Rose’s crooked, brittle hands worked tirelessly as she sliced and diced. Her swollen finger joints ached. Her elbows ached. Her back ached. Her knees, ankles, and feet. Everything ached. There wasn’t a joint space in her body that wasn’t stiff. Cartilage had long since worn away. Bone grinding with bone.

Of all days, today had to be the worst. Tomorrow wouldn’t be much better. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Yet she’d still give thanks to the Lord above for her life, as painful and lonely as it may be. However brief a time, her old, tiny house would be filled with her family. Laughter no longer filled these dusty rooms, nor would there be laughter tomorrow.

Nothing was as easy as it used to be. Hanging several strands of orange and white lights over the doorways proved to be nearly too much of a task. She at least was able to fetch the small box of decorations from the floor of the hall closet, setting out the decorative pumpkins, and the harvest wreath. Knife in one hand, celery in the other, both hands shook with old age. But she must continue.

While her hands trembled, her frail mind wandered down the paths of her memories. Thoughts of her young children playing in the yard danced in her mind’s eye. Elizabeth with her wild imagination. All she needed was a rock and a stick and she was content for hours. William on the other hand, was always studying. Critters, insects, books, puzzles. He was the thinker. The observer. It was no wonder he became an accountant.

Once the dicing for the stuffing essentials was complete, her next task was cutting up the sweet potatoes and crushing the candied pecans she made from scratch. Not one recipe came from a book or TV. Or the internet, not that she knew how the blasted thing worked. Every recipe was her own, or her mother’s. Every dish, every garnish was made from scratch. The turkey was special ordered. The best of the best. She spared no expense when it came to the holidays. If only her adult children recognized her efforts.

If there was such a gift as a second chance at life, there were things she wished she could go back and do differently. Raising her two children by herself was far from easy. Their father died in the war when they were young. She did the best she could, she never doubted how her children would turn out until they became of age and went off in their own directions. Leaving her behind without so much as a glance over their shoulder.

Had they never realized she gave them the best she could? Manners, prayers, and happy holidays. She worked hard to keep food on their plates. Did they not understand there was no one for her to rely on? Had she spoiled them so badly by doing everything for them? And expected nothing in return when they were young? Here she was, in her old age, with no one looking out for her needs. No one knew what she needed. No one knew how much she ached physically and ached for the closeness of her children. The knife slipped, just missing the tips of her fragile fingers, jolting her from her thoughts. She closed her eyes, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Be careful, Rose , she thought to herself. There would be no one to tend to her bleeding fingers if the knife had hit its mark. If she’d picked up the phone to dial one of her children, they probably wouldn’t have answered. Or they'd be too busy. That was always the excuse. She’d be left having to call 911 and would have no one by her side. How frightening it would be to ride in an ambulance. Thank God she never had to experience such a ride.

Rose hadn’t any friends. The neighborhood wasn’t as it used to be. No one was friendly and they kept to themselves. Front porches sat empty, and back porches aplenty. Life was simpler when her and her husband had the house built sixty years ago. Starting their life together as newlyweds when they were twenty, nothing but their entire future ahead of them. Friends and neighbors came to call. The doorbell would ring happily daily. The front door rested open. Children played in the front yards and on the sidewalks. But now? Now the sidewalks weren’t safe for an old lady to walk upon. Cracked, uneven, and unkempt. Ankle twisters and hip busters. She cringed at the thought. The aching in her bones was nothing compared to the aching in her heart. Her children had all but abandoned her, only showing up for the food on the holidays. It was also the only time she saw her grandchildren, they never visited on their own. She hoped and prayed with every ounce of her feeble being that this year would be different. This year was going to be when they would all wake up, appreciate her, unite, and laugh together. She missed laughter. Through the years laughter grew into a distant memory.

“What a fool I am, why didn’t I cook the sweet potatoes first?” She muttered to herself as she rubbed her throbbing, bony, knobby knuckles. Cutting the sweet potatoes into slices would’ve been much easier if they were softer. Her arms shook as she eased herself into the kitchen chair for a moment’s rest. Preparing the Thanksgiving feast by herself every year was getting too laborious. Burdensome. No. Not burdensome. Taking care of her family was never a burden. No matter how much it hurt. Christmas would be here before she knew it. Another colossal meal to prepare. But there would be no one to do it for her. No one around to lift a finger. Not now. Not at Christmas.

This was the tradition. Every year it was the same. Laboring over a meticulous meal her family didn’t appreciate. Even if they had little love left in their hearts for her, she would always pour herself into anything she did for them. Always. She began to wonder how many Thanksgivings and Christmases she had left. When her body ached the way it did today, she felt the breath of death at her door. He was the only one who stood at her doorstep. But by God, the grim reaper himself couldn’t tear her away from what awaited her in Heaven. It was her only happiness in her daily, mundane life. The satisfaction of knowing she was almost Home. Would her grown children and grandchildren miss her? Would they regret the years they spent without her? Would they long for the stories they never knew? Or would they not know what they missed? Her eyes started to puddle with tears. Shutting her eyes to hold them back, the teardrops dripped from her sunken eyes and slipped down her paper-thin cheeks. The thought of her grandson bringing his new girlfriend entered her mind, giving a pleasant reminder that there was still something to look forward to while her life remained here. A new face to see. A new soul to get to know. Maybe the young girl would like Rose. Maybe she would be this old granny’s last connection.

Rising from the chair was more arduous than settling in, her elderly joints felt cemented in place. Was it the chair creaking, or her bones? She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. A little bit more preparation tonight and she could finish the rest tomorrow.

The next morning, the early sun peeked through the dusty, ruffled curtains piercing her eyes. She jerked her head out of the way only to pull a muscle, straining her neck. The poor old lady couldn’t lay in bed in peace without hurting. How much longer could she live like this? Shuffling to the kitchen, she realized she was wrong the previous day, her body ached more today. Especially her hands. How was she going to finish? She must continue. Family would arrive by 2 o’clock, dinner on the table an hour later if all went as planned.

Fine bone china was pulled from the china cabinet. Etched crystal glasses from Czechoslovakia sat at each place setting. A leather case, lined with blue velvet, held the silverware. The entire display, adorned with a Chantilly lace tablecloth, was reserved for the most important of holidays and served as a decoration itself.

The doorbell rang, and again before she reached the door. William was already impatient. The greeting he gave his mother was anything but warm. Plopping down in the chair, he glued his eyes to his phone. Following behind him was Elizabeth, her two sons, and one girlfriend.

No one offered to help. Rose’s heart began to sink. Today wouldn’t be the day.

Rose eased herself into her chair, she had time to visit before returning to the kitchen. Her attempts to revive the spirits who sat in her living room was to no avail. “William?” She waited before saying his name again. “William?” “Hmm?” He glanced up. “What?”

“How has work been?” Rose asked. “Busy, mom. Always busy.” His eyes returned to his phone. “Elizabeth, where is your husband?” Rose inquired. “He brought home a lot of work yesterday. He won’t make it today.” He couldn’t set aside work for his family on Thanksgiving? Rose wondered what kind of man and husband he was. Her daughter never allowed her the time to get to know him. She was an outsider in her own family. Mouth-watering scents of food filled every nose while silence filled the living room. That is, until the young girl’s voice pulled Rose from her depressing thoughts.

“The house smells wonderful. Leo told me your food is always amazing.” She smiled at Rose, sincerity lighting her eyes.

Rose’s heart melted into a puddle. Her grandson had not only spoken of her to his girlfriend, but complimented her food! She looked over at Leo, who gave her a faint, half smile in return. There was something behind that smile though. What it meant exactly she did not know. Returning her eyes back to the young girl, “Why thank you, dear, that’s kind of you to say. I’m sorry, what was your name again? My weary old mind plum forgot.” She smiled again, “My name is Emily.” Rose opened her mouth to say something, but the timer in the kitchen started buzzing. With shaking limbs she rose from her chair. Smiling as she shuffled back into the kitchen. Emily nudged Leo’s arm and whispered. “Doesn’t she need help?” “No, she’s been doing it all on her own as far back as I can remember.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “I feel like we should have brought something. It’s rude of me to come empty handed.” “There’s nothing to bring. She takes care of everything.” Silence took over once again, except for the sounds of the old lady in the kitchen. Emily debated what to do. She was a guest, her first time here. But that doesn’t mean a guest shouldn’t offer to help. In fact, that’s the exact reason she should. Determined, she stood from the couch and traveled into the kitchen.

Rose barely heard Emily, she was as quiet as a mouse when she entered. She wouldn't have known she was standing there if the girl hadn’t spoken up.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” The girl’s voice was no louder than a peep. The words entering through Rose’s ears were as foreign as any language. She must have heard wrong. Was it possible she longed for love and thoughtfulness so bad she imagined she heard the question? She turned to see Emily standing in the center of the tiny kitchen. “Bless your heart.” Her eyes had just begun to water when she forced back the emotion.

“I’ll be happy to help with anything, Mrs.-” “Just call me Rose,” she said with a smile, “or grandma, or grandma Rose. Whichever you fancy.” Emily did the heavy lifting, taking casserole dishes from the oven, and pulled out the turkey. Rose was delighted someone offered to help. She liked this young girl.

