“So, is it true?” Lia’s voice carried to me over my shoulder as I headed out the door of the lecture hall, backpack slung across one shoulder and a half-eaten apple in my hand. Dread filled me as I stopped with my back to her and my mouth full, trying to figure out how to answer. I knew what “it” was, even though Lia hadn’t specified. It was the same “it” as always. It wasn’t that the question itself was so bad, or even the answer. It was that it always led to more questions, the *same* questions, all ending with the one they had really wanted to ask from the start. And *that* was the question I was dreading as she caught up to me, all smiling blue eyes and bouncing red curls. I swallowed the half-chewed apple, feeling it stick uncomfortably in my throat as it went. “Is what true?” I stalled, beginning to walk towards the main door of the building. Lia fell into step beside me and we joined the herd of students moving out to the courtyard. She grinned, a look of excitement on her pretty face. “Is your grandpa really Jack Forrester?” I sighed internally. Truthfully, I had been expecting her to ask for weeks now -- ever since I went over to her apartment to study for our philosophy midterm and found a shelf lined with Grandpa’s albums. He was a local legend and most of my family was very active in the town's musical community so she was bound to find out we were related sooner or later. Not seeing any way to avoid it, I answered her. “Yes, it’s really true.” She immediately began squealing with excitement and I took advantage of the pause to finish my apple. “Ohmygod I have so many questions! You probably don’t know this but he is one of my *favourite* musicians! I have every single one of his albums! It must have been *so amazing* to have such an incredible musical influence …” Lia trailed off as she took in my expression. She frowned, her mood immediately dampened, and I felt guilty for squashing her excitement. “I’m sorry.” I sighed, tossing my apple core into a trash can as we passed through the first set of doors to outside. “It’s not that I don’t love him or want to talk about him, it’s just ... not that good of a story.” “What does that mean?” Lia watched me curiously as we stepped out into the afternoon sun. The courtyard was bright and open with a large lawn in the centre, ringed with flagstone and dotted with benches and picnic tables. The pack of students exiting the building began to disperse and we followed the crowd, keeping left towards the main bus stop. I contemplated running through all the usual questions with her but decided that I would skip right to the part she really wanted to know. “Grandpa Jack doesn’t play anymore.” She gaped at me, as expected. “Never? Not even just for himself?” I shook my head at her question. “Not even for himself. Don’t get me wrong - he still loves music. He taught my mother and sister how to play and he writes extensively, but he never plays anymore. I’ve only ever heard him in recordings. My mom heard him in-person a few times but she was so young she says it’s hard to remember.” A crease appeared between Lia’s brows as she absorbed my words. “But … why? He was so talented! They said he was the one of the best to ever play, that his music could make you \*feel\* things like no one else’s. Even the recordings are amazing - I can’t imagine how incredible it would be to hear live. They say he never played the same song twice! To think it hasn’t existed in almost sixty years is … heart-breaking.” I nodded, sympathizing with her reaction. It was the same response for anyone who had heard Grandpa’s music – there was something about it that *moved* you in such a unique and inexplicable way that it made you immediately hungry for more. Like the sound was a drug, delivering concentrated emotion directly to your soul. To find out that the supply was limited, never to be expanded or renewed, brought a sense of desperate loss to most of his fans. It was probably why the legend of *The Tapes* had remained such a stubborn presence in the history of my grandfather’s musical career. Hell, even I had felt the same way once, before I had asked him myself and seen the pain in his eyes. “I don’t really know. No one does. My mom says it’s heartbreak – after his wife died, the part of him that made that music died too. My uncle says it was just the stress of raising two kids alone while still mourning. That he just didn’t have time and eventually he lost the taste for it.” I shrugged, head down as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about how my grandfather must have felt after receiving the news that his wife had been killed in a fatal car accident, leaving him the single father of a six-year old daughter and a two-year old son. “What do you think?” Lia’s voice was soft, her expression curious. I thought back to when I was nine; watching Grandpa lean over Lyric, helping to place her tiny fingers on the piano keys. *My sister’s legs swung from the bench, sparkly blue shoes catching the sunlight. I sat on the couch opposite them, a juice box in one hand and a dark green pencil in the other.* *Unlike my mother and sister, I had no interest in music. I took more after my father and preferred to draw rather than play. After months of torturous music lessons in my grandfather’s study, he had finally sat my mom down and told her that one musical child was enough. I was released from the hated lessons and now I got to eat snacks and draw instead of suffering through scales and songs.* *“Grandpa, why don’t you play piano anymore?” I regretted the question immediately as I watched a flicker of pain pass over Grandpa’s face. He was silent for a moment, seeming to consider my question. Lyric and I were quiet too, waiting for him to speak.* *“I loved playing very much. But it took me away from things and it took things away from me. When your Grandma died, I realized that it took too much. So now I teach. I pass on my knowledge so that something pure and new can be born. Now I give something without losing something.”* I blinked and turned my eyes back to Lia, standing next to me under the shelter. The bus stop was crowded; students pushing against each other to get into already-packed buses, the smell of exhaust heavy in the air. I shrugged and she leaned in to hear me over the cacophony of the platform. “I think that after his wife died, he decided to go in a different direction. We don’t push him on it out of respect, but I can guarantee you there’s no secret tapes. No extra recordings or unreleased songs. If you want to hear his music, it’s going to be through other people.” Lia’s disappointment was palpable as I destroyed the last of her hopes in the rumours that circulated online. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* was a cult legend that insisted my grandfather had continued recording music all these years but no longer released it to the public. It was the most long-lived, but far from the only rumour about him. Some believed he had never really played to begin with and the refusal was just a way to protect his scam. Others swore he had sold his soul to the Devil to learn how to play and had stopped to keep the beast at bay. That was the problem with a local musical icon suddenly and mysteriously vowing never to play again – people talked until gossip became legend. And now in the age of the internet, they shared their crazy theory online. I sighed, running my hand through my hair as I looked down at Lia. “Look, I’m sorry to dash your hopes like that. But the truth is that despite what you may have read online, he’s just a sweet old man who likes to teach music and leave the past where it lies. He used to be Jack Forrester but that was a long time ago. Now he’s just a composer and a grandpa of three.” I smiled ruefully at her and she returned it, though it was nowhere near as bright as when we began our walk. “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. I was just so excited! I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or sad.” I brushed off her apology with a wave of my hand, a light flush spreading across my cheeks. She smiled at me then leaned out of the shelter, scanning the line of buses pulling in. “Well that’s me – number 77. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nodded and offered her a wave as she pushed out of the shelter. Elbowing her way across the platform, she scrambled up into the bus just as the doors shut. I stared out into the road long after it pulled away, my mind on my grandfather and his infamous past. I was so distracted that I missed my bus pulling into the station and had to run and flag them down before they left without me. Panting slightly, I picked a seat in the middle of bus and dropped down next to the window, backpack flopped across my lap. The bus ride home was uneventful and fifteen minutes later I was walking into the kitchen of my grandfather’s house. The narrow two-storey had stood there for almost a hundred years and my grandfather had been there for more than half of them. Even though my mother lived twenty minutes away and visited three times a week, she worried about Grandpa being alone in the house. So, after my acceptance to our local college I had moved in with him. I hadn’t complained – Grandpa’s house was way closer to school and far quieter. Plus, I loved him. As the only male grandchild in the family, Grandpa and I had always shared a special bond. I was as happy to be there as he was to have me. “Grandpa, I’m home!” I called out as I dropped my backpack down on the kitchen table. Grandpa’s steaming mug sat at his favorite spot, completely forgotten and rapidly cooling. I grinned and rolled my eyes, grabbing the drink and heading down to his music room, where I knew he would be. He stood with his back to the door, rifling through an ancient music book. Its pages were yellowed with age and wear, infused with years of loving use. He hummed softly under his breath; the closest he ever came to singing nowadays. He looked up when he heard me knock against the door frame, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Coda! I didn’t hear you come in. How was class?” He beamed at me from across the study and motioned for me to give him his mug. I rolled my eyes again and laughed, handing it over to him. He was always leaving his coffee cup in strange places. I would have worried if it hadn’t been happening for as long as I could remember. Relaxing, I dropped down onto the weathered couch and lost myself in the familiar safety of Grandpa’s house. \~\~\~ A few weeks later I woke up thirsty and too hot, my clothes sticking to me uncomfortably. It was dark out and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it was 1 AM. I needed water desperately - like I’d eaten a whole bag of chips in my sleep. Happy to feel the cool air on my skin, I kicked off the covers and stood up unsteadily, lumbering towards the hall. I opened my bedroom door and turned right, headed down the narrow staircase. The house was dark and still. I had heard Grandpa go to bed when I still studying and knew he wouldn’t be up for hours. It was around the bottom step when I suddenly heard it. A soft, gentle sound with a distinct melody. I stopped in my tracks, thirst forgotten, and focused all my attention on listening. After a moment I realized it was a piano – coming from Grandpa’s music room. In disbelief, I began to walk towards the sound. It was no song I had ever heard before and it was *beautiful.