1. Audrey            In two three four, hold two three four, out two three four. Audrey repeated the mantra to herself as she practiced the breathing exercises. She looked at her reflection in the elevator door. She was ashen, almost anemic looking. The anxiety rolled over her like an old frenemy: heaviness in her chest, the foggy brain, the urge to run and escape. It reared its head in even in the most mundane situations. This however, a stuck elevator, was a good reason to panic.            She had suffered from anxiety since a young age, her first panic attack was at the mall with her mom when she was eight years old. She hadn’t been to a mall since, only shopping at open-air plazas. It controlled every aspect of her life. In college she could only take courses that were on the first floor. Anxiety was probably the reason she was still single too, unable to date like a normal person. She had to sit in the back of every room, near the exit, in restaurants, at parties, etc. She had tried medication and it helped some, but she was still limited. Hold two three four. Most of her days were the same, starting with a certain sorrow gradually moving into a simmering panic by noon. Out two three four… 2. Ethan            Should I say something? She looks like she is panicking. What do I say? She’ll probably think I’m an idiot. Ethan looked at his reflection in the elevator door. His ears stuck out too far from his head. Why did he wear that shirt? It was supposed to be white but was yellowed in the armpits. Leaving him feeling like an inadequate teenager. Or like the abstract painting on the wall behind him, shallow and chaotic.            He felt like a kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. His mother’s voice, long gone, still echoed in his head, wrapping around him like a vice. His insecurities were hungry.

His parents had divorced when he was young and it was always just his mother and him. Dad got the television, she got him. Which was like planting a perfectly good seed in clay, doomed from the start. His mother’s voice haunted him the most in the quiet moments, like this. It was a wound that would never heal, no natter how much attention he gave it, bandaging it, applying ointment to it.

           He looked at his reflection in the elevator door, but his mother was the only one he saw. B ut he couldn’t blame her, he was all she had. So he kept quiet. 3. Greg            Greg had been working with Ethan for several months. He watched and waited for the signs, a gaze lingering too long, a casual brush of the arm. When Ethan looked at him Greg returned the gaze, soft and unguarded. But that gaze was never matched. He would leave work at the same time as Ethan, in hopes of a conversation being started, but inevitably would fold and watch Ethan drive out of the parking lot in his shiny Audi. He tried to picture a man, or a woman in the passenger seat. He could only picture himself there, though. Ethan's strong arm around him.            Greg leaned in and smelled Ethan's cologne, bathing himself in his boyish aroma, like leather and soap. Then he looked at his reflection in the elevator door. A bead of perspiration formed on his forehead, his shoulders drooped.            What would he say? The last thing he needed was to be ‘outed’ at the office. He wasn’t exactly in the closet, but it wasn't something he went around advertising. Especially not in their male dominated office of fist-bumping and snide remarks about the women employees. He would wait a little longer, continuing to watch for signs, while trying to act strong and nonchalant, but feeling like a tangled ball of yarn. Maybe next time. 4. Beth            What is he looking at ? She thought as she saw Greg glance at her. She was so sick of the male dominated office. She’d been dealing with macho man-children since college. I suppose it’s my fault for picking a male dominated field . So many times she had walked into the kitchenette, the room going quiet, as if they were just talking about her. She‘d feel their eyes burning a hole on her ass as she walked away, the tell-tale snickering.            The department head tested her every time he had a chance. Seeing how far she would let his advances go, a systemic grooming. She was pretty enough to be on a billboard but she played herself down as much as possible, even wearing her thick black-rimmed glasses.            That afternoon she had given a presentation to her colleagues. As she stood in front of them they looked her up and down, leaving her feel violated. After she left the room she heard them laughing like pigs, snorting from their big stupid faces. She yearned for the comfort of her car after being stuck in a testosterone-filled office all day.            When she moved up as vice-president they wouldn't be scoffing. Until then, she just had to put up with it. 5. Roger            Roger was missing happy hour, part of his daily routine. His family thought he worked late most nights, but the truth was he stopped for happy hour at Mickey's on the way home, his wife didn’t approve of him drinking during the week.            He hadn’t had a sober day since he was discharged from the Army, a ‘functioning alcoholic’ is what the therapist called him. If he’s functioning then what’s the problem?            He looked at the clock, like Pavlov’s dogs, he felt the burning sensation in his throat, the alcohol putting out the fire. He looked at his reflection in the elevator door, his cheeks rosy and ruddy. Alcohol had robbed him of his youthful appearance. His hands began to tremble. He raised a shaky finger to push the button again. He felt like a bomb ready to go off. Had he known he would be stuck here he would have taken the flask he kept in his desk for emergencies.            ‘TING’ the elevator sounded, finally opening its doors. Without a word the five strangers scrambled out.


I’ve learnt that you really need to pick your exhibits carefully. Some times there can be unexpected consequences. My partner Steve and I opened the Olde Museum of Pirating And Smuggler Antiquities (I know, but it was a tourist seaside destination, what else could we do?) five years ago. We found a cheap building tucked away in the winding streets and alleys of the old town.