They all gathered around, Rose at the head of the table, with Emily taking the closest spot next to her. Conversation was light, short, and impersonal. William, Collin, and Leo gobbled up enough food for six people. By the time they were finished, there was little left. Rose would have to make a trip to the store sooner than she planned. Elizabeth managed to fit in her little irritancies, critiques, and jabs. Emily made her compliments known, Leo slowly following suit. With Emily’s help, there was hope he might break free from whatever brainwashing Elizabeth had done. She feared all was lost for the rest of them, saddening her heart even more. While shoveling in the food, William asked, “What’s for dessert?”

“There is none.” Rose answered. The shoveling stopped. “No dessert?” “If you haven’t noticed, I move slower these days. There was no time for me to make pies from scratch.” She regretted not being able to. She felt she let down her family. But who was failing who? How did her children grow up to be spoiled, selfish individuals? Had she been that bad of a mother? When the gluttony ceased, they headed for the living room, leaving their plates, glasses and silverware at the table. Emily stayed seated, watching the family leave their mess. Disappointment filled Emily as she watched Leo walk away. Rose took a stack of dishes to the sink. She stood there trying not to cry.

Emily entered and rested her hand atop the old, wrinkly skin thinly covering the bones in Rose’s hand. “I’ll help you.” Her smile was encouraging.

Rose’s sad, sunken eyes met Emily’s. “Christmas won’t be much different I’m afraid.” “Yes, it will. I have an idea.” She gently squeezed the ragged hand. “Let’s break tradition. It’ll require a little wit, if you’re up for stirring the pot.”

~ Christmas was here in a flash. Snow devoured the streets and sidewalks. Ice like glass covered every twig and tree branch. A winter wonderland. As predicted, family arrived with nothing in their hands. No joy. Nor laughter. Emily greeted Rose with a friendly smile and warm hug. She winked before stepping aside. “Mother, your house is joyless and dim. Where are your decorations? You have no tree?” Elizabeth asked tersely. “I am too old these days to be decorating. My whole body aches. And I have no help. Besides, the atmosphere fits the mood you all are in.” Without waiting for their reaction, she headed for the kitchen. Emily smothered her satisfied smile.

When it was time to call to meal, William, Elizabeth, Collin, and Leo strolled into the dining room, all held a look of aghast. “Mother, we are eating off of paper plates and plasticware?” Elizabeth asked angrily. “And solo cups?” William pointed out while holding a red plastic cup. “Where is your fine china?” Elizabeth wondered allowed.

The old lady stifled her smile. “I am too old and tired to wash all the dishes myself. Sit down and I will bring out our Christmas meal.” Rose shuffled into the dining room with a casserole dish of Stouffer’s lasagna. Aghast was an understatement, for it was no longer the correct word to describe the faces of the family.

“What is the meaning of this?” William's voice rose. “Where is our Christmas meal?” “I just thought I would put in as much effort as all of you do.” A shameful silence swept over the table like a thick fog on Christmas Eve. “I’m too old and too tired to do it all myself. None of you have lifted a finger in years. I’m breaking tradition.” No one moved. No one dared to look the old lady in the eyes. Rose reached for the tray of lasagna, Emily assisted.

“Mother, why didn’t you tell us you needed help?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “Would that have made any difference? You all have eyes don’t you? I can’t force you to help an old granny out, or your own mother. It’s always the same excuse, no matter when I call or what I need. Both you and William are always too busy. Maybe now you will realize how much I have done for you. At least now I won’t have a sink full of dirty dishes. You can throw your trash away. I’ll have no clean up.” “I’m sorry, Grandma.” Leo said wholeheartedly. “I’m sorry I never stepped in to help. Emily saw it, she saw how you needed help. Let’s break tradition.” His sorrowful smile told Rose he wasn’t lost. He’d turn out to be a good man after all. The remainder of the evening was heavy with regret. As difficult as it was for Rose to watch her family have a miserable Christmas, there was a lesson to be learned here on this night. Before the family separated into their vehicles, they stood in the driveway after they said good-bye to Rose. It was decided, next year they would all step in to help for the holidays. What they gravely failed to realize was old Rose needed help with everyday life, not just monstrous family meals. Their promise was still too weak. Rose didn’t live to see the next Thanksgiving.

Her family mourned. But what were they grieving? Were their hearts heavy from all of the moments, stories, gatherings, and laughter that was forever lost, never to be experienced? Were they mourning for the mother and grandmother they dearly loved? Or were they grieving over the epiphany of their own selfishness? Their own cruelty? Whatever it was they were grieving, Rose no longer suffered in this world. She had no aching body to weigh her down. No sadness caused by her family. She would never be abandoned again, she was back in her husband's arms. She was Home.


It was a very brisk morning as Rob sat on an old porch built out of sandstone, he looked at the small pond that once was an oasis. He began to ponder in his head why the General Liss of the old Brogrin Empires Military Science Division, wanted with his younger sister's son. "What made him so special." He said out loud. "Its trackers kid" her heard a soft voice say behind him. He watched as his sister sat down next to him on the old sandstone chairs that were on the porch. "Trackers family line has always had the ability to control gravity" she continued. "Then why didn't Tracker ever use it" Rob asked intuitively. "He didn't have it as strongly as his father did" she replied with the look of grief all over her face. "I'm sorry I know how hard his death was on you" Rob said, turning to look out at the dessert again. A metallic shine in the distance caught his eye. Grabbing his binoculars, putting them up to his eyes he sees the distinct shape of a Brogrin drop ship heading there way. "Go inside and get your child. They're here" he says to his sister. She gets up and goes inside. Rob grabs his gun from his belt and walks in the house and closes the door behind him. He walks upstairs and goes into his sniper nest, as he begins to lay down he grabs his sniper he used in Afghanistan during his time in the military. He waits for his targets but its quiet. He heard the distinct sound of the dropship come and go. But he hasn't heard the squeaky voices of Milmots, the clicks from Krumhots no loud commanding voices of Brogrin Sargents give orders in Broginese. He puts his rifle down and turns around. As a hand with three fingers and two thumbs grabs his throat, it uncloaks revealing a Brogrin elite it removes its beautiful built helmet with religious markings all over it. Its head has five mouth pieces that it opens wide, Rob now knows this elite is going to do the one thing every soldier of The Government feared during the war. It moves in closer but then both hear the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway, it looks behind it to the sight of Rob's sister holding her moms handgun in one hand and her child in the other. She fires a shot before either Rob or the elite can react, in 2 seconds the elite is on the floor dead. "I thought we agreed that if the Brogrins ever found us you would leave" Rob said in an annoyed yet thankful tone. "Your welcome first off. And second off I was leaving when I saw your predicament. I knew you need my help." She replied snarky at first. Two more elites come in with their wrist swords activated, Rob says as he pulls his knife out "let's take them together". They both charge and begin to fight an elite themselves Rob using his military training holds his own at the start but the more jabs he gets in with his knife the angrier the elite gets, as with his sister she puts her baby on the ground then proceeds to punch the elite direct in the chest causing the elite to fly back into the wall, she then grabs its arm that has the sword on it and twists it to break its arm. Its yells in pain and frustration as she then rips the piece of armor that the energy sword it attached to, she then proceeds to stab it through its hand that it used to try to block the income strike and into its neck. She then grabs one of its grenades from its belt then goes to jump on the other elites back that has her brother stuck to the floor and sticks it with the grenade as she is then grabbed by it and thrown to the floor the grenade explodes blowing the elite into Rob. Pushing the dead elite off him his sister says "that's two you owe me". "Really Star Wars reference now" Rob replies groaning as he sits up. "Star Wars? What's that?" She asked as she picked up her baby. "Never mind" he said getting up now.


"Twenty miles more, please don't die until we get there, it'll ruin everything" I said as I glanced at the speedometer. I didn't want to get stopped by a state trooper or local cop, they just wouldn't understand what was going on. A light snow was wetting the road in a half-hearted way. Hopefully the field would look nice for Michael, he deserved to die in a picturesque spot and he made me promise to take him there, no matter what. We drove for a bit in the silence, the wipers protested about being too dry so I switched them off. The lump in my throat wouldn't go away; he was a good brother and still is, well at least will be for the next hour or so. He sat up, the effort of breathing made him wince. "You got the good whiskey and the weed?” he said, “I'm not gonna check out with some cheap shit," he said with a laugh. "Yeah, I got it, " I said. It was nearly four when we turned off the highway and onto the desert trail. It was one of those places where people shoot at things and nobody cares. I switched the Jeep to four wheel drive and slowed to a crawl as the trail got steeper. This didn't look promising, what if he got it wrong? And now it began snowing a bit more. It would be ironic if both of us died here. As we rounded a bend in the trail we finally got there. I could tell this was the spot he had picked out. There was a grassy slope punctuated with rocks; we could see the city many miles away and far below. It was nearly sunset as I shut off the engine and sat for a minute as the tears started to well up. Too many unfinished plans, too many dreams that fell apart. Too many false starts. "I love you bro," I said as I started to cry, “Cancer sucks.” "I love you too. I'm sorry for all the shit I did to you growing up, I really am," he said. He stared out the window as his breathing grew shallower, it was almost time. I set up a table and chairs on the uneven ground then poured two glasses of whiskey and helped him walk from the car. I gave him a hug. I sat down to fire up the pipe and handed it to him so he could take a hit. The smoke seemed to swirl around him as if it knew that he too was going to dissipate and float away. We made a silent toast and tossed our whiskey back. It burned all the way down but the pain felt good in the moment. Overhead a hawk soared in a wide circle, it screeched and echoed against the mountains. I started to speak and point it out, but stopped to realize that this would be the last time I would point out something cool to my brother. But then I turned. And he was gone.


