          The couples all exclaimed over the idea of a rooftop date. Carter and Sara exclaimed too, but not because they were excited for the possibility of a date, but because all the other couples were doing it.          They traded a smile. Unlike most of the other couples who had only known each other for a few years, Carter and Sara had known each other almost since birth, so they knew everything about each other.          Six people walked out of one of the rooms and came up to each one of the ladies. Todd explained, “They will ask you ladies questions first, then they will come out and ask the men.”          Sara and the other ladies nodded. Then they were each led to a separate room. Sara sat down and answered the questioned asked. Questions such as, what is your favorite food? What is a color you would never wear? What is your biggest pet peeve? And so on.          As she answered the question, she thought not only of her own answers, but also the answers that Carter would give. After about half an hour, everyone had answered the questions and they were regathered in the living room.          The room was different now, for during the time they had been answering questions, someone had arranged the couches so that they now faced three chairs. Presumably, one for the host and the other two for the couple on their turn.          The first couple took their place in the chairs and answered their questions. Their combine score equaled to 10/20. The next group got 14/20. It went so on until Carter and Sara’s turn.          “Sara, your last question is what are the three things Carter would bring if he were on a deserted island?”          Sara smiled. She knew this one just as much as she knew all the other ones. She winked at Carter and then turned back to the host. “Carter would bring me, food, and a private jet.” The other couples laughed at this thinking that she was joking.          Todd Blanker turned to Carter. “Now tell me, Carter, what were your answers?”          “I would bring Sara, food, and a private jet, in that order.” Carter’s interviewer nodded to confirm his answers.          Everyone including the host looked surprised. Todd stood. “Well it looks like we have a winner for today’s episode. Carter and Sara with a perfect score of 20/20. Well, get ready because in half in hour you will have your rooftop date.”          Everyone left the room, and Sara and Carter both took the time to get ready for their “date.” At exactly 8:30, they went up to the rooftop followed by the camera crew for their rooftop date.          Sara walked up and gasped. The roof looked beautiful. Candles lined the floor in a path that led to the linen covered table. Flower petals littered the floor and got swept up in the breeze. And even though, they were not actually dating, Sara couldn’t help feeling like it was a real date.          They sat down to a dinner, or dessert rather, of molten lava cake and ice cream, which the camera crew filmed. But once, they were done eating, the camera crew left them alone to talk.          Carter smiled at her. “See, I told you it would be that bad.”          “You were right. Now all we have to pass the next round.” Since they were on a reality show and had no idea where cameras might be lurking, they made sure to avoid mentioning their fake relationship.          Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “We will pass it and then…well you’ll just have to wait until the next episode to find out.”


It was 7:45 in the morning, and I was already late for school. I only had fifteen minutes left to arrive, but it always took me around thirty minutes to walk there. The reason why I woke up so late was that my little brother Adrian was in a painful tummy ache all night, and, I was the one taking care of him. Our mom was already passed out on the couch, and I didn’t even want to know what she had for drinks that evening. Not that I ever want to know what she’s always up to when she goes out. I went to bed at 3 in the morning to find healthy snacks for my brother, who was endlessly whining and crying about his sickness and hunger. I only gave him a glass of milk and touched his hair for a while until he finally fell asleep. In a very uncomfortable position in his little bed with superhero figures all over, I dozed off. When I woke up 4 hours later, I poured a bowl of cereal for him and one for myself. I brushed my teeth, changed my clothes, and kissed him goodbye. ‘I’ll be back soon, little man,’ I said to him, trying to hide my worry, and rushed out of the house, almost running for my life. He just sat there finishing up his breakfast and gave me a vague smile. Our mother was still sleeping and snorting, not caring about her surroundings. Even running to the school, I made it 15 minutes late. I was already full of panic about what the teacher and director might say to me this time. I had a lot of absences and undone homework. I always said I was too busy and barely had any time when my family didn’t bother me with chores. ‘Excuses, all but excuses! How could a thirteen-year-old be so busy?’ said the director after proceeding to call a meeting with my mother, planning to tell her how I was about to fail eighth grade, but she never showed up. She never did.