There had been a tavern in that same location for hundreds of years, and smugglers and pirates would congregate there, sharing their plunder and drinking until the morning. Of course we couldn't get a drink license, but otherwise we resolved to be in keeping with the spirit of those anti-establishment gents (and ladies), and create the most rambunctious, exciting, and different museum in the land (or at least the local town, or maybe just neighbourhood. But we had big plans). We heard rumours that there were hidden tunnels leading down to the coast, allowing the smugglers to move goods undetected into the tavern basement, and also allow a sharp exit for anyone needing to escape attention, but they were long gone, lost to the ages. Still, a hand written sign on the stairs meant we could tempt people down into the basement, where we would put the gift shop. A quick exit through the firedoor at the back, covered over with some black cloth, and people would be none the wiser they hadnt walked out through those tunnels. Apart from the lack of the coast of course. But a speaker playing seagull sounds, and a spray of salt water would help there. Steve had some brilliant ideas in those days. We found some great stuff to fill the rooms. A replica pirate outfit came from a fancy dress shop, adorning a mannequin we took from a skip outside a closing down department store.

The boat hanging from the ceiling was taken in the dead of night from a childs adventure playground. (It seemed only appropriate to steal something for a pirate exhibition - I’m not proud). That took four of us, drunk on whiskey and gin, dragging it through the streets at 4 am, setting off car alarms and waking dogs as we went. I can only presume anyone who woke thought they were hallucinating. Some stuff was authentic (ish). I was a fan of antique markets and shops, prowling the stalls to find knick knacks, and happened upon some very old looking manuscripts, charts and paintings one Sunday whilst with my ex-girlfriend.