***Lively Discussions***\*\*. As Christopher Hitchens used to say: “Debate is what separates us from the savage beast. Along with leaf blowers.” No argument from us there!\*\* **Today’s discussion is all about the best Star Wars character of all time. Edwin and Steven will be debating: “Jango Fett versus Jek Porkins.”** **STEVEN:** Let me begin by welcoming back my esteemed partner in discourse, Edwin. As always, I look forward to being enlightened and enriched after hearing your opinions on this matter. However, for me there is no question that Jek Porkins is the superior Star Wars character. As a Rebel X-Wing Star Fighter he not only fights on the morally just side, but heroically gives his life for the cause. While not widely celebrated, his role in helping steal the technical readouts to the Death Star cannot be overlooked. Characters like him are what make Star Wars worth watching. **EDWIN:** Steven, my dear friend and godfather of my first, second and fifth child, it is beyond a pleasure to be in your presence once again. I sit here now basking in the light of what will surely prove to a beautiful, illuminating discourse that I believe will not only help us uncover verité, but also allow us both growth as individuals. Of course, I must open by insisting you drop the notion of equating character worth with morality. The richest characters in cinematic history are not fairy tale character of pure virtue, but instead complex individuals colored with shades of grey. So while Jek is certainly on the side of good, he lacks the depth and arc of a morally-agnostic bounty hunter simply trying to raise a son. Jango is multi-faceted and we are all the richer for it. **STEVEN:** Edwin, wise and thoughtful scholar. Your knowledge on most any topic is so expansive, that if committed to parchment and stretched across the heavens it would blot out the sun. Plunging us into a darkness so intellectually vast, global agricultural production perhaps never recovers. I couldn’t agree more that morality is not the sole metric a character should be judged on. I must question though, if you paid attention to my argument carefully enough. As stated, but now repeated, Jek isn’t just a hero in thought but in action. His efforts to steal the Death Star plans, an objective he heroically gives his life for have seismic implications on the plot of not just Star wars but specifically the original trilogy. Which as we know is the most critically acclaimed series of Star Wars movies in history. Meanwhile Jango, regrettably toils in futility in the prequels. Which as we all know is a series of movies and characters most people would rather forget. **EDWIN:** Steven. Your words of praise not only touch my heart, they touch my mind, and they touch parts of myself that are not appropriate to discuss in such an educational setting. You are truly the Babe Ruth of Socratic discourse. Which is why it pains me that today’s arguments are so painfully simplistic. First you pile all your hopes onto the pack beast of morality. And now that it has proved to be a feeble animal, you have moved onto it’s brother: utility. Your arguments about Jek are not defending Jek, but simply his proximity to much more interesting characters. It’s ludicrous. To help you understand what I mean, let’s try to imagine a completely hypothetical marriage. Say Zteven and Zamantha are a married couple of many years. Then suppose that Zteven is so poor at lovemaking that the only way Zamantha is able to bring herself to completion is by closing her eyes and imagining previous encounters she has had with his much more handsome friend Zedwin. Now would you say Zteven is the better lover simply because he is more integral to the marriage? You clearly would not. **STEVEN:** Edwin, unparalleled genius of our time, thought leader of a generation and father figure to me both intellectually and possibly paternally. While I don’t agree with your arguments, I appreciate your use of a hypothetical example. It reminds me of another hypothetical that perfectly exhibits Jek’s superiority. Say if you will a certain man named Zedwin loves to enjoy a cigarette after coitus. Now imagine a brave, noble hero, much like Jek stumbling upon this reality while watching Zedwin in his own bedroom with his beloved, but sadly misguided wife. But instead of announcing his presence, he bides his time, learning when these rendezvous occur and remaining out of sight. Then, as Zedwin is distracted Zteven steals his cigarette pack and poisons it with traces of cyanide. Not killing immediately but gradually over time. Yes, Zteven wants to watch it happen slowly. Because this is what happens to the morally ambiguous Jango’s of the world. They do not get the hero’s death of the Jek’s. Sometimes they are beheaded in battle. Other times they die in bed by their mistresses side, for all the world to see how repugnant a character they truly were. Oh, how much better our stories will be when all the Jango’s are finally gone. **EDWIN:** Steven, it would take a million monkeys typing at a million typewriters for a million years for them to come up with a single sentence that matches the wit and ferocity of your intellect. And from what Zamantha tells me, it would take Zteven equally as long to learn how to please a woman. It is a bit odd, your claim of admiring a man like Jek, who we can both at least agree had the nobility of character to commit his treason against the empire in full view of the galaxy, while you sit and skulk in the shadows. Attempting to patch up a broken marriage with poisons and deceptions. Jango would never attempt such a cowardly deed, he chose instead to go nobly to his end in battle against his equal, Ben Kenobi. That is why to prove my point, I have decided to smoke this entire pack of coward-tampered cigarettes altogether at once. Goodbye old friend. And goodbye Zamantha, you were the only woman I ever truly loved. Thrice. In the same night. While her husband hid in the closet. Thinking we were completely unaware of his presence. **STEVEN:** Wise and noble Edwin. Your intelligence is unmatched. Your eloquence, boundless. Your silver tongue, platinum. As always, your rousing thoughts stir us from the intellectual malaise that is everyday life. So with all my heart and soul I say to you sir, may you rot in the deepest, darkest bowels of hell. Being flogged for all eternity in a fiery pit, beside Jango himself. **Ok folks, that concludes this round of** ***Lively Discussions.