* As I got closer and the song became clearer, I felt a warmness within and my heart was filled with calm. The song made me think of the beach and I felt as relaxed as if I’d sat next to the ocean all day. By the time I got to the doorway, I swore I could feel sand under my feet, a soft breeze on my face. That’s when I saw the impossible – Grandpa, sitting at his piano in the dimly lit room. His eyes were closed and an expression of bittersweet joy painted his face. He swayed in time with the music, his fingers hitting the keys without hesitation despite years of disuse. This close to the music, to its source, my mind was filled with thoughts of a sunset on a tropical beach, the wind warm and the air salty. It felt strangely familiar to me, like a place I had been to with my family when I was twelve. We had visited Mexico for a family reunion and had stood on the beach to watch the sunset together the first night we arrived. The music reminded me of that memory, filling me with love and warmth even as I stared at my grandfather in shock. This wasn’t one of his old songs – this was something new, something I had never heard before. Something *no one* had ever heard before. As the final notes of the song drifted off into the night, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Grandpa opened his eyes and his gaze found mine. He didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed to see me. He simply watched me with an unreadable expression in his ancient eyes. At length, he sighed and motioned me into the room as he had a thousand times before. “Come in Coda, we need to talk.” My movements felt stiff and jerky as I came to sit on the couch across from the piano, in the same spot I always chose. As I had every time before, I ran my hand over the worn cloth, feeling the softness under my palm. It brought back memories of years past, replaying in my mind as I waited to hear what he would say. Grandpa stared down at the piano keys, his fingers brushing the smooth surface as gently as you’d stroke a beloved pet. His face was etched with sadness, his eyes lost to the past. For a moment I wasn’t sure he would say anything but then he spoke. “Do you remember when you were a kid, how I told you that playing music took something from me?” I nodded, the echo of his voice whispering to me from long ago. He sighed. “Well I meant that literally. Sixty-two years ago, I was a young man with a pregnant wife, no steady job, barely making ends meet. I could play music but while I was good, I had no prospects. I was playing gigs every night I could. I had the soul, the desire, but lacked that crucial last step between “good” and “great”. I wanted to provide for your grandmother and our unborn daughter, your mother, but we could barely afford food as it was, let alone with another mouth to feed. I was desperate and sad, filled with a crushing despair that I was failing the ones I loved most.” Grandpa sighed again, running his hand over what was left of his hair. He took a sip from a tumbler I hadn’t noticed before; crystal filled with amber liquid. Another unusual move – Grandpa didn’t drink anymore. He said it reminded him of bad decisions from long ago. “I was drinking. Trying to numb the panic, the choking desperation, the pressure of failure that accompanied my every waking moment. One night, after a particularly nasty fight with your grandma, I took a walk down by the river and found myself following an old road. It was overgrown and hidden behind shrubbery, almost fully reclaimed by nature. I don’t know how long I walked but suddenly I became aware that it was quiet. Too quiet – the way it gets when a predator passes by. When all of nature holds it breath and waits for the scary thing to go away … and then I saw him. Leaning against a fence at the crossroads, smoking a cigarette. He was handsome, though its hard to recall his face. In the moment it was clear but the memory has always been … hazy. His eyes though - those have haunted me since that night. They were a deep red-orange that I knew was inhuman the moment I saw it.” Another pause, another sip of whiskey as Grandpa collected his thoughts. Mine, on the other hand, were scattered beyond collection. What was he saying? The setup was too perfect – a tale as old as time. Was he trying to tell me the legend really was true? When had his mental health taken such a sudden turn? “I know what you’re thinking.” He said, his fingers idly playing notes on the piano. “You think I’m senile now, that I’m confused about the past … but it’s the truth.” His eyes raised to mine, steady and lucid as I’d ever seen them. “I made a deal with the devil – though I knew it was a mistake even as I made it.” Grandpa’s confession hung in the air as I grasped futilely for something to say. “So… what? The stories are true? You sold your soul for fame?” I laughed weakly, hoping to hear him say something, *anything*, that made sense. To my relief, he shook his head. It was short-lived though, as he corrected me. “Not my soul. Something infinitely more precious and utterly irreplaceable. He said as much when he made me the offer. He promised my soul would remain intact, and that I would live to see myself successful, my wife and daughter cared for, and a son to carry on my name. And in exchange … something that I would not miss. Something of my choosing, precious and irreplaceable, but infinite in source.” An aura of bitter regret filled the air around him as he recounted the devil’s offer. “I knew it was too good to be true, but I was drunk and desperate and more than half-mad and I … said yes. The next thing I knew, I was in my own bed. Your grandma woke me up with coffee and a message from the most prestigious club in town, inviting me to play that evening. I accepted of course, though I was filled with fear that I would fail. I didn’t feel any different since the deal had been struck and I had myself convinced it had all been a dream.” Grandpa’s head lifted, his eyes distant as he remembered that night long ago. There was an almost wistful look on his face now, though it was still tinged with the sadness that suffused the room. “But it wasn’t a dream and when I sat down that night to play, I looked out into the crowd and saw a woman with eyes like those of my first love. And in that moment, as I remembered all the heartbreak that gaze had brought me, I felt a song growing in my soul. Though I had never written anything down, never composed the melody, never penned the words, I began to play. And as I did, I felt those memories of that first heartbreak flowing through me, becoming the music in a way I had always strived for but could never reach before. I felt her presence enter the room, brought to life through the keys of the piano, the tenor of my voice. So vibrant, so alive, so *real*. And as those last notes faded away, the memory of her did too. I felt our last moments together slipping away, taking with it the heartbreak that had been so palpable only moments ago. It was only then that I understood the price of the devil’s bargain. I could finally play the way I wanted to – to make people *feel* with my art the way I had always ached to – but at the price of the memory that birthed the music.” Grandpa lifted his whiskey to his lips as an expression of self-loathing crossed his wizened features. “But Lord, the applause was thunderous and the recognition was instant – from that night on, I never struggled to pay the bills again. I turned down more gigs than I’d ever dreamed of. And like a fool, I convinced myself I didn’t need those memories anyway. After all, what was the memory of an old flame in exchange for greatness?” He laughed bitterly, chasing it with another swallow of whiskey. I sat frozen on the couch, wanting to deny his story but already half-convinced. Having heard his music in person, it held a ring of truth that couldn’t be denied. He looked up at me and smiled sadly. “You’ve felt it, you know it’s true. That song I was just playing - it was the family trip to Mexico. That sunset on the first night, you remember. The effect is even stronger when you share the memories too.” I was speechless, unable to make a single sound. But Grandpa either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He went on with his story, as if now that he had begun to tell it, he could not stop. “I had to make some adjustments to my act of course. I never played the same songs twice, I did more recordings and fewer live performances. But the restrictions only added to my appeal, my intrigue. People lapped it up and my “eccentricities” became associated with my “genius” and my fame grew and grew. Just like the devil had said, I was able to provide for your grandmother and mother. But my art was a greedy mistress. My memories were many, but the ones I was willing to lose were a much smaller number. I knew that even careful use couldn’t sustain my music forever. Slowly, I lost all of my past flames, my old loves and heartbreaks. My childhood memories – first kisses and sneaking out to meet girlfriends. Fights and friendships lost, guilt for mistakes long past – all of it went into my music. Drained from me, lost to me; only the emotion of the memory left behind as a song. Over time I got better at using them, at drawing the sentiment out and wringing the memory dry so I could make the most of what I was sacrificing. Even still, by the time your grandma got pregnant with your uncle I had nothing left – only memories I wanted to keep. But there was another life on the way, relying on me, and I couldn’t walk away … so I started chipping away at those memories too.” He shook his head and I caught the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes. “At first it was small things – doing the shopping with her, our morning coffee, stupid fights over nothing at all. Things that seemed replaceable or better off forgotten anyway. But eventually, more important memories began to creep in. Birthdays, dinners with friends or family members. I’ll keep the really important ones, I thought. After all, you want to remember your first kiss, maybe even your second or third, but do you really need the thirtieth? Do you need the fourteenth date you went on? Or the one dinner you had with your wife’s second cousin? Slowly, I began to forget things - things that your grandma remembered.” He paused to take a sip of his drink, staring down into the liquid pensively. I was quiet, held prisoner by his tale. After a moment he spoke again, his voice rough with emotion. “I was drinking heavily by then. The stress of the curse, my family, my fame - it was all so overwhelming. And when I drank, I wasn’t so careful with my precious memories … it’s hard to learn from mistakes you don’t remember. In a way, it’s worse. I wonder what memories I may have drained away in my reckless, inebriated state. But I’ll never know - they are forever lost to me.” His sadness was a tangible presence in the air and I felt choked by it, my throat tight with sorrow to see someone I loved in so much pain. “Your grandma, she was worried about me. I had never been able to bring myself to tell her about the deal and I fought her on seeing doctors and resting more. We would argue before performances and I would leave, angry and anxious. Straight to the bar, to drink and play those memories away. A vicious, bitter cycle. And then one morning I was woken up by banging on the front door. I stumbled down still half-drunk, yelling at them to quiet down …. it was the police. They had come to tell me that your grandma had been in an accident. She was stopped in her car and someone hit her from behind, going far too fast. She was thrown free of the driver’s seat, right through the windshield – no seat belts back then. She died on impact. Massive head trauma, they told me. At least it was quick. Just like that, the woman I loved was gone. And I had traded away most of my memories of her.” Grandpa was crying freely now, tears rolling down his face to land on the ivory of the piano, in the amber of his whiskey. “I vowed that day that I would never play again. The price was too high, my memories too precious. Like a miser, I have hoarded them all these years, refusing to use my “gift” and wishing desperately that I had been a smarter man in my youth. But now … I am ready to play again.” “What changed your mind?” The sound of my own voice, strangled with sadness, seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. After the story he had just told me, I couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that I knew what he would say. Grandpa’s gaze met mine, sadness and love radiating from the watery depths. “I’m dying, Coda. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week or next month, but soon. I am old and I have lived a long, full life. Now it is almost over and I want to share it with people like I did long ago, before I’m too far gone to play anymore.” I tried to protest, to tell him that he had many good years left. He waved me off, clearly in no mood for my objections. “That brings me to the reason for this talk – I want you to help me. I want to record my songs, my memories. Help me distribute them, share them with people. I don’t know how much time I have but I want to make it count.