She had picked up a set of four candles, and was about to make the joke, when a box under a trestle table caught my eye. ‘Alright Ronnie, shh’ I’d said, wittily shutting her up. In hindsight there may be a connection with why she left me on the Friday, but that is another story. The box was stuffed full of crackly old papers, rolled up tight and tied with string. “Fiver the lot, mate” said the toothless old man behind the table, his eyes not leaving my girlfriends shorts. “Are you sure?” I repled, “They look a little torn” “Four fifty, then” he replied, and we left as he continued licking his lips. Steve and I framed and hung all the papers the next week, again accompanied by a bottle of the most expensive whiskey we could afford (in reality an own brand blend from the corner shop by the harbour). This resulted in a decidedly crooked display, but it was in keeping with the rest of our museum. Charts of the seven seas lined the walls down the stairs from the entrance desk, while a series of wanted posters hung behind the dressed mannequin. We even managed to add a couple to the group, printed from a website and showing our own faces, aged with splashes of cold tea and boot prints. The centre piece however was an amazing set of paintings, depicting pirate ships in full flight, cutlasses glinting and sails fully open, the skull and crossbones proudly on display. Hairy teethed pirates hung from the rigging, ragged trousers billowing in the wind of the advancing ships, cruel grins spread across dirty sun burnt faces. Whoever had painted these masterpieces was skillful, as Steve and I could almost taste the sea air (though that may have been the first trial of our exit spray we had forgotten to turn off). This set of paintings was hung in the main room, an area we now referred to as the rogues gallery. Not quite the British Gallery, or the Portrait Gallery, but we were proud of our work. Glasses were clinked, backs heartily slapped, and I stumbled on home to my cats. Steve lived the other end of town, and besides he had a fear of felines, so we resolved to see each other the next day for our grand opening (or at least our first day of trying to tempt in punters). I arrived bleary eyed to a closed door, no sign out as I thought we had agreed upon. I unlocked and hefted the wooden advert down the stairs into the pathway, then recoiled at the sun now coming around the corner, scuttling back inside. Steve came barrelling out from behind the counter at reception, straggly hair flying and unkempt as he almost knocked me flying back into the daylight. “You will never guess what has happened” he hissed in my ear, a crazed look coming across his bloodshot eyes. His teeth never stopped grinding, a curious experience when they were so close to my head. He was looking back and forth rapidly, and at one point his view fixed on a point just over my left shoulder for an unsettlingly long time. Both hands gripped my shoulders, nails digging, and Steve turned me roughly towards the rogues gallery. He pointed at the pirate portraits. His lips moved so close to my ear, I could feel the spittle as Steve hissed “They are alive”. I turned to look at him, my mouth coming perilously close to kissing him as I did so. I could smell the alcohol seeping out of every single one of his pores, seemingly as though he had bathed in it. “You sure mate - bit extra to drink last night?” I replied, wriggling free of his claw like grip. “Dont be soft, paintings arent alive” “I’ve seeeeen it” he replied, holding the words slightly too long. He paused, his eyes locked on mine, pupils fully dilated. His chin had somehow appeared to grow a weeks stubble in one night, less five o clock shadow, more five day beard. I noticed what looked a fresh tattoo adorning his neck as well, throbbing red, and looking home made. Steves clothes were also decidedly tattered now I properly looked at him. “I came back in last night” he whispered, “Id forgotten my keys. They were in the back, and as I collected them, I smelt the salt water” He stopped and looked round again, his train of thought gone. “And Steve… Had you left the spray on? Come on mate, for f..” “No, I hadnt” he snapped, interrupting me, forgetting to whisper and shocking himself. “The ship was real. Its real, I mean…” Again with the staring. This was starting to get on my nerves, and I was convinced he had taken something other than whiskey last night. “Come, come” he now said, gripping my arm again and leading my to the rogues gallery. He pointed at the end picture. It was then I saw the most remarkable thing I have ever seen (and I have lived a remarkable life by many standard. Again, thats for another story. But princesses, giants and snakes are all involved). The ships had all moved across the pictures, left to right. Where they were all separate before, now they were in convoy in one frame, hard against each other, ropes slung to keep them close. They looked to be heading to one thing - the exit and the location of the tunnel to the sea. “That cant be, what have you done?” I asked, before realising something else. Water was leaking from the far right of the picture, the source of the salt spray, and the frame was broken, pieces lying strewn across the floor. The steady drip drip had led to a puddle, an indoor sea, a waterfall down the steps, into cracks, along every nook. We had our own river, leading to the shore, and at the forefront was a single galleon, a hive of activity, shouts and smells as real as can be. It was no more than a couple of feet high, but real it was none the less. Steve nodded at me in fear, and grabbed me again. “They are real” he whispered. “Real men. Real press gangers” I didnt at first know what he meant, but that was soon rectified. Our mannequin had crept up behind us both, and a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. Wriggling free, and spinning behind it, I could see Steve shaking his head, and mouthing no over and over, as ropes from the boats swung across his shoulders, tying back his arms, and chains looped his ankles. “Not again” he cried, as the ropes pulled tighter, making him fall to his knees, and then, as I watched, pulling tighter, and actually making Steve shrink down in size. My friend reached out to me with one arm he pulled free, before he was overwhelmed by the men from the boat, and dragged screaming on board, thrown below deck as their attention turned to me. I’m afraid to say reader that all I could do was turn and run, leaving my friend and partner behind. I ran back up the stairs, dodged the mannequin as he reached out again, and managed to reach daylight, pausing to slam the door shut as I then fell down the entrance and knocked over our advertising sign. I didnt dare go back into the Olde Museum of Pirating And Smuggler Antiquities for a few days. I reported Steves disappearance to the police, but couldnt tell them the whole story. They looked over the museum, and found nothing untoward, the official report casually mentioning the lifelike manner of some of the exhibitions, and questioning the provenance of some of the displays (though that was never followed up). Steve wasnt to be seen anywhere. I ventured in after them, to find the picture frame mysteriously fixed, and all sign of the flowing river long gone. There was some water damage on the wall, and I managed to find the hidden tunnel by following it, but even in there I found nothing. The only thing that I did find strange was that one of the ships in the far right painting in rogues gallery seemed to have one pirate waving, but it was so small it was hard to make out properly. Still as the police commented, it was a very lifelike exhibition.


TW: rape, violence, death of a child WRITING CONTEST #251: To Kill a Mockingbird

Write a story about someone losing faith in an institution.

This is a work of fiction.