The year is 1937, and it is an acorn in autumn, growing on its parent's limb. A breeze rushes through the valley, snapping it off its brittle twig and sending it tumbling down to earth, landing in a fertile, nourishing cowpat, on the other side of a low wooden fence (a human marker for which stretch of featureless plain is and is not a ranch), not ten feet away from where it first grew. No one is here to witness this, save a single squirrel, collecting the acorn's siblings for winter, three branches above the branch the acorn fell from. She does not notice, or care, that it fell. The year is 1937, and the acorn has gone unnoticed for months, having been trampled and shoved below the once-soft earth by cow hooves, horses, and the leather boots of cowboys in deerskin and steel spurs. The ground is frozen now, and the acorn lies dormant in hard soil. The squirrel that unknowingly witnessed its falling searches for where she buried its siblings among pale snow, lost in the falling flakes of a coming blizzard. She will not find all of them. She will not live to see the spring. In her bones, so small and so fragile against the immensity of the world and the unforgiving cold, she knows this, and she is afraid. It is the winter of 1937, and she dies against the roots of the parent tree, the only landmark she can be sure of in the whirling chaos of the blizzard. When the storm is over, a starving fox finds her corpse, and is grateful for it. The year is 1938, and it is a minuscule shoot of green in the spring, nearly indistinguishable from the miles of grass around it. What was once a cowpat has become rich soil, and the young oak's roots grow deep and strong. A newborn calf, sleeping in the noonday sun beside his mother, does not know this. He has only lived a day and a half, and the ranchers have not discovered him yet. The year is 1938, and it is high summer. The sprout is a sapling, and is now a little taller than the surrounding grass. What will become its trunk is now too tough and woody to be chewed, and curious cows will spit out its bitter leaves. The calf born that spring now grazes beside his siblings in the herd, having been weaned, and avoids the young oak tree, nibbling the grass around it. He has tasted the leaves of the sapling before, and he knows it does not make a good meal. The year is 1938, and it has been exactly a year since the sapling fell as an acorn. The calf is growing fast, and he will be a yearling bull in six short months. The ranchers have pierced his nose in preparation for a ring, as they plan to use him to pull the plow. The parent tree, ten feet away, drops more acorns. The year is 1938, and it is deep winter. The calf has been moved into a barn with his herd, and the oak sapling, along with its parent, loses its leaves and goes dormant. The year is 1939, and it is spring again. A mated pair of robins make their nest in the parent tree's branches, a few feet higher than the place where the sapling fell from. The calf is now a yearling, and has been given to heifers several times now. He is young and strong and full of vigor, and challenges older bulls whenever he has the chance. His whole life is ahead of him, though it will be shorter than he instinctively believes it will be. The oak sapling has grown twice as tall as it was last spring, and humans take note of it now, in passing. Its presences means little to them, and so they leave it be. The year is 1939, and it is summer on the ranch once more. The young bull is now a steer, and he feels different, though he doesn't understand why. The young robins who hatched in the branches of the parent tree fly freely now, all but one of their clutch (who fell from the nest as a hatchling) still alive and singing. The young oak is nearly a grown tree now, and its parent is growing acorns early. It will not grow acorns of its own for decades yet. It is the autumn of 1939, and the oak tree is two years old. The family of robins have flown south, leaving their old nest of twigs and cow hair vacant. A hundred feet away, the young steer struggles with his handlers. The ranchers mean to sell him for the slaughter, but since his castration, he has grown to distrust them, and so he fights them with every ounce of his strength that they value so highly as meat. After hours of struggle, they loop a rope around his nose ring, and lead him with seven of his brothers to a train station miles away. That will be the last time he sees the ranch where he lived his whole life. It is the cusp of winter, in 1939, and the young steer dies hundreds of miles from home, with the smell of blood in his nostrils. Winter passes, and the young oak drops its leaves again. The year is 1940, and the family of robins have all come back for the spring - the parents of the clutch, and half the clutch from last year. They all make new homes nearby one another, and the young oak's branches are finally strong enough to hold a nest. A young robin, the son of the first mated pair, makes his nest in its branches, singing loudly for any female who might hear him. One responds, and they nest together for the spring. The year is 1940, and it is summer again. The young robin and his mate had two clutches laid in the branches of the oak tree, the first of which was eaten by a crow. The second was successful, and they flit even now from branch to branch. For the robins, this is a land of plenty, with many worms and insects for them to eat. The year is 1940, and it is autumn once again. Another squirrel seeks acorns in the branches of the parent tree. More young bulls, steers, and heifers graze nearby. More are culled from the herd, and more will be born next spring. The robins have flown south – they will return.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: New World Order WE MADE IT! It’s the final episode, folks!! Congratulations for making it this far, writers! Everything is coming up Millhouse. It’s a whole new world and it smells of roses and , right? The dust has settled and there’s a new sheriff in town. Those boots don’t fill themselves, and it’s taken a helluva journey to earn them. If there’s ever been a time for a hero to trot out and strut their stuff, now is that time. This is your last chance to answer some questions and really wrap up what you have to say . Some of you will be continuing your universes into the next SerSat cycle. In that case, feel free to hook us with some flirting with your next story arc. Make us demand with this closing chapter. **Things to think about this time around:** Did your characters make the world due to their actions? Is there room left in this topsy turvy setting for your characters anymore, when the story is played out? Are they , or some uninvited guest? Now it’s time to examine what’s left. What’s left after your protagonist crosses their ‘t’s and dots their ‘i’s? Have your characters *peaked?* Are they living the golden years of top performance? Is this the first taste of resting on their laurels ? If we come back in 10 years will this story arc be their best claim to fame? Will we find them kicked back with a beerbaby and a shrine to the things they’ve won? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **For the final installment of Serial Saturday the word count has been upped to 850 words.** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/28, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Spoils: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Xacktar, with a retelling that is so cleverly written and just makes us that more excited for the full novella. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/LitCityBlues, for a beautifully poignant story of closure and silver linings. And two honorable mentions: /u/Kammerice, with victories that are short-lived in the world where criminals and politicians collide. And /u/Lynx_elia, delivering a new chapter that is all too fitting for the world that’s been built up since Lynx’s very first Theme Thursday entries. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 850** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **The Spoils** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


The golden light of sunset bathes the calm forest surrounding them. Ray takes a deep breath of the forest air before opening another can of beer. "Summer is coming to an end boys, and we only have tonight left out here." Jimmy fishes out a new beer for himself before plopping down next to Ray. "If we can make the beer last that long." Jimmy laughs, accompanied by his three friends. After taking his first sip, Jimmy points to the west. "If we go now, we'll be able to watch the sunset from the cliffs. Wouldn't be a bad end to our first day of camping." George and Al groan, but Ray stands up, "I'm game. I just love the way the forest air makes me feel." Jimmy joins Ray on his feet, casting an impish grin to the two lazier friends. "Come on guys, it'll be fun." George and Al cast weary glances at each other before shaking their heads. "If we don't go now, we'll have to run to make it." "You know those guys are gonna keep pestering us until we give in. Let's just get it over with George." George grumbles as he throws himself back, laying flat on the floor for a second. "Fine, but one of you assholes has to carry the cooler out and back. I'm not doing it." Ray laughs as he scoops up the smaller cooler. "Don't worry fatass, I got it." George rolls over, climbing to his feet as Jimmy lends a hand to Al, his prosthetic leg making a small squeak as it straightens. George rummages through his duffel bag as the others start walking, finding what he's looking for before hustling to join them. George pulls out one of his joints and lights it, taking deep drags before passing it to Jimmy. "Hey Ray, you need to quit calling me fatass." "Why's that fatass?" "First off, I lost the weight." George lifts his shirt to reveal the beginnings of his abs. "Second, you're looking like you picked some of it up." As Jimmy passed the joint to Ray, George pokes at his side. "See? You're starting to get a bit flabby." George laughs as Ray takes a swing at him, nearly dropping the joint from his mouth. Al scratches his leg just above his prosthetic. As Ray offers him the joint he simply shakes his head, passing on the offer. Ray takes another long drag on the joint before passing it back to George to restart the rotation. As he exhales, Jimmy nudges him with a playful punch. "Cut it out. I'll wrestle you when we reach the cliffs." Jimmy takes another hit of the joint, nearly finishing the roll before passing it to Ray again. "Damn George, you get the shittiest pre-rolls. Ray, you know you're too scared to actually wrestle me, since you got that chubby when I pinned you." Jimmy laughs with Al and George joining in. "I told you guys, that was because of the meds I was on. I don't swing that way!" Ray finishes the joint, pinching the roach off with his fingers to put out the small burning remnants. George pulls out another joint. "It's okay, when you're ready to come out of the closet Jimmy will take good care of you. He'll be your daddy." Jimmy runs his hand over the back of George's head. "Just like I'm your daddy?" George shivers and pulls away. "Now you made it creepy jackass." "You're the one making fun of my sexuality, I might as well use it against you too." Al continues to scratch at his thigh. "You guys are all way too comfortable with touching each other." Ray lets out a raspy huff. "That's enough guys. I'm done talking about this gay shit." "So my sexuality is shit to you?" "That's not what I meant!" "Relax macho man, I'm just messing with you." Jimmy stretches his arms wide, "But you're still too scared to actually wrestle me." The four men let out another roar of laughter as they continue through the trees, finishing another joint as they make their way. True to Jimmy's word, the men make the cliff edge just as the sun is sinking, its final rays of light coloring the sky in iridescent hues of red and orange. With the final rays dying out, a strange wave of blue light Cascades across the sky in a flash, bathing everything around the group of men before disappearing just as quickly. "What was that?" "I don't really…" Their speculation is cut short as Al begins screaming, falling to his side while grabbing at his leg. George kneels beside Al, asking pointless questions while trying to help him. A sudden ripple in Als thigh causes the prosthetic to become loose, falling away from him. Al goes quiet, the pain becoming unbearable, rendering him unconscious. Ray checks Als pulse. "Should we try…" Ray's words are cut short as red and orange light washes over them. The three conscious men stare in shock as they watch the sun rise rapidly from the western horizon. "What the fuck?" Ray and Jimmy turn to see what George is staring at now, finding Al's leg growing from the point of amputation. Al regains consciousness, gritting his teeth in severe pain, unable to scream any more. As the sun continues to rise back to a noon position, Al's leg finishes growing into a complete, healthy appendage. Al gasps in relief as his leg sits whole, his body made whole. "What the actual fuck guys?" The four men stand in fear, unable to move as the sun beats down on them. Jimmy is the first to come to his senses. "We have to get the fuck out of here. I don't know what the hell is going on, but we gotta get Al to a hospital, he needs to get checked out now." The others agree, with Al grabbing his prosthetic, switching the sock and shoe to his new foot. "I don't know what is going on, but damn my leg feels great. Shit, I feel great!" He stands up, flexing his regrown leg. "Damn George, what was in those pre-rolls? That shit is miraculous!" Al looks at Jimmy. "That can't be it, I didn't take a hit." Ray taps each of the others on their shoulders. "Whatever, let's go. We'll find out more about this at the hospital." The four men start running through the trees back to their camp, eschewing the trail for a more direct route. They each dart past the trees, covering the distance quickly. "Hurry up! Just grab what we need and let's get going. Don't slow us down either fatass!" George stops as he picks up his backpack. "Now that I think about it, that's the fastest I've ever run. I don't even feel winded." The others look at George with unease, each murmuring that they feel the same. Ray is once again the voice of reason, reminding them that they need to get moving. The run out of the forest, and the drive afterwards feels like a blur as the men enter the waiting room of the small hospital. "Hello! We need some medical attention! Hello!" A nurse pokes her head out from a backroom, a concerned look on her face. "What seems to be the problem?" Al comes forward with his prosthetic leg in hand. "A little under an hour ago, after the sun had set, I guess I regrew my leg." The nurse looks at Al with wide eyes. "Come to the backroom. You need to see this with the rest of us." The five of them make their way to the room the nurse came from, crowding in with almost two dozen other people, all seemingly in their late twenties to early thirties. On the television against the wall a large flying object is seen in the background sky, with a large, muscular man standing in the center of the screen, the focal point of the camera. Everything about the man seems normal, aside from the slight blue tint to his skin and hair. When the camera zooms in on his face, his eyes become visible with shocking white iris against blue tinted sclera. "I apologize for making you wait so long. I needed time to assimilate your primary languages. You should all be capable of understanding me now. I am Crume Talgast, an emissary of sorts. Your sun, and planet, and indeed, all of your people have been altered by my intervention. I have caused a temporal shift of sorts, to ensure that you are all at your peak physical conditions for what comes next. Another race is currently en route to attack your planet, to seize it for themselves. They don't use advanced weaponry, only ferocious, brute force. They enjoy their malicious extermination of other races. It is my hope, that with your newly revitalized and enhanced bodies, along with my advanced weapons and technology, that we may be able to halt their expansions, to halt their brutal slaughter. Please, I beg of you to join my resistance, I cannot lose yet another species to these monsters." The camera zooms out from the strange man, bringing the flying object back into frame, as well as the forty or so soldiers that surround him with their firearms trained on him. Crume Talgast's voice rises once more. "I am not your enemy, I seek to aid you in the coming war." With that, Crume Talgast lowers himself to his knee, in a sign of surrender. Al looks down at his leg. "I think I believe him." Another man in the hospital's backroom looks Al in the eye. "Why's that?" Holding up his prosthetic leg Al answers, "Because I've needed this prosthetic for the past two years, and now I have my leg back, stronger than before." "Well son, I'm right here next to you in believing him. You see, just about an hour ago, I was shitting my adult diaper, but now I look like I did when I was in the army." A woman with unkempt red hair steps towards them. "I think I have you both beat." Her clothes are mismatched, the colors clashing, giving her a childish look. "I just turned seven yesterday." The people in the room gawk at her, muttering words of disbelief. One woman asks, "What does all this mean?" Al throws his prosthetic leg to the side. "It means we're going to war."