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Tears streaked my face as I absorbed my grandfather’s request. “But … will you forget me? Or Lyric or Mom?” My voice shook, tears salty in my mouth. “No, never!” Grandpa’s voice was sharp and I drew back in surprise. His face softened and he added “I will keep those memories safe. Those are just for me, to carry me to the Lord. But I have a lifetime of experience to share and a gift that has been a curse for far too long.” I was silent as I sat and processed what he was saying, the task he was asking of me. And I knew that I could never refuse. It was his dying wish and after hearing his story, kept secret for all these years, it was clear that he needed it. Wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I nodded to him. “Ok Grandpa, I’ll help you. I would be honoured to.” \~\~\~ The last few months of Jack Forrester’s life were spent in his home with his family. A few nights every week, we would go to his music room and record his songs, each one unique and perfect on the first try. I had tried to convince him to go to a studio but he insisted he would play in his room, in his house - “where the memories lived”. So, we invested in some fairly high-end recording equipment and barely a week after his late-night confession, he was playing once again. I sat with him through it all, experiencing memories that spanned the range of human emotion – the product of a life well-lived. Anger, joy, love, fear, wonder, grief – all of it went into the music and away from the man who had spawned it. It is hard to explain how valuable it was for me to soak up that lifetime of knowledge, to hear and experience his memories. I learned more from those last few months than any education could ever give me. As the memories left him, so too did the vibrancy and vitality his form had once held. What he had said was true – he was dying. But he kept his promise and even at the very end, he held my hand and called me by name. And in his eyes, I saw the same love and familiarity that had always been there. Now, he has been gone for months and at last, I have completed his final wish. All his memories, recorded and uploaded where people will be able to hear them. The emotions of a lifetime, free to experience. That is why I have written this story – to spread the word. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* are real, and he would want you to listen to them. \~\~\~ This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


There's a small cabin in the pines by a secluded lake in north Ontario. I had rented it for two weeks every summer for twelve years. The Belvedere it is called. When its owner passed, his wife wanted me to have it, so we made a deal and it is mine now. Its shingles are puckered and mossy, and the mortar between the cut logs is crumbling away. I'll fix it though, because one day I hope to live in it.I have furnished it with esoterica from my cluttered mind. Mementos from the movies, books, and music that I adore. A stuffed raccoon with a ray gun and ammo vest. A Palantir, its globe of glass ensconced in carved briarwood. The mother ship from Close Encounters. Cellophane flowers. An onion made of glass. A parking meter, and a guitar with a face painted on it (crying). Many more where those came from.Some of these things had cost me dearly. Others I had bartered for. One that I got for nothing was a broken park bench. Its frame is of cast iron, still intact. All that was needed was some good stout lumber to fix it up. This I have done, and it is bolted solidly onto a flat rock near the shoreline.At the time of this story, it was early fall, and I had arrived quite late the night before, straight from my job in the city. I had not slept well, even though the peace here is immutable. I awoke, still in darkness, then stoked the fire and relit a couple of kerosene lamps (I am pretending to be a pioneer). Putting the percolator on the stovetop, I waited for the precious cup to warm my hands and my spirits.As soon as the soft glow of dawn gave shape to my flagstone steps, I put on a warm sweater and jeans and went down to the bench by the still lake. It was that enchanting moment when the sparkling stars settle more deeply into midnight blue, and are then chided by our own star into cerulean.A shallow blanket of mist hung above the waters, and I heard the eerie tremolo of loons conversing. Feathery breezes, competing for direction, were like warm caresses, and I wished a yearning wish to be part of some great story.Just before full light, as I was searching out the singing loons, I spied a dark thing that seemed to swim quickly and aimlessly. Now in a line, now in wide circles. Noiseless, making little disturbance to the placid waters, it approached the sandy shoreline near me. When it rose from the lake, a scant distance away, I was surprised and taken aback by the silhouette of a woman both tall and lithe.She came toward me with purpose and, as I rose in inquiry, she stood next to me, uttering not a word. Stupidly, I said "hello", expecting a reply. Instead, she searched my face. I felt not a little discomfort, but could not help but return her gaze. I am usually good at telling a person's age. With her, it was different. Dressed in a cotton shirt and shorts that had curious designs on them, her body appeared to be that of someone perhaps thirty years old, in the bloom of health. But her eyes, at once haughty but kind, gave one the feeling that they had seen many lives."Can I help you?" I said. Her eyes softened, and she gave a smile. "No" she said, in a silken basso voice. "But I may help you. May we sit?" As if in a dream, I remained standing, thinking, thinking. All at once I realized my rudeness and motioned her to sit. I had seen this person before. The long blonde hair. The tan legs. The inscrutable eyes. But, I thought, it is ridiculous. That was thirty years ago, and still she looks the same."I am Sarah", she said, and I knew. I did not say my own name, for she knew."I will tell you some things", she began. I knew not to speak, neither to answer nor to ask, as my night's wishing grew in wonder."Scoop up some sand. Let it fall slowly between your fingers. Know that each grain is different from its brothers. Now, as you sit in this world with its wonders and its wars, its loves and its hate and its beauty, consider the sand. I tell you that there are as many worlds of life in God's great galaxies as there are single grains of sand on every beach of this old Earth. Those that believe otherwise are mistaken.""Some of the peoples have been here. Some walk among you. Many more know of you, but do not come because of the savagery. Know that your Earth is on a knife edge between survival and cataclysm. There are many here that would give their very lives to save her. Find them. Join with them. This is your great story. Have courage. Prepare. The day is coming."With those words, Sarah rose to leave. Putting her hands upon my shoulders, she touched her forehead to mine. I could say nothing, but cupped one of her hands within my own.And so she turned, and went back into the water. In the full day, she dove into the gentle waves. I never saw her surface.


Joe sucked in air through his mouth then let out a coughing exhale. He covered his mouth too late, despite the fact that he was alone in his truck. Through his windshield, he saw the wide, rugged, filthy, death-filled area between the trenches. No man’s land. It was World War III and trench warfare was back and in a big way. This time, it was mostly due to laziness, but neither side would admit that. You’ve got the English or the French or something on one side and the French or the Swedish or something similar on the other side. Joe couldn’t remember what they were at war about but he knew that he supported the French. Or the Swedish. Trenches these days were pretty fun; Joe knew for a fact that one side had a pool table and heated bathroom floors. *Maybe I should’ve joined the military,* Joe mused. *I’m too fat for combat, but maybe they’d need numbers so bad that I’d squeeze in. Although I’m not French or Swedish or English so that would be a problem.* Joe wasn’t a soldier. Joe was a repairman. His specialty was in televisions, although he wasn’t really a specialist in anything. He was a jack of all trades repairman, as long as those trades were consumer electronics. And he had a doozy of a repair on his hands today. Both sides knew it as “The Speaker”, and that’s what it was: a titanic, colossal, double-sided speaker, one side facing each trench. No one knew who put it up; one day it wasn’t there, the next day it was, like an alien monolith. As Joe had heard, much of the fighting post-Speaker was over which radio station to put on. One side wanted the hottest pop hits while the other wanted to unwind with some classic rock. There was a detente for a day where holiday music was accepted by both sides, but this ended when Guns N Roses began blaring first thing on December 26th. Eventually, the two warring armies settled on public radio, finding the dulcet tones of the various hosts soothing. The shooting stopped as the soldiers learned about new books that were coming out soon. Then The Speaker broke, and resentment began to simmer once more. Both sides’ spies were blamed; the spies had previously been discovered to be spies, though both were so charming that they were incorporated into the other’s ranks. Though both spies pleaded that they knew nothing of the speaker breaking, they were executed in front of each trench. The message was clear: spying was fine, but fucking with The Speaker was not. This brought us back to Joe, sitting in his truck, an old revolver in the passenger seat. *What am I gonna do with this thing?* he wondered, picking the gun up and examining it. Joe came from a neutral country in the conflict, his unbiased presence being something both armies agreed upon after days of progress-less fighting. Joe detested war, not because of any moral objections, but because it seemed like a lot of work. Exercise was abhorrent to him; someone speed-walking past him on the street was something he interpreted as an insult and showing off. He had bad eyesight and flat feet and a head so big that an enemy sniper would tear up with joy seeing it in his scope. Joe pushed his glasses up and started speaking to himself. “In and out. There’s a ceasefire. They don’t want to shoot you. They just want the speaker fixed. They don’t want to shoot you. They just want the speaker fixed.” This became Joe’s mantra as he shakily opened the truck door, still holding the pistol in his hand. Eyeing the gun with each movement, he pointed it at the ground so as to avoid any accidental firing. Joe moved around to the truck bed and placed the gun in his right hand. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his toolbox. Gun in one hand and toolbox in the other, he took a deep breath, let it out, and began walking towards The Speaker. Though each step was slow, each heartbeat was quick and pounding. Sweat melted down his brow, and he could taste it and feel it sting his eyes. His tiny, circular glasses fogged up, either from perspiration or precipitation. The sweat wasn’t confined to his head; the running water loosened his grip of the pistol and toolbox. He didn’t want to squeeze either, careful not to accidentally pull the trigger. As he walked, he tried to wipe his glasses with the fabric on his workman’s outfit. He had to do so every few seconds, like windshield wipers in a hurricane. All Joe could see in between wipes were guns trained on either side; no people, no figures, only guns. He knew they weren’t pointed at him, but they were still pointed at him. Finally, he had arrived at The Speaker. He knew this because the dark shape he was walking towards was now very large. The Speaker towered over him like a skyscraper. Joe placed the toolbox and the revolver down on the mud. He used the fabric of his tucked-in shirt to firmly rub away the steam on his glasses before placing them back on this nose and wiping it. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Okay. Um. Let’s take a look.” He heard movement behind him. He jolted and turned around, but saw nothing. “Focus, focus, focus. Come on,” he whispered again. Joe began poking around The Speaker, or at least the area of The Speaker he could see and reach. As he examined the other side of it, he noticed an issue: it wasn’t plugged in. “You gotta be fucking…” Joe muttered before trailing off. He picked up the extension cord - about the size of a well-fed boa constrictor - and ran his hands down the length until he reached the plug. There was a socket in the ground covered by a superficial layer of mud. Joe kicked the mud off frantically. The soldiers peeked over the trench walls to watch Joe furiously kick the mud off the ground socket. Joe looked at one trench, then the other. “I found the problem.” He lifted the plug and its massive wire; he tried to lift it high but it was too heavy. “You’ve gotta-- this has to be plugged in. For it to work. You’ve gotta plug it in,” Joe shouted. He turned to the other trench. “This has to be plugged in here. See?” Joe rotated the plug so that the prongs faced the socket, then slowly squatted and plugged the large plug into the large socket. Immediately, The Speaker started producing sound. “There you go. See?” Joe tried to shout, though The Speaker was entirely too loud for anyone to hear. The sounds of a public radio host echoed through the land, and both trenches erupted in cheers. Suddenly, soldiers from both sides hopped up out of each trench and began jogging over to Joe. Joe shook the hands of both sides of soldiers, who began to mingle with each other like it was an office holiday party. Joe let out a quick chuckle before gulping, finishing it off with a smile as he shook hands. “Yeah, no problem. Just had to plug it in, that’s all,” he kept saying to the soldiers. *”However, we do have some unfortunate news,”* the public radio host said through The Speaker. The soldiers stopped talking to each other. Most ears were tuned to The Speaker now. “Yup, just had to plug it in,” Joe said again, before his ears, too, were clued in. *”Due to a lack of funding, Global Public Radio - the station you’ve been enjoying for over ninety-nine years - will be going off the air,”* the host continued. Joe’s smile froze on his face. *“This will be the final broadcast. Goodbye.”* The Speaker went silent. Both sets of soldiers began to examine each other. Joe spoke up, his newfound confidence slowly draining along with the color in his face. “That’s okay! That’s fine, I’m sure we can find another station you both enjoy--” A punch was thrown, right in front of Joe. Another punch. A tackle. A grapple between two men dropped Joe to his back as they rolled over him. His back caked with mud, Joe scrambled to his knees before dodging another set of fighting soldiers. Joe slipped onto his stomach before he began crawling toward his toolbox and pistol. He heard shouting in some language he didn’t know as a few of the soldiers sprinted to their sides, sliding into the trenches once more. The sound of the first gunshot seemed to reverberate through Joe’s skeleton. He sprawled out as flat as he could in the mud before he covered his head with his hands. Joe twisted into the fetal position before flicking himself over, inch by inch, toward his tools and gun. A bullet rang off the toolbox as Joe reached for it, and he pulled his hand back quickly, shaking it out. He quickly grabbed the pistol instead. Bullets flying overhead, Joe looked into the distance at his truck, a good one hundred yards away. His glasses fogging again, he squeezed next to The Speaker - now serving as a massive shield - and continued eyeing the truck in the distance. *Two options,* Joe thought to himself. *Stay here, use The Speaker as a shield, and hope the fighting stops soon. And that I won’t get hit. And that neither side executes me for being some sort of spy.* A bullet got so close to the top of Joe’s big head that he swears he felt its heat. *Or get to the truck.* As soldiers continued grappling in the mud and bullets sailed between and through their bodies, Joe closed his eyes. *Get to the truck.* With a shot of adrenaline he hadn’t felt since his first kiss, Joe climbed to his feet. As out-of-shape as Joe was, at this moment, he felt like the fastest man alive. He bumped into and knocked down two wrestling soldiers as he gained speed. Joe raised his pistol into the air and fired aimlessly, screaming as loudly as he could, a primal cry, a cry for life. Joe knew at any moment that his kneecap could be obliterated, his kidney punctured cleanly, his head splattered with bullets. In this moment, though, Joe felt alive in a way he hadn’t felt in decades. Halfway there as he weaved through charging soldiers from both sides, desperately trying to claw each other’s eyes out. “Get the fuck out of my way!” Joe screamed, his vocal chords unused to the power with which he ordered the soldiers, throwing his gun over his shoulder. Like a bowling ball destroying a house of cards, Joe knocked over more soldiers on his way to his truck. Twenty yards now, and not too many soldiers in the way. Joe dodged one soldier who was slamming another onto the mud before he slid next to the driver’s side door of the truck. His hand dove into his pocket with purpose, Joe identified which key he needed, and quickly inserted the key, turning it and throwing the door open. With the same precision, he slammed the door, put the key in the ignition, and threw the car into reverse. As he sped away backwards, he turned so he could look out the back windshield. He sped away from the skirmish, away from the combat, away from the war, away from The Speaker that brought him there. He would not be killed today. He may be killed someday, and he forgot his tools and maybe pissed his pants a little bit, but he was alive. And as he sped away in reverse, he screamed wordlessly. He then suddenly vomited all over his shoulder. *That’s okay. I can clean that up later.* Vomit on his shoulder, piss in his pants, but alive, Joe spun the truck around to face the other way, kicking up sheets of mud in the process. He drove away.


It started off as just another Sunday morning. I was out on my morning jog, running beside the tree line of the woods that flanked our neighborhood. I was enjoying nature’s beauty while working up a good sweat, when I heard what sounded like whimpers. I followed the sound to it’s source and found a dog, a yellow Labrador sitting under a tree. I knelt down to pet him and he nuzzled into my hand. He seemed somewhat relieved to see me. His tail wagged like crazy as I pet him. I noticed that he was dirty and looked quite malnourished. I wondered if he was had been kicked out by his owner or was just lost. After looking around for a while to see if his owner would show up, I decided to take him home. I gave him a bath and fed him some chicken, which he gobbled up. The poor thing must have been so hungry. The next day, I put up missing dog posters around the neighborhood. My own dog, Duke had died just the previous year and I could imagine what this dog’s human must be going through right now. For as long as he was going to stay with me, I decided to call him Happy. Happy and would go for walks everyday in the mornings and in the evenings. For our morning walks we’d walk past the same woods where I had found him, but in the evening we’d take a different route and would venture a bit further from our neighborhood. Our walks were fun. Happy was a very well behaved boy. He would relieve himself only when and where I told him to and would never pull on his leash. Except when we walked past one particular house. It was the house a bit removed from all the others. Wherever we approached it, Happy would whimper and would act very agitated. At first I thought he wanted to go inside, but as we got closer to it, I noticed that he seemed scared of it. He would stare at it wide eyed and would freeze in place. He didn’t want to go inside, but he also didn’t want to walk away from it. It made me think of a person who just cannot tear his gaze away from a horrible car crash. After he did this for the third time, I decided to change our route. Months went by and no one came to claim Happy, in spite of the posters I had put up. I decided I was going to keep him for good. We had formed a bond and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him now. He too seemed to love me. Every morning , he would wake me up with kisses, making my alarm clock redundant. In the evening when I picked him up from doggie day care, he would run to me with a look of pure joy on his face. How could I possibly let go of this creature who had brought such joy into my life? Then one very hectic evening, I needed to run some errands and decided to take Happy with me to get his walk out of the way. I had to walk past that same house that had vexed him so much. In my haste, I had forgotten all about his anxiety when he came near it. Happy, however, hadn’t forgotten. As we came to pass it, he once again began to whimper and froze in place. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of it. I tried to calm him down, I promised him bacon, but nothing worked. He seemed more unsettled by the house than he ever had been before. He must have stared at the house for ten minutes, with terror in his eyes, refusing to budge. Then without warning, he bolted towards it, pulling his leash right out of my hands. “Happy! NO! Get back here!” I shouted. But he wouldn’t listen. He had finally overcome the fear that had paralyzed him. He ran around the corner and dashed into the backyard of the house. I ran after him, hoping like crazy that I could get him out before the owners saw us. I got in there to find Happy, frantically digging a hole in the back yard. I had never seen him do this before. He never dug holes in my yard, or even in the woods near our house. I tried to pull him away, but he was determined. He dug and dug, as if powered by an otherworldly force. I was considering lifting him up and carrying him, when I saw what Happy’s digging had started to uncover. It was a piece of cloth. As happy continued to remove the dirt, I noticed that it was in fact the sleeve of a shirt. In the next instant, a person’s hand was exposed. There was a human being buried in that yard. This time, I did pick up Happy and ran from that place as quickly as I could. I forgot all about my errands and went straight to the nearest police station. I told the cops everything. The dead body was unearthed and an investigation began. An autopsy report stated that the person Happy had found, a man in his early thirties, had been dead for five months. That’s as long as I had had Happy. The coroner had concluded that the man died of a blunt force trauma to the back of his head. That house was a rental and the dead man lived there with his girlfriend and his dog – my Happy. The neighbors in the area knew them as Aaron and Vicky. It turned out that these were fake identities. Everything this couple had told people about themselves was a lie. The insides of the house were untouched and nothing seems to have been taken. The girlfriend, “Vicky” is still at large. She remains the prime suspect in the murder. Though the cops aren’t sure if she was behind all this or if she too had been killed and was just another victim. No one has ever come to reveal Aaron or Vicky’s real identities. Aaron was buried in an unnamed grave. Strangely, until the body was found the house rent continued to be paid in cash. Perhaps to prevent anyone from becoming suspicious. I’m sure there are other details that the cops haven’t revealed to the public. I often wondered what kind of a man this Aaron was. He may have done something shady in his life, but his dog seemed to care enough about him to battle his paralyzing fear and go dig up his body. I like to think that he was good, caring dog owner. As strange as this entire series of events was, I haven’t even told you about the strangest occurrence. One morning, Happy was playing in my front yard and I was in the kitchen making breakfast. Suddenly, I saw him head to the fence on the far left side of the yard. He was happily wagging his tail at something. I couldn’t see who it was as my view was obstructed by the shrubbery. I went outside to see what was going on. Happy came trotting towards me. I noticed that his collar, the one I had put on him, was lying on the ground next to the fence. And he was wearing a different one. I ran out to the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of whoever had changed Happy’s collar. But there was no one there. Happy let out a small bark, as if telling me to come back inside. I took Happy indoors and examined the collar. It had a name tag on it. On one side of the tag the name “Dennis” was carved and the other contained a house address. The same house where Happy’s owner lived. He licked my hand and looked straight into my eyes in a reassuring manner. Dennis and I are still very happy together and I can honestly say that he’s the greatest good boy who ever lived. And yes, I *do* call him “Dennis” now. I have a feeling that his deceased owner would want that.