Birth and Death

I am an urban park ranger. I patrol the city’s parks. I cover the parks in a ten-block radius from downtown. I have been doing this for ten years. One part of my job is to kick the drunks and druggies off the park benches in the morning before the commuters coming from the subway stations see them. Ever since the legislature cut all funding for unemployment, welfare, and drug rehab assistance, the number of homeless sleeping in the park has gotten out of control. These bums just need to get jobs. They’ve been freeloading off the government for too long. There are plenty of jobs to be had. Look at all the help wanted posters on all the fast-food joints. There’s plenty of work for them that are willing to work. Last night’s snowfall covered many of the benches. After a snowfall or a bitterly cold night, it’s not unusual to find a bum dead on the bench or under a bridge where they tried to seek cover. I hate it when I find one. I have to call the coroner, and he takes a couple of hours, and I have to stand by the body to see that the clothes don’t get taken off their back. Sometimes, the bum is still alive, but it’s only a matter of time. Rescuing them only means that they’ll be back tomorrow and maybe die then. I pretend I didn’t see them and go about my rounds. It’s a mercy to let them die in the cold. They don’t feel it. They just go numb, and the heart stops eventually. I make sure that the next of kin know that this burden has been lifted from them, and they can go about their lives. February is usually the worst when the winters here are so cold. On warm sunny days, even in the winter, I meet the regular people who use the park. The joggers are my favorites. They always wave as they pass by with their music on their earpieces. I also keep an eye on the gangs. Mostly they’re a lot of noise and not much harm to anyone, but there is this new gang. With only four members, this new gang intimidates gangs more than double their size. Even the other gangs are afraid of them. We have been getting reports from the joggers about verbal harassment from this new gang, but nobody has reported an assault yet. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was this one report, but nobody believed her. I mean, she was a drunk, and she claimed someone raped her. I found her on the ground under a tree. She’d been beaten up pretty good, and her clothes were torn. The shopping cart with all her stuff was overturned, and her stuff was scattered on the ground. I took her to the emergency clinic across the street, figuring they could help her. They claim to be an emergency clinic, but they’re not really. They have doctors and nurses, so I just thought they could help her. They’re run by some fancy church group, and they claim to do all this charity work. They’ll take in a drunk and patch up his bruises and give him a bath. But they won’t do anything else except pray for him. Still, even if they stopped the woman’s bleeding, that would be a step in the right direction. She told them she had been raped, and they pushed her out the door. They wouldn’t even help stop the bleeding. They shouted that she was a whore and a tramp and how dare she come to them for help? It wasn’t all their fault. It was mostly, but not all. The legislature passed a law that said anyone turning in an abortionist or aiding in an abortion got a cash reward. The people at the clinic wanted nothing to do with her. All they really wanted to do was to use torture to force gays back to the “way of righteousness” and obedience to Jesus. I loaded her into her shopping cart and pushed her to the fire station four blocks away. The paramedics did what they could, but they couldn’t administer the rape kit. Only the police could do that. The police wouldn’t administer the rape kit unless she identified her assailants. She had been drunk and could barely remember them, but I learned enough from what she did remember to know that it was the new gang. I also suspected that if she identified them, they would kill her. Lest the state’s legislature appears totally devoid of all human kindness, which they totally were, the abortion laws had a provision for rape and incest, but the perpetrator had to be convicted before the abortion could be performed. Since such cases generally took two years or more to slog their way through the court, if they were prosecuted at all, the provision was meaningless. The woman begged for them to give her the morning-after pill, but the drug is not legal in this state. I saw her again from time to time, hiding under a bridge to get out of the rain or sleeping under some tree. Mostly she slept during the day and was about at night. As her pregnancy showed more and more, she found panhandling did not make her as much money as it had. I kept an eye on the gang that I suspected had raped her, and I guess they figured out that I knew because they left me and her alone. We talked a bit. I knew that she had tried out for the Olympic skating team and had been one of the last people cut. She had worked her entire life to make the team, and now she had nothing to show for it. An ex-boyfriend had introduced her to drugs and prostitution. She was off the drugs now, but she still drank a lot. I knew that she went to the rehab center twice a week, but she wasn’t even welcome there with her pregnancy. The city had passed an ordinance just before the big Christmas tourist season, which forced the closure of all the halfway houses and homeless shelters. The publically proclaimed goal was to drive all the “scum” south for the winter. Many left, but most could not go. So, I was on patrol before dawn on the morning after the coldest night I could remember. I came upon a body covered in snow on a park bench. Frozen blood puddled on the ground mixed with the falling snow. I figured that some drunk had finally had enough and had done himself in. I was wrong. As I cleared the snow so I could attempt to identify the body, I discovered a baby covered in ice crystals. The umbilical cord was still attached, and the placenta had not been delivered. The blood had flowed from the bench to the ground and frozen. Ice crystals glistened in the streetlight’s glare. I turned away from the body and threw up. I called the coroner and was told that with all the wrecks on the roads last night, I wouldn’t see anyone before noon, but I was advised to call the coffee shop on the corner to have them deliver something for me to eat. This was someone’s daughter and their granddaughter. Did nobody care? Why could nobody help this woman? What was her sin to be punished like this? Was devoting her entire life to a dream a crime? Why had she been tossed out in the garbage? Why did she have to die in this horrible manner? I stood next to the bench when the gang that I suspected of raping her wandered by. They laughed. They strutted like peacocks. This was a statement of their power. They were proud of what they had done and knew that I could do nothing about it. They mocked her and me for a bit and then grabbed her shopping cart. They ran toward the bridge over the river. They planned on tossing the cart into the river. I guess I lost it. How many people could have saved this helpless woman, and instead, they went out of their way to harm her? Weren’t the strong supposed to protect the weak? She was dead, and the people that did this to her were running away with all her earthly possessions. Abandoning my post, I ran through the darkness and followed the gang to the bridge. They were about to lift the shopping cart over the rail when I pulled my sidearm. I always carry two full clips and the one in the pistol because, since this is an open-carry state, I can. I shot them all at close range. The falling snow muffled the sounds of the shots. Even though they were not all dead, they offered no resistance as I threw them into the freezing water below. The flow was swift enough that the bodies would not show up until they reached the rapids ten miles away. By that time, they could not be traced back to me. I rolled the shopping cart back to the bench. The “doctor” who ran the clinic across the street who had refused treatment when he could have helped the now dead woman was standing there with one of his staff members looking at the bodies. The “doctor” was not a real doctor. He had a Doctorate of Divinity from one of those internet sites where you send them the money, and they send you your certificate. The “doctor” and his “friend” laughed and commented that the woman on the bench had met her just end. They made a joke about the wages of sin and turned away. They did not see me or hear the cart. The falling snow muffled the shots. At that range, I only needed two. I unloaded the shopping cart and loaded the bodies into it. I pushed the cart to the bridge and threw the bodies over the rail. I walked back to the bench. I stopped to buy coffee. I reloaded the cart and waited for the coroner. Somebody needs to protect the helpless even if the government doesn’t do it. I guess that’s me.