   Fred licked his lips. Dinner was a special treat, tuna. Made just the way he liked it. The can on the counter hosted a different logo and writing than usual but it tasted great.     “Why didn’t you have tuna tonight?” Fred asked his sister Nicki as he washed his face.     She made a face at him. “Because you are such a pig. You gobble it up and Mom knows that.”     “Did you see what kind it was? Very tasty,” Fred said as he stared at the label again. Fukushima Tuna Company was printed under the fish logo.     “You know I can’t read,” Nicki said. “Ask one of the boys.”      “No, they can’t read either.” With the parting comment, the pair began their nightly bedtime preparations.     Fred woke several times during the night shaking from bad dreams. He tried to be sick but nothing happened. His stomach roiled and heaved like he swallowed something alive for dinner.     Nicki stopped by his bed and poked him. “Wake up sleepy head.”     Fred groaned and rolled onto his side, “Leave me alone. I didn’t get any sleep. All night, my dreams were monsters chasing me. Big teeth and claws.” He shuddered and hugged his pillow.     “Did you win?” Nicki asked bright-eyed with anticipation. “How did you escape?”     “You poked me and I woke up.”     “Well, that’s no fun. Com’on, let’s get going. The boys want to play.” She was bouncing around, looking at him as he lay there feeling ill.     “Later, I promise.” Fred rolled over and pulled his legs up into a ball. “Just let me sleep.”     “I’m telling Mom,” Nicki called as she raced from the room.     Eleanor felt his forehead, ears and stomach all while making comforting noises designed to relax him. “Just sleep, honey. We’ll see how you feel in a little while.” She tucked his blanket more thoroughly around him.     As the afternoon began to wane, Fred finally perked up and appeared from under his blanket. He stretched and realized how much better he felt. The rest solved his problems, whatever they were. Bounding down the stairs, he headed outside to play with his brothers and Nicki.     When their mother called them in for dinner, Fred wasn’t ready to go. He felt full of energy and ran around the yard, jumping and screeching at the top of his lungs. The thumbnail of the moon peaked over the trees at the edge of the fence. Its light was bright and mysterious. It beckoned him to explore and play. Looking around the yard, Fred found a tree next to the fence and climbed up to get over it. As he skipped down the road in the magical moonlight, he noticed every detail. The silvery reflections of the leaves. The smell of the earth and the air.  He snapped his jaws at the non-stop blinking of the lightning bugs. All of it enthralled him.     As dawn began to blush the eastern sky, the moon set to the west. Fred crept to the front door and laid down on the newspaper. He chased the paperboy down the sidewalk earlier, but the boy didn’t want to play, just throw newspapers. The lock turned and the door opened as Fred lay pathetically on the doormat.     Eleanor exclaimed when she saw him, “Freddie, honey, what have you been doing? I was so worried when I saw you weren’t in bed this morning.” She picked him up and carried him inside pressing her lips to his forehead.     After checking him over, she tucked him back into bed and admonished him to be a good boy and get better. Hoping to lose his headache, Fred fell asleep even before he ate breakfast. *****     The pattern continued for several days. Each night Fred skulked about the area, venturing further and further into the neighborhood. He discovered over animals out wandering. One night a possum crossed his path and he tried to get it to play with him, but it fell over frozen. When he poked it to check and give it a nip, the smell of its fur made him gag.     Besides the other animals which he and his siblings never saw during the day, he wandered amazed at the sights and sounds of the night. The rustle of the wings overhead as he crept through the yard. The menacing shadows from the trees waving even when he couldn’t feel a breeze. With heightened eyesight, he realized he could see a mouse creeping around the edge of the garden. While he chased it, he stopped before catching it.     However, morning brought the desire to be in the house. Quiet and tired, Fred felt drained and required time to recuperate. One evening though Nicki commented on his teeth as they washed dishes. Fred looked in the mirror and grinned, stretching his lips back to complete the grotesque smile. She was right. His teeth looked like he was a snake ready to pounce and fill someone with venom. He imagined fangs dripping with blood.     He laughed because what he really wanted was to bite into a can of tuna and suck it dry.

*****     On the night of the full moon, Fred was on the prowl. Trying to bite things around the house and suck them dry was boring. His siblings just wanted to sleep. Disgusted, he climbed the fence to sneak out of the yard and play with the other creatures of the night. In one yard, he found a stone pool and fountain. He played, dipping his feet in the water, running and attacking shadows. After some time, a desperate craving drove him home as he searched to appease the hunger.     Insistent pounding on the front door at dawn brought Eleanor down the stairs tying her bathrobe belt. Her hair a tangle while she covered her yawning mouth. “Who is it?” she called as she stepped on the rug marking the landing. She opened the door to find an irate neighbor yelling at her and glaring at the cats peeking at him from the staircase.     “Where is it?” he screamed, veins bulging in his neck. He tried to push into the house, but she stepped in front of him and held her ground.     “Where is what?” she asked.     “Where is the cat that killed my fish? You are going to owe me thousands.” He shoved a grainy black and white photograph printout into her hands. The picture showed the glowing eyes of an animal, facing a game camera, with something dangling from its mouth. While not a negative with reversed colors, the picture image was distorted though recognizable. The gray and white markings of the face were just visible in the infrared light. The whiskers and pointy ears all combined to identify the perpetrator.     “See….look at that monster.” He grabbed the photograph back from her.

    “I can’t believe he would do something like this.” Eleanor stepped back from the door and looked around at the bodies peering down the staircase. Making up her mind, she walked into the hallway where she could see into the kitchen. There on the floor by an open cabinet door, with groceries strewn about, lay the bloated body of Fred. As she moved into the room, she smelled the overpowering scent of fish. But it wasn’t the residue of orange scales sticking to Fred’s fuzzy face which reeked. It was the pile of blue cans hosting punctures. Liquid pooled on the floor under the pile.

    “I’m sorry, sir,” Eleanor said to the man who followed her into the kitchen. “It appears that we have found the culprit.”     As she rolled Fred over, he burped and opened his eyes sleepily. Eleanor paused as she looked, beyond him and his enormous fangs, over the pile of cans. Some can tops and bottoms hosted jagged holes around the edges like they had been attacked by a screwdriver or hole punch. Others only had two holes. “Well, you didn’t just go after the tuna, did you? You tried some beans, soup and mushrooms. All blue cans. Too bad for you.”     She picked up the cat and dumped him into the nearby bathroom, closing the door to contain him. Then, she headed for her checkbook while formulating an apology, dodging the other cats investigating the kitchen mess.     Fred rolled over on the bathroom floor and smiled as he started to wash his face, giving extra attention to his oversize teeth. He wondered what else would taste good.