“Come on, that’s not fair. You have to show me a picture,” I exclaimed. “Alright. One second,” Will responded. I was sitting at the dinner table with Will, one of my mom’s coworkers. They had worked with each other in retail for a couple years now, so naturally, they became pretty close friends. While my mom and dad were in the kitchen getting dinner prepared, I was sitting at the table with Will. He was like an uncle to me. He would come over a couple times a week to have dinner with us, and we would always sit and talk while we waited for dinner. About two months prior, he met a *lady friend* while he was out with his friends. He had been telling me about her as their relationship progressed. Her name was Janet. She had the standard brown hair and brown eyes that most people have, but Will thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. With so many stories about her, my curiosity piqued. I finally caved and asked to see her. “Here she is,” he said proudly, showing me a picture of the two of them. Oh. My. God. This must be a joke. It felt like time stood still as I realized…that’s Aunt Janet. *My* Aunt Janet. As in mom’s sister, Aunt Janet – the one that’s “happily” married with two kids. “Wow, she really is beautiful,” I responded as calmly as I could. “I know! I’m thinking about asking her to come as my +1 for Thanksgiving. Is it too soon? Do you think your mom would mind?” “Not at all, you should totally invite her! I’d love to meet her. I don’t think my mom will mind, but you should check with her just to be sure, though.” I paused to consider the consequences, before adding on, “Wait! Keep it a little bit of a secret though. Just mention that you’d like to bring her over to meet the family, but don’t tell my mom anything else. It’ll drive her crazy!” Will, thinking it would be a fun way to pull my mom’s leg, agreed. Now, you might be thinking that I’m being an asshole here. Why would I ruin poor Aunt Janet’s marriage? Well, you see, Aunt Janet was the reason my two-year relationship ended earlier this year. My ex-boyfriend, Liam, had been with me since freshman year of high school. We were childhood friends, and I’d like to think we truly loved each other. Liam and I had a fantastic relationship while we were together. He was my best friend, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But one day, Aunt Janet came over with her good-for-nothing husband, Ethan. I can’t tell you why, but they thought it would be a great idea to have sex in my bed, throwing their used condom in my trash can without the slightest effort to hide it. I wasn’t home that day, so when Liam and I got back to my house to watch a movie, Liam caught sight of the used condom in my trash can. “Babe, what’s that?” You could hear his voice cracking as his eyes teared up. “Is that a condom?” I responded, confused as to how it got there. “You’re seriously gonna ask me if you have a used condom in *your* trash can?” The sadness in his voice turned to annoyance as I denied knowledge of it. I genuinely didn’t know where it had come from, but Liam wouldn’t take my “I don’t know how it got there” and “it’s not mine!” He broke up with me, storming out of my room and leaving both of us in tears. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart. I was devastated. Later that night, my mom had casually mentioned that she had Aunt Janet and Uncle Ethan over. Aunt Janet made it very clear that she didn’t regret what she did. “Did you have sex in my bed?” I screamed at her over the phone. “Don’t worry, dear. We put down a towel,” she laughed. “But you didn’t think you should cover up the condom?” “It’s not a surprise that two married adults have sex. Maybe you can take the stick out of your ass and try it some time,” she retorted, hanging up on me. I called Liam over and over, but it kept going straight to voicemail. I tried texting him, explaining that it was my aunt and uncle, but he didn’t respond. I. Was. Livid. I wanted nothing more than bitter revenge and swore that I’d make her life a living hell one day. To my delight, that day finally arrived. Mom invited Aunt Janet, Uncle Ethan, and their kids over for Thanksgiving. Normally, Will would spend Thanksgiving with his girlfriend, but since they had broken up several months ago, my Mom had invited Will over as a friendly gesture. I knew Aunt Janet would decline the offer to go with Will, but knowing that they would very likely be in the same room at the same time gave me something to look forward to. On Thanksgiving, Will and I were in the kitchen with my parents, helping to prepare some of the side dishes. Aunt Janet had a habit of being really late, so none of us were in any rush to put the food on the table. We all laughed together in the kitchen, enjoying our time together and taste-testing all the food as it was being made. A couple hours went by, and we finally had everything out and ready on the table. Mom called Aunt Janet to ask her ETA, and she said they would be over in about half an hour. One of their kids was throwing a tantrum. “Whelp, let’s not let the food get cold. Let’s dig in!” Mom said. My parents, Will, and I did exactly that. I piled a mountain of turkey and green bean casserole onto my plate. I devoured my food in less than 10 minutes, so I leaned back in my chair and admired my food baby. I did have to leave a little room, however, as I still needed the sweet taste of revenge I so desperately craved. *Ding.* The doorbell! It was finally happening. Aunt Janet walked in with her purse, making a scene about how tired she was. “Oh my god. Janet? I thought you said you were spending Thanksgiving with your sister’s family?” Poor, sweet, innocent Will. Before Aunt Janet had the chance to respond, Uncle Ethan and their kids walked in. “Sorry, guys. Makayla was giving us a hard time, but we’re finally here and…ready for the turkey.” Uncle Ethan’s voice trailed off at the end as he sensed the tension in the room. “Wait, are you married?” Will was finally catching on. “Janet, who the hell is this?” Uncle Ethan angrily exclaimed. “Mary! What the fuck did you do?” Wow. Aunt Janet was really going to try to blame my mom for this. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” my mom said, genuinely confused by the situation. “Janet, I asked you who the fuck this is,” Uncle Ethan pointed at Will, growing increasingly impatient. Everyone began screaming over each other. Will was confused, but mostly upset that his Janet wasn’t all he worked her up to be. My parents were taken aback, trying to figure out what was going on. My uncle was furious, ignoring his children, who were crying in the background. I was sitting back in my chair, smiling as I watched the chaos unfold. Now we get to Janet. Poor Aunt Janet. She was in complete denial, saying that she had never met Will, that my mom was setting her up because she didn’t like Ethan, that my mom was just jealous of her relationship with Ethan. This was quickly refuted by the evidence Will produced on his phone – the same picture he showed me of the two of them together. Fortunately for me, everyone was too absorbed with Aunt Janet the Cheater to trace the blame for the situation back to me. “Since you don’t care about your fucking family, we’ll be heading back home. You can live on the fucking street for all I care” Uncle Ethan said, as he grabbed his kids’ hands and walked out the door. My parents excused themselves from the room, insisting they had to take care of some stuff in the kitchen. Will was visibly upset. “I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you lied to me or the fact that I believed you,” Will said dismally. I truly did feel bad for Will, but he deserved so much better than her. I knew it would hurt him short-term, but I knew he would be thankful in the long-run, when he would be able to spend time with someone who actually loves and cares about his pure soul. This left just Aunt Janet and I in the room. I had the biggest, shit-eating grin you could imagine. I turned to Aunt Janet, who was now sobbing. “Hey, Aunt Janet,” I said as nicely as I could. “What?” she screamed back. “Happy Thanksgiving.” \*\*\* **Note**: This story was inspired by a post I saw on Facebook. Unfortunately, the poster’s name was blacked out, so I don’t know who to give credit to, but I am including it here for reference. “My mom invited Kevin to thanksgiving dinner…Kevin is the man my aunt sheryl has been having an affair with…\[emojis\] kevin invited my aunt sheryl to dinner at a friends house but she said no cause she was having dinner with family. So kevin is going to this friends house alone…This friends house happens to be my house. My aunt sheryl is having dinner at my house with her husband. Kevin is my moms coworker. Sheryl met kevin at a bar when she told my uncle she was working late. Kevin showed me a pic of his new girlfriend 2 weeks ago. I told my mom to invite kevin, I cant wait to sit next to kevin. Aunt sheryl ruined my relationship a few years ago & I told her to count her days that day is today. Happy thanksgiving everyone \[emojis\].