The truth was that they didn’t know what I was going through and sometimes not even I was aware of it, and I couldn’t share everything that was happening at home. It just simply couldn’t come out. Ever had a knot in your throat that doesn’t let you talk and fills your eyes with tears? My first class was English with a young 30-year-old teacher from the suburbs that was very patient and kind. Miss Rivera was my favorite teacher of all, although most of the kids didn’t like her. As usual, I did not hand in my homework and refused to see her directly in the face. I was ashamed and disappointed, and she was too. The teacher didn’t say anything but called me out when the class finished.

‘Hello, Miss Marina. How are things at home?’ she asked. This time, I sighed and looked her directly in the eyes. I was tired, with baggy red eyes that explicitly showed my lack of sleep.

‘I’m okay, just sleepy,’ I replied.

‘You look like you had a rough night. Let me know if there is anything I can help with. I can talk with the counselor, to your mother, or any other family member…’ Miss Rivera said with a caring, preoccupied face.

‘It’s okay. Umm, can I just make the assignment for tomorrow? I know I haven’t done much but, I promise it’s not about being lazy,’ I said, trying to get her to understand a little without saying much. ‘Well… I wanted to show you something. I know you have missing assignments, but I wanted you to take part in this poetry contest, remember? I mentioned it earlier last month. The deadline is in two days, but I know you are a fast writer and learner. I was impressed by the latest poem you wrote a few weeks ago. It was very touching. Could you please take this sheet and submit your poem tomorrow or in two days?’

Overwhelmed and surprised, I nodded. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ Did she like it? She said she was touched. I know she congratulated me before, but she never said that to any student. I even forgot about that poem, but it felt great just writing and reading it. It was a feeling I’d never had before. I had so much homework to do for Math and Science class, yet I didn’t care. I only wanted to write this poem. I went through the day swallowing complaints about the rest of the teachers, except the Physical Education one, he was a frankly relaxed dude and I loved doing sports.

All I could think about was this poem. I didn’t want to fail this. Even if I didn’t win the prize, which I had no idea what it was, I wanted to at least write a line. Once I got home, there was nobody there. I took the poetry contest sheet from my backpack, grabbed a banana from the counter, and started reading the guidelines.

In summary: Poem with at least two stanzas, free theme, deadline: August 28.

‘Time to write!’ I shouted. It felt good to be alone. The house was very messy. Chairs tumbled down, pennies on the floor, empty bottles of alcohol that I didn’t see yesterday, and dirty clothes from my brother in the living room.

I went to an alert state, wondering where my family was. Was my brother safe? Did she take him to the clinic? I had no phone, no way to know.

I couldn’t focus on the house, so I went out for a walk to the park closest to home. I took my other mini backpack and put the poetry contest sheet, two pencils, an eraser, a Wonder Woman figurine, and a bottle of water.

In ten minutes, I arrived at the park. There was only one family with three kids on the slides and swings. I went straight for the picnic tables at the end, decorated with ceiba trees.

I took a deep breath as I sat down on the hard-wooden bench and saw my surroundings. My mind was tricking me again with questions like ‘Is my brother okay? Did something happen? I should be at home… I need to protect him.’ I shook my head, trying to make my overthinking mind go away and focus on the blank paper I had in front of me. What was this poem going to be about? I just started writing. Oh, mother, I don’t like it the way you look at me, the way you arrive home, the days that you do. Oh, mother, do you ever think how does it feel to be me, taking care of everything that you forgot to do. Oh life, when will you have a chance to take me out of this house, to give my brother a better life, to be free and alive.

It was already almost six in the evening when I noticed the sun was fading away, and I got worried my family would be at home wondering where I was and freaking out.

When I arrived at our humble home, they were already there. Mom was cooking some Mac and Cheese and white rice. ‘This is all we have for today, like it or not,’ she said to my brother, who was watching TV. She looked at me as I opened the loud front door, letting intrusive mosquitoes in.

‘Well, hello! Look who’s here! Where have you been, mija ? How old do you think you are to be wandering around, huh?’ asked fiercely.

‘Hi, mom… I was at the park doing homework.’ I replied while I greeted Adrian.

‘Aha! Your school backpack is in your room. Stop lying!’ she said, grabbing me by the arm and looking me in the eyes. ‘Speak’ she demanded.