(Write about a family who decides to camp out in the back yard during a power outage.) Bob and Margie looked at one another with a look of knowing panic! More than panic, horror actually! What could they possibly do? How could they corral these four kids in a dark house with no electronic tentacles to the outside world? The family had gathered around the kitchen table where one candle provided all of the ambient light. The family was Bob, the head of the clan and father to two sets of twins, and Margie, head cook and bandaid applier for minor scrapes, and also the mother of the kids. Then we have ten year old Buck and Oz, boys both, and eight year old girls Sadie and Sandy. They were a handful in the best of times so Bob and Margie knew this was going to be tough. Bob picks up the big metal spoon that grandma used to use for canning, and bangs it on the table top. That is always the signal that he expects quiet children who are at least pretending to listen. Bob begins with a very brief description of what a power outage is and the possibility it could last a while. After fielding a few questions from his future scientist son Oz, he goes on to tell them in his most seductive voice that he is willing to try an adventure BUT they must all agree to help and do it quietly. Here is his plan or the plan he presents. Dad will get the tent and the camping lanterns from the garage. Mom will pack a picnic style camping supper with lots of snacks and drinks. Each of the kids will find their own sleeping bags, and a comic or two and one favorite non electronic toy. Everyone will meet back here in half an hour for a night of camping in our own neighborhood! Then he gives the boys a flashlight and the girls a flashlight. He will use the lantern and Margie will use the candle. Now the question is, “Do you want to do this?” With that he has to sush a loud cheer! Ok back here in thirty minutes and dress warm! Bob has time to find the tent and set it up and also build a small campfire in the fire ring from the patio.  The kids are eagerly waiting and ready. Excitement is running high! Out they go to camp! They quickly devoured everything Margie had brought to eat. It was about this time that they were getting restless, the newness of the idea wearing off, they were beginning to squabble. Even something as unusual as sitting in a circle around a fire was wearing thin. “Ghost stories!” Dad yelled! “Yes!” Said the boys. “No!” Whined the girls, too scary! Mom said, “Let’s try something different!” “Let’s try to make up something like a story BUT one will begin, and then the next person will add a word or two on to the story, around the circle until we have a whole story.” “What do you think?” “If you want to add a bunch of words or just one word it is ok, I will try to help you out sometimes as we go along.” Oz yells out, “Ok, me first!” he said. He has a devilish look in his eye! And so he begins..

~~~~~ OZ…Park bench! Ha ha.

MOM...I am but a bench sitting near the edge of a river. It is becoming springtime and everything is changing, evolving, once frozen and sparse, now life begins again. SADIE ...yells ducks! MOM...Early morning ducks waddle by my base looking for fallen crumbs of food dropped by passing visitors or seeds thawing from the snow and ice. They chatter among themselves as they move down the shore always in search of food. DAD…a fat man (chuckle) MOM...Shortly a short man all bundled up in a muffler and coat comes by with a fat bulldog on a leash. The dog snif snif sniffing at everything he passes. Only the dog knows if he is sniffing for food or if he is just experiencing who or what has recently visited these places using his best sensing device, his nose. Both seem to be making small huffing noises as they move by. MOM...The bench would like someone to sit and visit or rest awhile. Use him, the bench, for what he has been put here for, but at this time of day, early morning, most creatures are on the move, between morning coffee and picking up the newspaper from the corner store, walking the dog or on their way somewhere. SANDY...People MOM...The voices are loud as a middle aged couple approach the bench. They are arguing, about money it would seem, their voices get louder as they reach him and luckily they pass quickly, voices fading as they move down the shore path. BUCK...Someone to sit down. MOM...Finally someone sits! An older gent, unfolds his newspaper and with a quick snap turns and folds it again to the sports section. Muttering to himself he goes through scores of games, second hand and after the fact coaching of missed plays and mistakes. If only he were young again he would show them a thing or two. Ah, but he isn’t young and before he stiffens up, he groans to his feet and shuffles away. SADIE...A girl! MOM...Now comes a pretty girl in a yellow dress. She is busy with her cell phone, what else, of course, and hums a current song while her fingers fly over the buttons trying to find a person to share some information or arrange a time or place. A quick mumbled conversation ends in a giggle so she must have been successful. DAD...More visitors. MOM...Mornings are usually like this...a passing crowd...not a resting or passive visitor, not someone or something a bench can get to know. Oh, there are always a few regulars during the day, some pleasant, some not so nice, like the older fellow who regularly raises his rump to pass gas right here on this bench.

BUCK...A Mother. MOM...A young Mother with a stroller visits often and if her baby sleeps she reads a book in the sunshine but if the baby is fussing, she lifts him out and feeds him making soothing and cooing noises. That is always nice, for the bench, folks seem to forget he is there, a witness to it all. Yes it is not a bad life, seeing and hearing bits and pieces of life. BUCK...a kid on a bike. MOM...A bicycle whizzes by and then another, they are not supposed to be on the walking path but as always happens, kids take short cuts and hope to escape detection. It is amazing the way folks move by him.

SANDY...Swans MOM...Most folks take no notice of him at all but today he thinks he will have a few “sitters”. The swan family has been active on the river for the last few days and people love to watch them, coming with a variety of cameras and wanting to freeze the moment to take home to share with family over dinner perhaps. DAD...how about friends? MOM...The bench has been wishing and waiting for a few weeks now for a regular happening in spring, young lovers, walking hand in hand, talking quietly, sitting close and often whispering words to each other he cannot quite hear but knows it is about love. If a bench could smile, he would be smiling, thoughts of the many couples who have sat here talking, remembering, planning, they are by far the best visitors. Old lovers are nice too, so much reminiscing but it might surprise you to know that old lovers are sometimes new lovers too. Having been given a second chance in the golden years they cherish the moments. Yes if a bench could get teary eyed he would do that too. MOM...Yes, I am but a park bench but I am also an observer and the things I see are marvelous, life in all forms, and I will testify that life is good! MOM...The end! ~~~~~ Margie says quickly before the mood gets active, “And now we need to figure out how to get us all into the tent without bringing in mosquitos.” “ I’m glad we already arranged the sleeping bags so we know where we are going.” Oz says, “I think we should do this once a week, I’m already making up a story about a werewolf!” “I think I could do a whole story by myself!” And so, the family may have begun a whole new tradition, family time under the stars, around the campfire telling tall tales!


The Houseless Problem S. A. Tawks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I had a home but it wasn't a house. It was an apartment I shared with four others. One of these others was my significant other. We had a pretty great life together. But one day I realised how it could be even better. If we had more money, we could have more stuff and do more things. Stuff like the latest gadgets, clothes and accessories. Things like amazing holidays and memorable experiences. Stuff and things that would make everyone else stop and think, 'hey, they must have a pretty good life.' So what was step number one? What was the biggest money drain I could transform into a money pool? Rent. 'Rent's dead money,' say all the experts. The best strategy is to save as much as you can for a mortgage deposit and then chip away at the mortgage bit by bit until you completely own the property. I knew the biggest hurdle would be the stage where my significant other and I were both saving for the deposit and giving away that 'dead money' every week. But I had faith in us to make it through the challenge and be proud first home buyers. Then there'd be more stuff to be had and more things to do. I set our savings goal at 33% of our fortnightly pay. This was money we'd deposit straight away into a high interest savings account. The next step was to open a term deposit once three months had passed and transfer what we had saved into this, incentivising us not to touch the funds. Everything went according to plan and the cash was locked into the term deposit by the end of month number three. Month four came around and that's when I had a great idea. "What about this," is how I began my proposition to my significant other. "Instead of buying a house, let's buy a townhouse." She said she really wanted a yard and a big place to hold parties. I laid out my thoughts to make her see the benefit of my idea and I knew she wouldn’t have an argument. If we bought a townhouse, the mortgage deposit and subsequent interest and principal repayments would be smaller. We'd also have enough money for the deposit sooner and solve the problem of that dead money we were throwing away every week. I figured we'd have a good deposit for a modest townhouse by the eighteenth month of our savings plan. Six months in, I had another idea. It was more of a realisation. My significant other went to stay with her parents for a week because an aunt had passed away. I didn't do much that week besides work. I didn't do much and this resulted in not spending much. If my significant other and I could spend as little as possible, we'd have enough for the deposit sooner than planned. Eating in, biking or walking instead of using petrol, limiting electricity usage, staying in instead of going out...the list of possibilities was endless. I sold all these difficult, boring and time-consuming strategies to my significant other by telling her it was a small sacrifice now for a better future. Nine months down was when my roommates began to get on my nerves. It became obvious to me that they were all wasteful leeches. They'd leave all the lights on in the apartment, eat the food I'd bought, ask me to spot them cash - a fiver or a tenner - and never pay me back. It all became too much when we went out one night for dinner. We were a group of ten at an Italian restaurant. My budget and taste met at the equilibrium of spaghetti bolognese and I was kind of happy to pay the eighteen dollars for the meal. I didn't have any entrees, wines or desserts like the others because I couldn't justify it. When my significant other asked for a third wine, I told her to maybe rethink her purchase and was given a foul look. 