I wrote this on a whim, but after rereading a few days later I genuinely enjoyed it, so I thought I'd share, enjoy (hopefully)  \*Ulp\* As my tongue retracted I'm sure the insect was already dead, at least mentally. Being a lizard is pretty great, I climb things, I eat things, I sleep on things, a little rinse here, a little rinse there, and time and time again each step is repeated. What some would call a never-ending cycle, I call my life. My current humble abode, also known as my nest, is currently made in the small opening of a rock just over yonder. Although I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it, I tend to collect shiny things without even noticing, which has resulted in *quite* the stash in my nest. Not that I mind though, I'm actually quite fond of shiny things, which I guess is why I've been collecting them without thinking about it. If another of my kind saw the glittering pile where I sleep, I wonder what they'd say? Would they be disturbed? Would they want some of it? All of it? Ha! Like I'd part with my treasures! Anyway, today I've managed to eat two big fluffy bugs, seven small thin ones, Oh! And I found a big gray bug taking a drink too! It was so juicy I thought I was gonna melt! mmmmm.... Now that I've eaten enough for today though, I plan to head back to my nest, sleep for a bit, maybe practice my hobby for a bit, and then inevitably head back out to look for more food, as one does when living through their life cycle. A roaring sound above, which upon looking up I could see a flock of four-legged feathery friends, their white feathers annoyingly reflecting the sun's light into my eyes. With each flying in the direction of my nest, I could feel myself start salivating at happy thoughts...mmmmm...I bet they'd taste good, hopefully, they land soon and I can get them on my way back. I wish I had wings. I've seen plenty of other creatures with wings, I've eaten plenty too. If I had wings, not only would the amount of time I spend hunting be reduced, but I'd also be able to hunt other creatures of the air! Oh so exciting! Just imagining the wind on my scales cooling off my whole body as I munch on the delicious meat of one of my four-legged feathery friends above, oh how fantastic a thought! If only...but alas, I am stuck on the ground, the creatures above forever taunting my inability to reach them, sometimes it's very infuriating, but today the feeling of anger was mild at best. Step step step step. Soon I'd be back at the nest, sadly I hadn't seen the feathery creatures from before, no tasty treats for me, how sad. On the horizon, the sun floated just above, sure to sink into it at any moment, but taking it's time to freefall as it pleased, it was a lovely sight, painting the surrounding rocks and boulders in a nice warm orange. What's this? Some insects are in my nest! How exi-! ...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... They're...they're taking my treasures...the two-legged ones are loading up my shinies into their trinkets and taking them away! They think that just because they've tamed those silly hairy long four-legged bugs that they're strong enough to take my precious collection?! UNACCEPTABLE. Opening my mouth wide, I took in a large gulp of air, letting it churn in my stomach, all the while my mouth released a loud hissing noise, alerting the tiny insects of my presence, but it didn't matter, even as they panicked, ran, or took cover, I would let NONE of these foul micro-creatures leave unpunished! Air fully churned, I regurgitated it back out in a hail of poisonous gas that covered most of the rock my nest was made into, no doubt filling my nest as well, none of the bugs would survive, good. As I waited for the gas a clear I watched for any signs of life, even well after it had fully dissipated. Nothing had survived. Great, now some of my treasures would be warped by the acidic nature of my gas! Waaaaah, woe is me! Not to mention that now I have to go gather what those vermin scattered about, as well as eat their corpses, which although don't taste very good after blasting them, it would be an insult to nature to not eat what's still edible. So yeah, being a lizard is pretty great, but sometimes it can be a bit of a hassle.


*I don’t want this. I don’t want this.* I despair silently. As my days turn into weeks. As I watch him come in and out of the apartment. As I cry myself to sleep. *How can I make you love me? What can I do?? What if I am sweeter? More adoring?* I consider. *I could give him more kisses and hugs, then he’ll have to understand.* I resolve to try. *What more could I possibly lose?* I am sitting at the kitchen table when he gets home. He settles in not making eye contact only giving me a brief greeting. He’s not ignoring me exactly, just not dying to chat. I keep staring. *Look at me.* My gaze pleads but it’s not working. I walk up to him and stand in his way. “Look at me.” I manage to whisper. This is painful. He hesitates but stops and looks. *Can you understand how desperate I am to fix this?* My eyes start to collect tears but before they spill I hug him tightly and breath deeply. He stiffens slightly, but let’s me hug him. After a while of his nonreaction I admit defeat and let go slowly. “I love you.” I say. *How do I fix this?* I want to ask. “I love you too.” He says back, stilted. Technically we’re not broken up. The official words have not been spoken. He simply put the gun on the table and backed away slowly, refusing to pull the trigger. I am aghast and anxious for him to shoot. Instead he checked out. All I have is a shadow of a person as I scramble for something that will give me back the relationship I had. *Maybe I am just not lovable enough.* I start to wonder. *Maybe there’s nothing I can do.* For weeks after the initial conversation he walks in and out of our apartment barely acknowledging me. He gives me short answers, he doesn’t smile. Our home has become a frozen tundra and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand it. I wallow in anxiety. Wondering what’s going to happen and why on earth it hasn’t yet. I don’t want this. Breaking up was the furthest thing from my mind. But something needs to happen. I am starting to think he’s too scared to do it. Just because it hasn’t been declared doesn’t mean we’re not already living it. I hate admitting that. I guess it’s on me. **Me: Hey…** I decide to text him. Mainly out of cowardice **What if we did a trial break up? We can live as if we are broken up for a while, and if we don’t like it, we can go back to normal.** **Kevin: That’s a good idea** I want to give him an out. I want it to be clear it doesn’t have to be permanent. *You can change your minds.* *Please change your mind*. He comes home that night more receptive to me. I make us dinner and for the first time he makes idle chit chat. “I’ll sleep in the living room.” He states once we get into the particulars of the arrangement. “No, we can take turns.” I am quick to refute. “We both bought that huge bed we should both sleep on it sometimes. “ Don’t worry about it.” he insists. “You take the room.” I shrug. He seems lighter. Taking this step was the right move, I acknowledge begrudgingly. After dinner I watch as he pushes the couches in the living room together to make a spacious bed. Just a few months ago we were shopping for those dreaming about what our apartment might become. We roamed that store for hours finally deciding on the two comfiest couches we’d ever sat on, that were also luckily in the clearance section. The memory brings a small smile to my face that is quickly wiped away when he asks where we keep the extra set of comforters. I go and get them, and grab his pillow from our bed. That night I cry quietly wondering if I will ever run out of tears. I didn’t know it was possible to cry this much. I wish he would come into the room and lay with me. I could ask him... I realize. *Would he say no? Do I have that much courage?* I don’t. I decided, after going back and forth for an hour. My ego is bruised plenty I won’t risk more rejection. I am startled awake by my alarm unsure when I stopped crying long enough to fall asleep. *I am alone*. I think as I look around the room. *The first of many to come.* And the tears start up again. A few weeks later he hasn’t asked to go back to how things were. My hoping that he was going to change his mind starts to turn into a panic that he won’t. I dread coming home to see those couches pushed together day after day. Outside of the apartment, it doesn’t seem so bad. I even catch myself smiling from time to time. But when I come home the inescapable truth hits me. *It’s really over.* I try not to look into the living room and head straight to the room but it doesn’t matter, I already know what’s there. My lungs start to feel like they are shrinking and I am breathing through a straw. I can’t see straight. There are spots everywhere. I make it to the door of my room, throw my bag down and lay with it on the carpet still wearing my winter coat. He finds me on the floor like that minutes later. Hyperventilating and sobbing. I didn’t even hear him come through the door. “Maria…?” He whispers and kneels down next to me. “What’s going on?” I don’t respond. I can’t. And his voice fills with more concern. “What do you need?” I try to shake my head, it's hard to since I can’t pick it up off the ground. “I. Can’t. Breath.” I manage to croak. He has been privy to my panic attacks he knows the drill. “Here.” He kneels down, helps me take my coat off and lays on the floor. His face next to mine on the carpet watches me intently. “Do you want to talk to me?” He is using his sweetest voice. It penetrates my heart and only makes me sob harder. “It’s okay baby.” He soothes and gently rubs my back. If only I could lie here forever. It takes about 10 more minutes but with enough focused attention I calm down enough to bring air into my lungs with ease. I start to sit up. He stares at me wide eyed and concerned getting up with me. “I am not doing okay.” I say in a shaky voice wiping away tears. “I want to be.” I add and shrug. “Is there anything I can do?” He asks with genuine concern. “No.” I say and sigh deeply. *“*I’ll manage this.” I promise, to both him and myself. I go run the shower. I need to get away from him, his concern only makes the pain worse. *I can’t sulk in grief for the next 9 months.* *I need to start accepting this.* But I immediately reject the idea. *Admit defeat?* *This break up is wrong*. *It doesn’t make sense. How can I accept it?* The comfort of the hot water envelopes me and I start to feel better. Physically, at least. *My future. The beautiful home we were building. Am I just supposed to let it go?* It feels like I was having a gourmet meal when the table cloth was yanked and everything went flying off the table, leaving me with a terrible mess to clean. *What choice do I have?* I need to make sense of this breakup. There’s a small voice in my head that gets louder everyday. It’s not very nice, but it rings true. *Of course Kevin broke up with you.* It says. *You thought the man of your dreams was madly in love with you? Get serious*. *Of course he’s leaving, he never wanted to be here. The universe has finally realized it’s mistake*. The idea hurts but I can see it. I can make peace with it. *That’s okay then*. *I can accept that.* I start to think. I share the idea with Kevin. I’d like him to confirm it. “What? No Maria. What are you talking about?” Kevin reacts. “Of course I still like you, and love you, and want you and always have.” He speaks with admonishment that I would believe the opposite. I stare perplexed. I was expecting the opposite. He was going to come clean and own the fact that he never really wanted to be with me. it was going to hurt but letting go was going to be easier from now on. “Um… You do?” I respond, unsure why he feels the need to lie to me. “Yes!” He insists. “Then why are we breaking up!?” I shout. Frustrated that what was finally making sense makes no sense again. “I told you. We weren’t affectionate, we weren’t romantic. We turned into friends. That’s not the kind of relationship I want to have.” I shake my head. I hate that answer. “We can change that. If we both agree we still have feelings for one another there are things we can do!” I yell, starting the argument we’ve had several times already. “We’ve tried before.” He replies, calmly, dejected, and on cue. “Not like this. Not knowing breaking up was the result of failing.” “I don’t want it to be forced.” He repeats, slowly pronouncing every word. Hoping I will finally understand. “What’s wrong with trying?” I ask but I’ve lost my vigor. I know his mind is made up. I know there is no reasonable argument that can change his mind. I hear the determination of his decision increase every time we have this argument. “Maybe at another point in our lives. Maybe once we have some space and time we can come back and have the relationship we were supposed to have. I just can’t make you any promises.” I sit back and close my eyes. *The relationship we were supposed to have.* That’s hilarious. He holds just as much responsibility in creating this dynamic as I do. More actually. We were doing just fine until he decided to withdraw affection from me for the sake of protecting his delicate heart all those years ago. But I know I am just as guilty for letting it happen. *We made it this way and we can also unmake it.