“Captain! It’s not real! We have to turn back, Smith will die!” No one could hear his screams in the middle of the ocean. Peters, a pirate aboard the Soup Bowl ship, a ship, named so rightly because it’s captain made the best soup in all the land, was frantically trying to take the wheel away from his captain. Captain Rolli was an old man now, back in his day he had long brown hair and a long brown beard, beautiful pierced ears and tan skin, All the women wanted him, all the pirates wanted to be him. Looking at him now, you would think he was out of his mind.

Captain Rolli turned to Peters and he shouted, with spit coming out of the sides of his mouth “I am the captain of this ship, you will not touch my wheel, I know it is there and no-one will stop me! Take your hands off of me or I will lock you in the cells! Believe me that!” Peters stopped and sighed deeply before wiping his brow “You stupid old fool!” He says. “You used to be a great man! Now look at you! You’re going to put your men in danger for something that’s not real!” He added furiously as the other men crouched in the back not wanting to be reprimanded for agreeing with him.  Peters nodded to his fellow pirates as two of the biggest and strongest men take Rolli by the arms and pull him down to the lower deck, throwing him in a cell and locking the doors behind him.

“It’s for your own good!” Shouted Peters as he takes control of the wheel.  Hanji and Mario, the two strong men from earlier walk back up to Peters, awaiting their next orders, All they can hear is their Mad Captain screaming from beneath them.

“We’re going home!” Cheered Peters and he steered to the Left, Towards Australia, Where a lot of these men once called home.  The rest of the crew cheered before continuing to drink, yell at each other and whatever else they were doing. They continued on for three days and three nights, Captain Rolli had been sedated by the crew as best they could with whiskey, Marijuana and whatever else they had spare. He was crying to himself like he had been the whole time, about losing his precious treasure and how he was going to be the one to find it.  “The Island Treasure...It was going to be mine” He cried to himself.

“You don’t even know where it is you fool...All you had was an old map, torn up map, There’s not even a name for this Island” Peters spoke to himself while looking at this old map, He was now laying in his narrow bed trying to make any sense of any of this, The map was almost a dark brown colour with the amount of dirt and alcohol spills on it.  The top of the map said ‘Island Island’ There was a detailed route to 4 ends of the Island where treasure was supposedly buried. “What a piece of garbage” He told Himself as he crunched up the map and tossed it in the garbage can.

He awoke at 3 A.M on the dot as the ship swerving pushed him out of bed, he ran upstairs to the top deck and climbed his way to the Wheel. They found themselves in the middle of the worst storm they had ever seen, there was water everywhere, parts of their ship had started to chip away from hitting so many rocks, Peters pulled out his telescope and frantically searched for somewhere to dock, He saw a blurry outline of what looked like an entrance.

“Someone wake up the old fool before he drowns down there!” He demanded; amongst the panic the crew had forgotten he was still locked down there. As the crew hurries to free their captain from his cell, Peters swerves the ship to the right to avoid a collision with a massive rock up ahead but the boat becomes unsteady and end up turning over, Peters gets hit with something, It’s unclear what by because of the flooding water. He awakes to find Himself being pulled onto some sand by Rolli. After rolling onto his hands and knees and having a coughing fit he stands up and hugs Rolli tightly. “You’re an old fool but I’m so glad you’re alive...” He whispered to him while breathing unsteadily, He falls back onto his knees.

“An old fool aye?” Says Rolli with a big grin on his face, showing his missing front tooth.  “Does that look like the sign of a fool to you?” He asked, pulling peters drowsy head to look at the sign to the right of them that read ‘Island Island’.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” He says to himself before quickly standing to the realisation that he could actually have been right.

“S-s-so You mean we might actually find the treasure?” He asked darting his gaze back to the Captain.

“Oh Captain! We’re gonna be rich!” Exclaimed Peters.

“Yes we are” Said Rolly still grinning to himself as he hugged peters again before quickly letting going, peters face started to frown as he realised.  “By that Of course I mean, I’m going to be rich” He says as he leans in to peters ear as his grin disappears “I mean have been high off my tits but I’ll never forget you putting me in the brig” He whispers.

Peters laughed “Y-You’re joking right?” He asked, looking back at his arms which had been put into handcuffs.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He asked sarcastically as he smiled down at him, his face looked evil. “Now...” He paused for a second “Where is my map?” He demanded. Peters started to look flustered as he looked towards the ship “I...I-I Don’t know” He cried.