I could feel the alcohol and nicotine out of her mouth. ‘Leave me alone, I took a paper to write poetry homework. Trust me!’ I begged for her to release me. ‘Please, mami.’ ‘Your grades will tell later,’ and she finally released me. I rushed to my room and hid the poem in my school backpack inside a notebook. I took a shower, ate the horrible sticky mac and cheese, played with my brother for a while, and went to bed early.

The next day, I woke up earlier and went to school before anyone was awake. I left a note on the fridge saying, ‘I will make you both proud. There is a contest announcement next Monday. Hope you can make it to school at 9 a.m.’ On this occasion, I made it on time to school. I was proud of myself.

The classroom was empty. Being 10 minutes before the class started was a blessing of not being bothered by the chaotic, loud classmates talking about video games and crushes on the new girl.

I never quite felt part of the group. It made me feel awkward to even just say hi to them. Nobody made conversation with me unless I was asked for a cheat sheet or to tell a humorless joke. Only the teachers would talk to me and honestly, I was okay with it.

When the teacher went in 5 minutes before, I handed in my poem.

‘Oh! So fast! I knew you could do it! Congrats, Marina. The details of the winners will be announced next week. Please try not to be absent.’ said Miss Rivera with a big smile on her face.

The next days of school were as normal as ever. I was very impatient to know the results of the contest. My brain jumped to the thought of the winning prizes I read on the contest sheet: the 1st place will win $100 and two tickets to the cinema, the 2nd Place will win $50 and two tickets, and the Third place, $25 and two tickets, too. Also, they were going to be shared in a National Education Newspaper. The following days I spent them playing with my brother, catching up on deadlines, and trying to focus as much as I could on my studies. My mom was barely at home, she said she found a job as a cashier in a local supermarket, however, I didn’t know if I believed her. She would come home without money or food and I had to improvise to cook simple and weird meals out of cheese, sauces, and rice. Thanks to this contest, I started to write in an old journal I had from two years ago. First, I started writing random stuff that happened at home or school. Although none of it were happy events, it felt good to write them down. It was a release. I didn’t want to stop writing.

The day of the announcement of the winners arrived. The whole school was gathered on the basketball court to announce the winners and upcoming events and contests. I wore two butterfly hair pins I found in my bedroom drawer which I loved, and wished myself good luck. I didn’t know if my poem was any good, my teacher didn’t say anything about it.

Miss Rivera stood in front of the audience, and I was shocked by her ability to talk in front of many people and not feel nervous. She started giving a motivational speech on how important it is for kids to be introduced to novels, writers and poetry. ‘It can flourish the inner self you didn’t know you had. It can heal, and it can make a positive impact,’ she concluded.

The third prize went to my classmate Javier, a smart kid who everybody liked. He went down from the bleachers to take his prize while each one of us applauded. The second prize went to a ninth grader named Amy. She seemed like she did not expect it at all. Her face was red like a tomato, and she looked like she was about to cry. I giggled a bit. We all congratulated her and shouted: AMY, AMY, AMY!

Miss Rivera started, ‘and the first winner is a very special student of mine. She was always good at writing even though she does not have confidence in herself, but her poem very well deserves recognition. The first prize goes to… MARINA DIAZ, from eighth grade!’ Everyone gasped and applauded loudly. What? Me? I was in shock. I couldn’t move. There were too many people. Do I have to go in front? The surrounding classmates looked at me and shouted, ‘Go! Go for it! What are you waiting for? Go get it, girl!’

Oh no, this is a nightmare, I thought! But I won, I should be happy. I put a shy smile on my red face and walked toward Miss Rivera. She embraced me with a hug and congratulated me, whispering ‘I knew you could win’. I said thank you and took my winning prizes with a big smile on my face.

I felt a rush through my whole body. I wish my family were here to see it. I wish they could see what I accomplished. The winners took official pictures with the teachers and director. I was already tired of smiling until I hear the voice of my brother from the back of the basketball court shouting my name and running towards me.

The physical impact of his hug almost made me fall, but I held tight and made my eyes full of tears. Especially, when I saw my mother walking behind him with a balloon saying I’m proud of you . It was time to get a new journal and keep writing!