'Whatever. Waste your money,' I thought about her actions and the actions of my other eight friends. Then came the bill and one joker suggested we split it. A few backed his suggestion and then it became the consensus. When the bill of $922.35 was passed into my hand, I couldn't hold my tongue. "Whoa, wait a second. We're all happy to pay ninety-two dollars and twenty-three and a half cents?" "We'll round it down to twenty-three cents," said the same joker who had suggested splitting the bill. "I only had the spaghetti and tap water. Eighteen dollars," I pointed out. "Please don't do this," my significant other whispered. Now it was my turn to give her a foul look. Then I announced to the table, "I'm not paying five times the price of what I ate." Eventually, after standing my ground, the others agreed to remove my $18 and split $904.35 nine ways. What a bunch of idiots, I thought. A month later my significant other sat me down and told me we needed to talk. She told me our lifestyle was suffocating her and I argued that we were more than halfway to our target. Eight more months and we'd have our townhouse and be able to buy more things and do more stuff. Then she said our lifestyle wasn't the only problem. Our relationship was also a problem. I was sad about our relationship ending but what really depressed me was seeing her half vanish from the term deposit the next time we could touch it without incurring a fee. I moved out of the apartment because my significant other became one of the other guy's significant others pretty speedily and I could no longer live with those wasteful leeches. I moved in with my parents because they said I could stay there rent free for six months. The time would allow me to save enough on my own for a deposit to buy a townhouse. I'd have to pay for mortgage insurance but it was the price I had to pay to avoid that dead money. I also thought I could stall and save for a few extra months if I made my folks feel bad about deciding to charge me rent. A forgettable but fiscally responsible six months went by and I had enough to buy my place if I was happy to throw mortgage insurance on top of a property's price. I didn't feel happy about this. I'd grown accustomed to looking at the large sum steadily growing in my term deposit. I thought if I could stay another year at my parents' place, rent free, I'd have enough for a deposit plus a nice bit of my savings left over. My dad brought up paying rent one night over dinner when I'd been living there eight months. I told him my plan was to buy my own place in a month and this saved me a month of forking out dead money. When he began to grow tired of my stalling, he questioned if I was actually serious about buying my own place. I was feeling a bit down that day and the way he delivered the question pushed all the right buttons to produce a reaction. "Of course I'm serious!" I snapped. "I wouldn't have pushed my leech-girlfriend and leech-friends away if I wasn't serious about buying a place. And I wouldn't be living like such a minimalist!" My father looked at me like I was a stranger and changed topics to calm me down. Four days later my leech-parents and my old leech-friends staged an intervention for me. They told me they were all worried about me and the consensus was I should see a doctor to make sure I wasn't suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. All of this pushed ten times the amount of buttons my dad had a few days before and I unloaded on them. They were telling me I was crazy so I told them they were all crazy and why. I called my ex crazy because she wanted to have a bunch of stuff and do a bunch of things now but didn't realise she could have had so much more stuff and could have been doing so many more things if she'd exercised some patience and stuck to our plan. I told one of my friends he was insane because he bought a new car every two years and traded the other one in at a greatly depreciated price. I told another friend she was a mad woman because she funded her overseas holidays with personal loans. I told a couple they were lunatics for paying double the rent for a place allowing them to be twenty minutes closer to work. I called my parents delusional because they wanted me to pay dead money for a room that would be empty if I wasn't there. Then I called them all wasteful leeches and stormed out of the house. That was five years ago. Today I'm between homeless shelters or out on the street. I came up with the ultimate strategy a few years back. I took a severance package, sold everything I had and put it all in a term deposit. I now have absolutely no expenses and if I search and beg really hard, sometimes I can scrounge up to fifteen-hundred dollars in a month. Of course, this all goes into my term deposit when the opportunity comes up monthly to invest more and push the snowball again. It's not the best life but, oh boy, my future is going to be great. I'll keep pushing and growing my snowball for a few more years yet. I'll stop growing my wealth when the time is right. Then I'll have a great house I can call my own and I’ll have so much stuff and be doing so many things. I'll make all the wasteful leeches stop and think, ‘hey, he must have a pretty good life.


Death was not involved in this, though you will blame her anyway. You will stare up at the reddened sky. You will look down at the cracks beneath your feet. You will scream and swear and sweat and blame, blame, blame.         The cars and the factories were not Death’s invention. She is older than invention itself, as old as the first particles of the universe that crashed together and created annihilation. She did not create your downfall. You managed that all on your own.         It began, as it ended, with greed. Humans are terrible at planning for the long-term. Even after all these decades, you have not realized that. Your greed grabs you by your throats and you forget about your children, and your children’s children, and their children after that. You forget that what you do to your world persists long after Death comes to greet you.         So it began with greed. In was innocent enough, at first. The first of your civilizations tore up the land to plant crops, urging your earth to bear more fruitful bounties. You cannot be blamed for that. Your crops flourished and so did your people, and thus the innocent expansion began.         I have spent many nights arguing with the others about when that innocence was lost. Some say it was the first time one human being enslaved another. Others say it was when currency overtook barter and greed became the only universal language. They see your corruption as a single, defining moment.         I disagree. I think the fall of man was gradual. Some part of you was lost every time someone said, “That could be damaging,” and someone else said, “Yes, but at least we’ll turn a profit.”         Irrigation used to be trenches of water in family fields. Heat used to be a few logs in winter. Travel used to be a well-brushed horse, warm in its knitted stable blanket.         No longer.         Your riverbeds are dry, drained for your consumption. Your homes are warm, but the liquid power of your ancestors’ bones no longer fills the stomach of the world. You pumped them out and set them alight. Your old horses are beaten and bruised. Your new ones are made of soulless metal.         Death did not choose these things. Hers is a kingdom of joy, and joy is rooted in memory. Fireworks are not joyful in and of themselves, it is their partnership with holidays that brings smiles to your faces. She knows this. She knows that her kingdom cannot be happy if your time on earth does not have enough good memories to sustain you, after.         She came to my door when the storms began.         “Thousands,” was all she said, and I understood. Wind and water and greed brought more sadness to her kingdom than she ever could have asked for.         I held her hand when the lakes dried up.         I heard her shouts as the temperature slowly rose.         I held her back as your companies dropped waste into your world and your children sickened.         When the fires started, Death wept.         You wept too, I know. It was only a few houses at first, far away from the cities. A tough drought season, nothing more. You turned off the news and made dinner for your family.         It crept closer in the night. Parched fields beneath a stoic sky are ripe for the burning. The crops crumpled and curled to ash, and when the fires reached your doorstep, you loaded into the car and drove away.         What you always seem to forget is that nature does not tire as humans do. Fire does not rest after a day of work, nor does pestilence, or cold. These are not evil things. They are theories made flesh, concepts plucked from the universe and given physical form. The fire does not hate you, but it was made to burn, and you are in its path.         There was nowhere for you to go. Not forever. The fire caught up to your hotel in the country, and it chased you to your cousin’s house in the city. Once, there may have been enough fire to douse it. There is not now. Your reservoirs are empty, and still the fire advances.         Death does not like to see your children coughing on the smoke. She knows that when they arrive in her kingdom, there will not be enough memories within them. They cannot have an afterlife if they never truly lived.         You think that perhaps you can escape across the sea. The news proves you wrong. For where is untouched by the destruction your ancestors have wrought? Where there is not fire, there is flood. Where nature does not revolt there are too few resources to sustain life of any kind. You are stuck on your final piece of land, with the disasters your people created.         A moment will come when you know it is the end. You will stand on an empty plain, on dirt that may once have been mud. Now it is split between your feet like deep veins. The cracks spiral off into the distance farther than you can see. Behind you, the fires do not rage. They aren’t angry, merely bright. Their light throws your silhouette into relief against the barren horizon.         The skies above you are the bright red of your blood. Weeks ago they were black with soot, and you thought it was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen. “Like eternal night,” you told a friend. “I’d take anything over this darkness.”         Looking now at the fiery sky, you realize you were wrong. At least night comes with sleep. This color does not promise cool dew in the morning or sweet dreams under the stars. You cannot see the stars. You think this is the color of Death.         It isn’t. Death’s favorite color is green.         You lost your shoes somewhere a few miles back. It should have been a sign to stop, to sit and let the inevitable overtake you. But even now, even when hell itself has risen up to meet you, complacency is impossible. You would rather walk miles on bleeding feet than lie down and give up.         I admire you for this. Even when the water burned away, there were still humans who made the trek to their nearest lake or river. Always they would look at the dusty earth as if it were a surprise. Always they would turn to each other and say, “Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.”         So here you stand. I do not know what will finally bring your end. Maybe it will be the fires behind you. Maybe it will be the thirst within you. Maybe one of the infections in your cracked skin will hit your bloodstream and eat you from the inside out. No matter what kills you, it will be painful. No matter what you wish, it will be slow.         Death did not choose this. She would rather you thrive before you join her, so you can bring new songs and stories to those who have been with her for eons. She wants you smiling when you see your parents once again, and their parents before them. They will find joy in the life you lived.         Or, they would have. But your story will be cut short by fire and floods and disease and hunger and thirst and generations of selfishness. You will die on that plain, beneath that red sky, alone. You will die.         And Death will weep.