“Well then” Says Rolli “It’s a good thing I have that map ingrained in my mind” He claimed pointing to his head. “Seeyou around Bucko” He finished as he walked away. “You can’t leave me here! I know boats, I don’t know how to survive on a desert Island! He Screamed, Begging.

“Should have thought about that before pal” He laughed as he continued to run away.  The crew followed knowing he may be an old fool, but he knew how to survive an Island better than the young Mister Peters, Only one of the crew remained behind with peters, Sumori, He was only just 18, A bit simple to be honest but he was a good lad. He did everything Peters told him. He saved all he could from the ship, at Peters command. Not much could be salvaged, just some old army rations.

Captain Rolli and his crew had managed to walk 6 Miles before it started to get dark, They all helped each other make beds and forage for food. By midnight then all had a cramped space to sleep, three oysters and a bundle of seaweed. As the majority of the crew stared on in disgust, Captain Rolli cracked them open and ate them without a second thought. Eventually the crew followed in suit before going to sleep. The captain fell asleep last but he gets to sleep eventually. He wakes to find Smith has unfortunately passed away, He covers him with a thin piece of old bark and closes his eyes for him, Visibly upset he looks around to find two other men had gone missing. Boutelli and Eriks. He clicked his tongue at the thought that his comrades have probably betrayed him. Nevertheless He grabs a sleeping Mr.Trey by the arm and wakes him up.

“We Have to go! Or they’ll steal the treasure!” He says panicking. He pulls Trey up and looks for clues to their whereabouts, there is a trail leading to their right and to the left.

At This he smiles the way a half crazy, drunk, exhausted old man would as he collects his things. “Idiots have gone the wrong way” He claims to himself. “We have to get movin’ son” He half laughs as he slightly skips in the direction, he believes true. It only Takes them ten hours but they come to a sudden stop.  “Sir?” Asks Trey as he struggles to follow behind. Rolli takes 10 steps forwards, seeing something in the distance. “Here...It’s Here! We found it!” He yells as he jumps around for joy.

“But sir...They’re Dead” Trey cries at the sight of Boutelli and Eriks lying dead on the floor next to a huge burnt out hole in the ground.

Captain Rolli Laughed “That’s what you get for betraying your Captain! I could have told them the treasure was boobie trapped!” He claimed loudly.

“Sir...Are you sure you’re okay?” Trey asks. “Oh...You think I’m crazy too do ya?!” He screams getting his face very close to Trey’s.

“N-No sir, I believe you, f-forget i said anything” Says Trey. “I reckon ye shall have to prove ye loyalty” Says Rolli. “Dig in this ‘ere hole and retrieve our treasure” Rolli added demandingly. “Y-yes sir” says Trey defeatidly. After digging with his bare hands for 5 hours, he finally pulls a box over to the Captain who had now fallen asleep. ‘He barely looks alive’ Trey thought to himself before gently waking him up. Captain rolly grunts as he awakes but wake quickly he does after he sees what has been laid out in front of him.

There’s that evil grin again “Open it” He says softly but demandingly.

“Yes sir” He replies, exhausted as he uses a rock to break open the lock, he slowly starts to open the box. Not two seconds later Mr.Trey is on the floor with spikes through his head. Captain Rolli knew there was a second boobie trap, keeps the treasure all to himself. Leaving his dead crew behind him, the crazy man drags the box back to shore, this takes him days but Rolli knows how to survive on a desert Island. He knew since the beginning, He would trick everyone and keep all the treasure for himself. He arrives to shore, colapsing into the sand he frantically looks around, clutching the box to his chest making sure no-one was around to steal his treasure from him like he had done to them. He can’t take much more, He passes out.

He awakes, only able to open one eye with the sun shining so brightly into his face he slowly sits up. He hears the sound of an electric boat, He looks back to see Peters, He may look half dead but he’s alive, Rolli’s face collapses as the boat start to leave without him.

“Nooooooo!!!” He screams, throwing sand everywhere as he realises he is alone and with no treasure.

Peters, standing on the back of the boat, holding up the box and smirking as he road further from shore “Goodbye Captain Rolli...” He whispered to himself relieved, He sat down and took a deep breath, closing his eyes, preparing himself to open the box. He opens the box to find...Another box. Before he gets angry, takes another breath and presses the small green button on the left hand corner. ‘This is Captain Rolli of the Soup Ship Vessel, Please give the secret code to unlock’ He hears the voice activated message, stands up and throws the box as far as he can into the sea.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” He screams, loud enough for Rolli to hear as the crazy captain starts laughing hysterically.