* I believe wholeheartedly. I just don’t know how to show him. I don’t want to be bitter, but it’s getting difficult not to. I love Kevin so much, I want to be friendly, kind and understanding. But he gave up, and the anger I hold for his decision starts to leak through in our interactions. I become short and snappy. My own annoyed reactions to his simple inquiries catch me by surprise. I don’t recognize this person. He doesn’t comment on my hostility. I think he feels guilty. I am acting like the victim to a crime he has committed. I am convinced I am. *Kevin made a choice. I just happen to be affected*. I try to talk myself out of it when I feel the subtle indignation peaks. *Nothing has been done to you. You are not a victim.* I want to be rational, but the anger is intense. *Kevin obviously did hurt you!* I argue back*. The ache in your chest proves it. It’s his fault you feel like this!* My thoughts spiral. *You wouldn’t be in pain if it wasn’t for him. But I want to be above it*. I remind myself. Living with him has made it imperative we get along. I don’t want to live in a hostile environment. *He didn’t ruin my life. My life isn’t ruined. I am going to be okay, blame is not necessary. Blame does nothing.* I practice believing that whenever I feel the hot anger overcome me. I picture myself calm and loving towards him. It’s not difficult it’s what I most want. Slowly I start to stip away the anger. I want to be his friend, I miss him. Being kind is first and foremost. “Hope is a problem. “She says through the headphones in my ear. “Hoping for something to happen does not motivate action. Hope makes you passive. It’s dreaming about a circumstance that you have no control over. It’s exchanging this current moment for a future better one. Hope sounds lovely. But that is deceptive. If you want something, you have to take action. You have to decide. It is up to you.” I turn off the podcast and stare at my ceiling. I’ve been staring at my ceiling a lot lately. For the first time just listening to the thoughts in my head. They’re so loud. “I am living on hope.*”* I admit outloud to the ceiling. Hope is all I eat, sleep and drink lately. It sustains me. “I want him to change his mind. I hope he changes his mind.” I mumble. Saying the thoughts I hold dear. “I am just not ready to let go. All I have left is hope*.”* But her words strike me. She’s right, hoping is keeping me helpless. *So how do I force myself not to want him? How do you stop wanting what you want?* I throw the pillow I am gripping against the wall. This is frustrating. I lay back down and stare at the ceiling some more, maybe the answer is in one of the crevasses up there. A half hour later I get up. *I don’t want to be helpless or at his whim*. I know that much. I have no control over what he does or decides and I don’t know what to do about this desire. But I can do something. I can focus on the few things I have control over. For the next 6 months I go into serious self improvement mode. My life has been turned on its head and instead of sitting around being at it’s mercy I make some decisions. I start to put back together my gourmet meal, one broken dish at a time. I reluctantly accept the reality of the situation. I start to imagine what life is going to require of me without Kevin. For one, I need to get my finances on track. I don’t know anything about credit, I don’t have an ounce of savings and I could probably be making more money than I am. I dive deep into all things self help. I learn about the power of meditation. The pain from the heartbreak is so unbelievably heavy and constant, I learn quickly meditating helps me process the pain in a way I’ve never experienced. Eventually I get up feeling a little less melancholy. A little more at ease. I read a book on nutrition, decide to cut out processed foods and lose a bunch of weight. I join a crossfit class since I’ve always wanted to be someone that exercises regularly. I become vegetarian after spending a lonely fourth of July weekend watching vegan documentaries on Netflix. Distracting myself from the fact that Kevin was going to tell his family that we were over. I learn about investing and open a savings account and a Roth IRA. I quit my job with crap hours and get a better paying one that is 9 to 5. It’s as if the pain from the breakup motivates me to do things I never would have. I am taking ownership of my life. I start dreaming and making plans for myself years down the road. I feel a sense of control again. I ask myself what I truly want, if I could have anything? Who do I want to become? *Confident. Thriving. Independent.* I dare to believe what might be possible. You could say I start to hope, but better, I start to plan. During these months Kevin and I grew close again. The immediate pain of being broken up receded and we spent our afternoons together. We cherished the time knowing we would soon be apart. We no longer played mind games, we weren’t afraid to be vulnerable and real. All of the issues we had, any resentment that we held, dissipated. None of it seemed to matter. We showed up authentically without agendas and expectations. We were still intimate on occasion, but it became less frequent over time. We were slowly letting go of each other. Counting down the days until the end of our lease. Once in awhile I would check in and wonder why we were breaking up. Seeing if maybe he’d rethought the decision. Considering how great we were getting along it made no sense. “If you say that maybe someday we can make it work, why can’t we break up with the intention of coming back to each other?” I asked one morning as he ironed his clothes and I journaled at the kitchen table. “Because I don’t want us to put our lives on hold for each other, that’s not fair to either of us.” “I would. If you asked me to.” I proclaimed “I wouldn’t ask you to.” “But you want to stay friends. You don’t think that’s unfair to ask?” “I don’t want to lose you from my life Maria.” he says passionately. “Maybe we aren’t meant to be together but I do think we belong in each other’s life. Don’t you?” *Well of course I do. I am in love with you.* I think but ignore it and keep writing instead to hide my frustration. Kevin’s insistence that we stay friends was both amazing and awful. Certainly the joy of still having his company keeps me interested. But what if being his friend keeps me pinning? That sounds like a nightmare. He thinks we can make it work that everything will be fine. I am not as confident. Kevin informs me that he has been looking for apartments a few months before our lease is set to end. I put it off, I still have plenty of time. Also, what if we miraculously somehow end up staying together? A little hope lingers in the background. That’s not why I am waiting. I tell myself. I am just too busy and it’s still too soon. A week later it’s official. “I signed a new lease.” He says. “I got the confirmation yesterday.” *Fuck*. “Oh.” I say quietly. Feeling a tight knot in my stomach. *Wait no.* I never told my coworkers my ex and I were living together, I said he was still my boyfriend. It seemed easier than explaining the situation at the time. And for a few hours in my day I got to live as if it were true. As I walk into work red faced and sniffling I decide it’s time to come clean. I go straight to my manager so I can explain why I’ll be on the verge of tears today. “It’s been a long time coming.” I say “But it’s official, he signed a new lease.” She nods in sympathy. “We’re here for you, whatever you need.” She says giving me a warm look. “Start with the onions.” she suggests with a smile. “That way no one has to wonder about the tears.” I laugh, what a sweet offer. *Will I ever get over this?* I wonder. *This feels like the longest breakup in history. I just want to be better already.* No matter what I do my heart feels splintered into pieces. I can’t think about anything but this. My emotions sway from heartbroken to angry to bargaining to grief. I stay at anger for a long time that day. I hate Kevin for asking me to stay his friend. I can’t fathom not being in love with him. *How can I watch him move on with his life like that?* It is difficult for me to say no to Kevin, that’s part of the hesitation. I wish I could give him whatever he wants but this. “I need to say something.” I declare as we sit down for dinner. “I’d like to hear it.” *I doubt that.* “I know that you’re very adamant that we need to continue a friendship after this. And I get it. In a perfect world so would I. The thing is I can’t see myself being able to move on while we’re friends. I just can’t imagine it. I really think I am going to need space to really mourn this before I can just have you in my life like that.” “Really?” He says sadness in his voice. “How long?” “ I dunno.” I shrug and look away. “A year?” “A YEAR!?” he shouts. “Maybe.” “That’s so long.” “I don’t know I am just guessing.” He stays quiet. And finally nods. “Okay Maria. I know I’ve been incredibly selfish to ask you in the first place, so of course I’ll respect that. Take the time you need.” “ Thank you.” I say relieved. “But if you could shorten it to a couple of months for me that’d be real swell.” He says and smiles. I roll my eyes. I can’t keep putting it off, it’s time for me to find my own apartment. I start my internet search and soon realize I won't be able to really look and choose if I want to get into a place in time of this lease ending. I waited too long, my options are limited. A voice in my head tells me I could just ask to room with Kevin so I can get more time to look but I scoff in refusal. That will not be happening. I imagine what that conversation would look like anyway. Kevin’s disapproving look at my continued unacceptance of this breakup. His reluctant yes at having to keep living with his ex girlfriend, unable to start his new life. I pick the cheapest closest place I find and sign the lease without the option of looking at it first. *Ah well.* I think. *That’s what hope costs you.* I decide that we will cut off contact once we are fully moved into our respective apartments. It’s my decision to do this and yet I dread it. Seeing as I’ve been kicking and screaming throughout all of this, keeping him around as my friend would be an easier middle ground. But I am proud of this decision. I am taking the harder less pleasant option for my ultimate well being. All the literature on breakups say that cutting ties is best so you can fully ‘withdraw’ from your partner and lose dependency. Kevin definitely feels like a drug. Apparently being with him even lights up similar parts of the brain. I am choosing the painful deliberate process of moving on. Although partially out of a fear that not doing means staying stuck for the rest of my life. At the moment I can’t fathom a reality where I am not in love and desperate to be with him. I remind myself that there are enough examples of people getting over the ‘love of their lives’ to believe it’s possible for me. I’d do anything to know their secret. *Time.* Everyone tells me. *It’s time*. But I loathe that answer, I don’t buy it. *Of course it’s time, but what do I DO in that time?* I implore*.* That no one seems to know. *Just live your life?* There are certainly people who kept themselves pinning even after decades of time. I vividly remember a podcast of a man who pines for his high school love into his old age. “I thought about you everyday since I last saw you.” He told her once they were reunited. *EVERYDAY*. I can’t have this with me everyday. That is unacceptable. Does that not prove that it isn’t just time that will work magic? I won’t say that to anyone though. Doing so will reveal the hidden fear that I will be stuck in love unable to move on. Instead I nod and try no to let them see my annoyance at their clichéd answer. *How do I heal? How??* I plead the universe to give me an answer. Finally it’s the night that I am fully moved into my apartment. Our lease has ended our new leases are signed and if there was any hope left within me it was wiped away when he helped me move the couch in. We plan for him to spend the night, our final rendezvous. As expected It’s lovely and sad. I am divided into the me that wants it to be over so I can start to heal and the me that wants it to never end. He is gone when I wake up. I search frantically for my phone and see a text: Kevin: **I love you. I’ll miss you so very much. You were my best friend and I'm so very sad to see us go our separate ways… I wish you the best of luck and I’ll always be thinking about you.** Here it is. I’ve been imagining this, writing this goodbye text in my head for months. **Kevin I love you. My heart aches from your absence. I can only hope time and distance does it’s job and makes it so we can once more be in each others life. I thoroughly look forward to that day. Until then I hope you find joy. Thank you for loving me.** He replies **Thank you for loving me. Goodbye Maria.** It’s beautiful and succinct. I close the phone and cry more endless tears. I’ve stopped wondering when they’ll stop, it’s a fruitless question. I look around my new apartment, life feels empty and hollow, like the pain in my chest. I can’t imagine how I will fill the gap he left. *I need to create something out of this* I think and take a deep breath, owning the weight of that responsibility *maybe* I dare *something amazing.