“You’re completely worthless. You don’t do shit around his house. All you do is eat my food, and cost me money. I can’t wait till your gone.” When my Dad first started speaking to me like that, it was jarring to say the least. It was about a month after the funeral, and I spent the night sleeping in the backyard after crying myself to sleep. The death of my Mom opened up the dam on all the repressed anger that he had been holding inside for the first 10 years of my life. But by this point, 3 years later, I took it all in stride. What else could I really do? I more often than not tried to avoid confrontation as a kid. It’s not that I didn’t have witty comebacks, or the physical ability to fight for myself. It just never seemed worth the effort. “Your sister was never this worthless. She worked from the day she turned 15. She did shit around here. She’s a good kid. Not like you!” He was standing at the doorway to my room, while I layed on my bed reading a library book. I don’t remember what I did to set him off that day, assuming I did anything at all. I was getting tired of hearing all of this however. I sat up, and stuck a torn slip of paper into my book to mark my place. I spun my legs off the side of my bed, and I rested my forearms on my knees as I leaned forward. I was done with this for today. “If you like her so much better than me, and think she is so much better than me, why did she move out the second she turned 18.” I spat out, staring down at the aged, stained blue carpet of my room. He laughed; a light, airy note from him which was in stark contrast to his usual deep rumble of slurred words. “She married Will. He’s a real man! A man who can take care of his wife! You should wish you could even be a quarter of what he is!” I felt my blood beginning to boil finally. “Yeah, he’s a real swell guy. Can’t even keep the lights or water on in his house. A real fucking model man, ain’t he.” “You watch your mouth you little shit! Or I’ll throw you out on the curb like the fucking garbage you are!” He screamed at me in retort. He was bad enough sober, but when he began drinking and taking his “pain meds”, he really became a monster. The distinct slur in his words told me that no matter what happened today, this was not going to end well. “Fine, throw me out. Or better yet, I’ll just kill myself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I shouted back, rising to my feet and turning to face him. Even at 13, I was a few inches taller than him, and had the build of a rhino. I knew if it came to blows, I could take him. That meant the police would come, however. He backed up slightly from my doorway, eyeing my carefully. “Yeah. I would. It’s your fault you know. She’s dead because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.” he growled at me, his fists balling up and his face turning red. That was the final straw. I stormed forward, pushing into his chest with enough force to send him stumbling backwards several feet. I stormed out the back door, slamming the screen behind me. In the furthest point of the backyard was an old, gnarled apricot tree. I kept the area beneath free of pits and fallen fruit, and would sit under it to help gather my thoughts and cool down. It had the added benefit that my dad never bothered me, because he never went into the backyard. I guess he assumed if he never looked at it, it would magically take care of itself. I mowed it with an old manual mower my grandfather had left, and raked up the dead fruit every week to keep the odor and pests down. I flopped down beneath the old giant. Clenching my eyes shut hard to hold back the tears, my mind rewound the conversation over and over in my head. Killing myself. Sure, why not. My sister was a much better child than me. I guess so, she was married with a house and a husband. I killed my Mom. Yeah, I guess I did. My Mom had discovered the lumps in her breasts not long after she discovered she was pregnant with me. The doctor recommended an abortion so she could begin chemotherapy right away. She chose to carry me to term, and wait another 3 years so she could properly breastfeed me. By the time she began treatment, it was too late. She tried. She tried very hard, for several years. But it was too late. A few tears finally broke through, and I rose my gaze upwards. A low hanging branch was above me, thick and strong. I could nail my belt to it, and use it to hang myself. No one would discover it until the smell started. I could finally get away from everything. Maybe have a fresh start, provided reincarnation was the true end game. It was as these thoughts danced in my head, that I heard a commotion in the yard next to mine. The scrape of plastic patio furniture against concrete. A conversation in spanish. Laughter. I blinked back the tears, and wiped my face. Someone had moved into the house next door? When did that happen? I hoisted myself to my feet, walked up to the rusted chain link fence, and was greeted by two boys. One younger than me, and one about my age, both sitting in the plastic furniture I’d heard a few moments before.


“I was here once”. By M.G.D He goes with regret , he goes with purpose, he the man who had nothing goes with humble thoughts, all three are going to the beyond For their time has come to answer the unwanted call. The first man answered during his prime, his life cut short by a tragic accident his newly formed family left behind. This man prospered and accrued great wealth in his shortened stay here. Yet he still wasn’t satisfied with what he had. He spent his free-time trying to better his equals,instead of spending time with the people that really mattered. His family barely had him around even when he was alive so his death brings sorrow but only for awhile. He leaves this world with regret and anger for he never heard his newborn daughter say her first words or watch her take her first steps. As well as the knowledge that his son will only know his father as a working man who had no time for him.He will watch from above as another man takes his place. The second answered In the eve of a unforeseen sickness but towards the end of a great and full life. This man was responsible for great things in his own city and was able to build several shelters and programs to help the homeless and other people struggling with depression and suicide. In his last few months Great pain followed the man much as his Iv drip did, but he never complained and always said that he’s proud that he carries this burden instead of another member of his family. In his final moments His loved ones clung to his arm while machines rattled and buzzed behind him. His children and grandchildren watched as their hero slowly faded. he leaves this world purpose driven to end his suffering and to once again come face to face with a special man that saved his life. The last man answered on a cold, frozen night. It wasn’t his time yet. He still had life left before him. This man was poor and homeless. He didn’t even have much of a coat on just a raggedy old thing that once resembled a jacket. Still he never took what wasn’t earned or given, never cursed the lords name, never even had an impure thought of another human being. This man wasn’t always this way,once he even walked along a road in Vietnam with some other kids from back home, he even went on to Korea where he led another group of able young men to great victories. 2 wars and the death of his young wife and child in labor caused this man to end up on the streets, but that’s not what led him to the beyond. The final man in this story isn’t a man at all just a young teen who lost his will to live. Bully’s and family violence cause this teen to lose his self esteem and fall into depression. This teen lost his father at a young age, but he didn’t have much of a father to begin with seeing as how he was a workaholic. Now he has to watch his younger sister being raised by an abusive step father.This kid didn’t have any friends or support when it mattered so he turned to drugs. As the drugs began to fill in the places in his heart that are now void, his thoughts turned to those of self harm and hate. So much hate. The kid went on a walk to a bridge near his home. As he stood on the ledge he heard a voice “I was here once,were you are now”. “I was a little older and more bitter but the same thoughts ran through my head”. The mysterious voice said “It was right after I got back from Korea” the teen now turned to face the stranger, whose tattered and ragged old jacket bears the words us army on it. The teen looks the homeless man in the eyes and can see the truth in his words The teen yells back, “go away old man what would you know about me” The homeless man responds, “I don’t know about you but I know about love and loss and second chances” The teen now crying yells back,” I have to do this I have to end it, it’s all just to much” The homeless man now pleads with him,”look here boy nothing is going to come out of you jumping off this bridge” trust me your not the first person to step up on that ledge and sadly you won’t be the last” his words echo in the deep dark void under the bridge. The teen cries out, “I have to do this I have to” the teen inches closer to the edge “Why do you even care” The old man replies, “I care because I love you” I love all of God’s children” “Even though we are strangers doesn’t mean we can’t love one another” “I’ve seen death and destruction of men by my own hands” he pauses briefly “and these same hands went on to hold my fiancées hands as she became my wife and then as she laid dying in a hospital bed holding our stillborn son” “I’ve seen both the good and the bad of this world” he says as he steps closer to the teen “I even had my own turn on that very same ledge your upon now” he softly says as he takes another few steps closer careful not to move to fast as not to force the teens hand “But right before I jumped I remembered my wife’s face and how she was now watching from above” I thought of my infant son who never had a chance on life because of uncontrollable fate” I thought of a moment like this where I could one day change someone’s mind and keep them from taking the leap” just as he said those last words he sprinted the last few feet towards the young teen, just as the teen lost his footing and slipped forward. The homeless man,realizing what has happened, makes a choice and leaps over the ledge just as the teen slips off. The homeless man manages to beat the teen over the edge and is able to push him back over to the road above. The teen is safe and the homeless man now falls into the deep canyon below. His final thoughts are of his family who he will be reunited with again. The teens sits there stunned that a perfect stranger just sacrificed his own life for him. He cry’s a deep sorrowful cry. His whole world was just changed by a man who had nothing but gave everything to see this teen gets to live another day. The teen won’t have to answer his unwanted call tonight nor any night that he spends on that bridge. He learned life’s hidden lessons. He will one day look up from his own death bed and see that homeless mans face once again. The teen is now grown and is laying in a hospital bed he as well as everyone else knows his time is near. The nurses remove his iv and his oxygen mask is taken off. His family weeps at his side as he lays there fading away. Just as his world begins to fade to black he hears a voice. “I’ve been here once,were you are now” says the homeless man but it sounded distance and was coming from above. He looks up to the heavens as his breath starts to slow and his heart stops to beat.he knows this voice, he knows those words he heard them before. He closes his eyes for the last time. He now stands on the edge of a glorious kingdom made of gold and clouds. He sees a familiar face in the distance walking towards him. He isn’t scared he isn’t in pain. He stands there content and patiently awaits the familiar stranger in the distance “I glad to see you made it here boy”,says the homeless man as he greets the now grown teen, “I’m glad you made it off that bridge”. He introduces the now grown teen to his wife and son. He takes the grown man under his arm and walks towards the gates. “I’m glad you made it off that bridge” the homeless man murmurs under his breath as he pats the grown man on his back.