TW: Death The Merriam-Webster definition of thanatology is as follows: “The description or study of the phenomena of death and of psychological mechanisms for coping with them.” 2032 I wake up at 3 a.m., as is my habit. It's a cool autumn night, and a shiver goes up my spine as I pull on my sweatshirt. However, the shiver has nothing to do with the cold. I've been having the same nightmare for weeks, and it always wakes me at 3 a.m., right as I die. The story leading to my death is never the same: one night it's a terrible natural disaster, another it's my heroic attempt to save a drowning animal, yet another it's a sudden allergic reaction to something that has never bothered me before, like tomato or cheddar cheese. The doctor says I'm probably having these nightmares because of last month's diagnosis. She says I have a year left at most and that nothing can stop my body from degenerating at this pace. Tonight, though, my death was caused by something entirely different. Tonight, I died because I chose to. *** Light year 9846 Life in the Andromeda galaxy is not easy. First of all, we never settle down. We hardly stay in the solar systems, never mind pick an actual planet. We're roamers, space nomads. Second of all, no one ever dies. Our lives are all about regeneration. We have the technology to transfer our consciousness into a new body whenever our old one dies. You may think having immortal souls is great, but it comes with a few strings attached: 1.   You never forget any of your past lives. 2.  One—or many—of your regenerations may backfire, trapping your consciousness in the body of an animal or insect instead of a nomad. 3.  Your dreams turn into nightmares, until, if you've regenerated enough times, you don't know anything but nightmares. I've been transferred to a new body seven hundred and eighteen times. Exploring the same galaxy over all those centuries has become dissatisfying, to say the least. I want to explore other galaxies, like a true interstellar nomad. I want to travel to the Milky Way, a place that has always been in my dreams—and now haunts my nightmares. Lately, every sleep cycle has brought the same nightmare: me on a planet in the Milky Way, surrounded by lush green fields and waves of rolling, endless blue, and then, without warning, someone kills me. Dying isn't that big a deal to someone who's regenerated over seven hundred times, but being killed is an entirely different matter. The only problem is, I can't figure out why it's always my four-fingered hand that strikes the final blow. *** 2103 In the dysfunctional country of Atarr, there is a saying: "Death is life." I've certainly seen my fair share of death—and had nightmares about it, too—but somehow, it never seems synonymous with life. Maybe that's because every time someone dies, the government snatches their body, then experiments on them with state-of-the-art robotics. I've heard that some people come back to life, but as machines rather than humans. Everyone has a Life Limit, a number of hours, minutes, and seconds left, that is embedded in our veins. If I flip over my wrist, I can just barely make out the numbers. 1 hr 4 mins 34 secs As twilight falls, I jump from my perch on a rooftop. The cool rush of wind soothes my anxiety, and I try to forget about my Life Limit as I go about my usual business: finding runaways and bringing them to safety at the abandoned library on the outskirts of my home city, New Tarren. Every night, they are different. Every night, they have the same goal: to cross the border into the neighboring country of Alonia, where it is said that death does not exist. Or, if it does, it's better than what happens here in Atarr. The library where the Gatherers from our sector take runaways is an in-between stop, a place to rest and stock up on food, water, and first-aid supplies before heading for the next city. The hope is that people eventually make it to Alonia. Tonight's group is a ragtag one: a boy no older than twelve, twin girls who look to be my age, and an aged woman who can barely walk. The women are bold and chatty; only the boy stays quiet. "Thank you for your assistance, dearie," the old woman begins in a low voice. "I don't know what we'd do without Gatherers like you." I offer her a thin smile. "All part of my job, ma'am." She waves away my formality with a gnarled hand. "Oh, call me Margaret. You kids are so polite when you should be telling me to shut up and walk quietly." I balk. "I would never tell you to shut up. Perhaps you could be a little quieter..." She chuckles. "What's your name, darling?" I hesitate, though I'm not sure why. Maybe because my life has been full of secrets, not truth. "Laila." "What a pretty name. This here is Parker," she says, gesturing toward the boy, who ducks his head shyly. "And these lovely girls are Sasha and Dahlia." She points to the twins, who each give me a nod. "How old are you?" one asks me, a hint of excitement and—jealousy?—in her tone. "I've always wanted to become a Gatherer, but Dahlia says we're too young." She shoots a glare at her sister. "I'm seventeen," I reply, keeping my eyes forward and my steps light. "And while being a Gatherer is a noble job, I'd avoid it if I could. You're better off escaping while you have the chance." "Then why don't you escape?" asks Dahlia. The sight of the library looming ahead saves me from having to answer. The familiar sight of the wooden boards over the windows and broken glass strewn across the dry lawn calms something in me. Stars have begun to wink into existence above us, their appearance made hazy by air pollution. I resist the urge to check my Life Limit. "Here we are," I whisper as I ease open the double doors. Their handles disappeared long ago, and now a chain links the two together. Only I and the rest of the Gatherers know the code. "Thank you, dearie," Margaret says, reaching to shake my hand. As she does, I catch a glimpse of her Life Limit. Even though the numbers are visible only to her, I can see the faint blue glow around each digit. I draw my hand away quickly. Another Gatherer ushers the group deeper into the library. I rub a hand over my face and head for the basement, where the Gatherers who don't live at home—or who don’t have a home to return to—have set up tents. Most of the other Gatherers are still out searching; I must be one of the first ones back. I check my Life Limit. 