I died a long time ago. In a room that has no name, no space left to occupy. But that isn’t quite the truth. No. The space is ever changing, ever full. My footsteps are only loud enough to echo at night, when the sound of the caffeinated night nurses and the beeping heart monitors sing to the stuffy supply closets. The walls and the floors are the same. Can only be the same. Visiting hours are quiet, because there are no visitors. The difference is everyone is a little farther apart. In their shared looks, and the distance between their itching fingers. Where did all the visitors go? They talk and screech from the phones and the computers wheeled in on the carts with meals and Jell-o cups. I think it’s the worst decision I ever made, to have died in a place with no sleep. What sleep there is is fitful and interrupted by all the blue and shuffling of fabric. The nurses mean well in the rooms but not the halls. All the white boards with their scribbled shifts are fun to mess with. The children with the good fortune of a parent or two slumped in the stiff scratchy bedside chairs watch me with eyes like moons. I can tell from the look alone that they’re close, closer than their parents or the doctors or the janitors. Their insides are hollowing out, soul weeping its fluttered experience by the teardrop. I had to have looked the same, at home, at school. Difference was I could breathe. Not every death is soaked in blood or even regret. The kid with the big flashing eyes talks to me. “The granny down the hall died today, didn’t she?” I nod, and it’s enough. “Where is she now?” “Not here.” “I could hear her wheezing.” The kid wraps his arms around himself and shakes. It makes the IV bag swing and slosh. “Bad way to go.” I stand next to his bed, and I take in his round cheeks and the wisps of his brown hair covering his ears and forehead. “Maybe she went home.” “Maybe.” “Will I go home, too?” Lying tastes like the mish-mash of rainbow on a white background, swirling and sparkling. “Maybe.” “Why didn’t you?” I stare up at the ceiling, the way I did when I died, the way everyone does one way or another. I wonder just how many people have terrible memories they can’t escape in the form of a blank ceiling. It’s mute and flat and unforgiving. By the time I look down the kid is gone, and his father puts a hole into the wall next to the white board with the name of the nurse on shift. He’s a man that buried his love too deep, I can see it spilling from his shoulders and his chest in rivers. A death without blood can in fact have regret. I don’t go far from my room. I can’t. I’m not chained to it, or even held in by invisible force fields. It just feels wrong to wander too far down the hall, and see the faces that have nothing to do with me. I have no purpose, no secrets hidden under the easily wiped clean linoleum. Instead I watch from the corner of the room as they wheel the beds in and out. I wonder absentmindedly if this is my punishment. The endless stream of people fighting for a life they want. It’s less a punishment and more like a slap. The old TV across from the bed hums and fizzes like blood and hydrogen peroxide. All 3 channels play at once and I hide the remote around the room so I don’t have to deal with its noise. I try not to stand at the end of the bed or anywhere someone other than a kid can see me. Something about the young makes them far more courageous than the adults. Or maybe I just died too young. While they’re in my room I’m their big sibling and I wonder in the haze of morphine and breathing machines if I had siblings. I wonder if I hurt them. The table by the window has purple hyacinths in a sleek vase, and the moon wilts it’s flowers. I sit at the table while the newest patient attempts to sleep, attempts to dream, attempts to breathe. I get lost in the monotonous wail of the flatlined heart rate monitor.


Ok, so let me start off by saying that I’m not like all the other girls who get scared and shit when they hear about ghosts and demons and stuff. I think the paranormal is like so kewl. So when Cindy and Sherry came over with the Ouija board, I was like totally do DTD (that means Down To Demon LOLZ). Anyway, we se up the board and the little thingie that moves over it in my room. We sat on the floor on my $3000 Persian rug. I don’t mind sitting on the floor like that. I’m just like so down to Earth, it’s unbelievable. Cindy started chanting some sort of mantra. It sounded Asian. I LOVE Asia. It’s like my favorite poor country. As Cindy rambled on and on in Asian, I took out my phone and took a selfie with the whole board in the background and posted it on insta. My 14241 followers would like totally freak! I commented how Cindy was chanting in Asian and how Sherry was setting up the pretty designer candles. They cost $30 dollars a piece. Stupid Sherry just had to cramp my style to tell me that Asian is not a language. What is with her? She’s lucky I let her hang out with me. I bet she’s never even seen an Asian. Cindy just kept chanting and the lights began to flicker. She stopped speaking Asian and told me the Demon was here. It’s this demon named Zozo and he’s like this celebrity demon and he’s really famous and I’m gonna get so many followers when he shows us. Maybe I’ll get an endorsement deal when this is over. I’m gonna be like Kylie Jenner, but like prettier. The thing on the board started to move. Cindy said it’s a blanshet(?) Planchit? Oh I dunno. It started to go to all kinds of letters and numbers on the board and Cindy said it spelled “You’re doomed” Ugh! Whatever demon! He was being a real jerk, blowing air into the room. It messed up my hair. I wanna look perfect for my selfies. Sherry was being a total bitch yelling at me to stop fixing my hair and keep my hands on the board. I was just gonna tell her to stop policing me when the demon turned the lights off. No fair! He’s being like totally retarded. Doesn’t he know I need this for my insta followers. I mean, I’m like a role model to them. I was just gonna tell Cindy to get him to turn the lights on when I heard Sherry make a weird noise. It was like the sound when a dog throws up or something. GROSS! Now Sherry was leaking blood from her neck. It was dripping all over my $3000 Persian rug. Dammit Sherry! Cindy said she couldn’t hold the plankit thingie anymore cause it was hot. Bitch! Just make your retarded demon stop messing up my stuff! Sherry was being totally lame just lying on the floor, leaking blood and making that dog puking noise. Ugh! The shit I put up with. Now Cindy was turning into this total dram queen spinning in circles. She knocked over my $200 Pink Himalayan Salt lamp. I’m like so woke, I’m actually into African culture. But stupid Cindy and Sherry were n my last nerve. I decided to tell this Zozo dude to stop being a jerk and take a selfie with me. I mean I let him into my nice room with all my nice stuff, it’s like the least he can do! But then, the asshole knocked my phone out of my hand. What the actual fucking fuck! That’s like so rude! I was gonna tell him to get out when my closet door, my walk in closet door opened and my $1800 Gucci dress came flying out of it and started to go down Cindy’s throat. She took that whole dress down her throat. I knew she was a slut! She started to make the puking dog noises and then she just stopped. Whatever! Sherry was now standing up. Her hair was a total mess and she was like all bloody and stuff. Hey! Maybe I could just take a selfie with her and post it on insta. I’ll just tell them it’s a demon. LOLZ! They’ll believe me. I’m gonna be an insta influenzer when this is done. But stupid possessed Sherry wouldn’t hold still. She kept trying to get her hands around my neck. Bitch you’re getting blood on my perfect skin! If that wasn’t bad enough , these gross little insects started to come out of her ears and like they started to eat Cindy. Well, maybe that’s a good thing. Cindy should really lose some weight. But wait, why do I feel like I can’t breathe? Sherry has her hands around my neck. Sherry stop being possessed and clean up this mess. Some friend you are! And she’s grabbing my neck tighter. She totally ruined my selfie.