17 mins 56 secs Enough time to gather my personal effects and leave. I head toward my tent, placed as far away as possible from the others in a back corner. Old, battered books surround me, and I breathe in their comforting scent as I step over plastic water bottles, canned food, and the occasional hot plate. As I run my hands over the dusty bookshelves filled with volumes in a dead language, something in my throat catches. I hadn’t realized until now—until it’s too late—how much this place has become my home over the last two years. How much I’ve enjoyed helping others after my parents died and were taken by the government. I swallow my sob and begin to stuff my most important belongings—the photo of my parents, a friendship bracelet from a boy I'd once saved, my tattered copy of the dictionary—into my pack. By the time I straighten, I've resolved not to say goodbye to anyone. It would hurt too much, and I need to get as far away from here as possible before— "Laila!" A familiar voice calls my name, the word sounding too loud and harsh in the hushed quiet of the basement. I turn, my tired expression breaking into a weak grin as I spot his freckled face and hooded green eyes. "Wes." He nods at me, but there's something tight in his expression. "You did well tonight. Four runaways, and not a single alarm raised." I shrug modestly. "Listen, Laila." Wes's voice turns urgent as his eyes dart down to my full pack. "I know you don't have much time left, and I—" "Wes," I sigh. "We've been over this—" "I've found a way for you to avoid being turned into a machine." I blink at him. "You... what ?" "There is a way," he says patiently. "This could be the beginning of a new rebellion. Maybe...maybe this will force the government to stop their experiments, and people won't be forced to flee anymore." My mind is buzzing. "How...how is this possible? How have I never heard of this before?" Then it strikes me that he still hasn't told me what this is. He reads the question in my eyes before I can ask it. "It's poison. From a plant that's known to make the body less susceptible to machinery after it dies." I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. Hastily, he fishes something from his pack. A small, stoppered vial. Instantly, I back away, my hands out. "Wes, I can't—" "You can," he insists. "You have to. Otherwise they'll take your body, and I—I can't watch them turn you into—" His voice breaks, and my resolve breaks with it. "Okay. Okay," I whisper. I reach for his hands, closing my fingers around his briefly before I take the vial. He wipes his eyes. "How much time do you have left?" I don't want to check again, but I flip my wrist over anyways. "Three minutes." If Wes hadn't pulled me aside, I would've already been gone, running far enough away from the library that the government wouldn't find my body here. Once a Life Limit expires, it detonates with a fluid that serves as a tracker. It's part of why we have a team of Gatherers who specifically check each runaway's Life Limit to make sure they won't die here, where our cover would be blown. But if I die before my Life Limit expires, the fluid will never be released. No one will ever know. And even if the government does somehow find my body, it will be useless to them. My fingers tease the stopper from the vial. Wes looks at me, his expression both hopeful and sad, already grieving over my death. I look at him, memorizing those emerald eyes, the chiseled face, the concerned yet optimistic expression I know so well. I look at him, and I throw back the poison. *** Light year 9846 Someone has discovered a way to avoid regeneration. Abbott claims there is another life—one beyond simple regeneration. One that none of us has experienced before, because once you go there, there's no coming back. "This is great news for our people," she insisted at the starship meeting where she'd first brought up the subject. "This is the future of death!" Many had not believed her, but not all were skeptics. Some of us craved something more than regeneration, something beyond immortality. Some of us—like me—are tired of remembering every detail of every past life. Tired of the worsening nightmares. Now, we can die permanently—if we choose to. Only by striking the final blow ourselves can we escape the monotony of regeneration and move on to the next life. There is a great rift among us now. Abbott has decided to invite a group of volunteers—most of them believers in the Next Life like her—to the neighboring Milky Way Galaxy. If all goes well, they will live out their lives there, as nomads, and each can choose when they want to die. If all does not go well, they now know how to end it. I will be going with them. *** 2032 I choose to die by taking a walk in the woods. I’m still young, and there are few outward signs that I’m sick, but it’s time. I can feel it. Death is a part of life, but all those nightmares that used to haunt me haven't prepared me for this moment. Twilight fades into night as I step over broken branches and slippery moss. There's a clearing up ahead, where my friends and I used to stop for a picnic when we were in the middle of a hike. No one knows what I'm doing, except Wes. I can't keep a secret from him. He wanted to come with me, but I insisted I do this alone. I found out I was sick by myself, and I'd like to spend my last moments in solitude as well. I think of all the people I'm leaving behind, and my resolve falters, just for a moment. Do I really want to leave this place? Do I really want to leave all those I’ve helped, all those I’ve grown close to, on their own? But then I think of all the goodness in this world, and the people who will continue to help others as best they can. I know that they will have a chance to make their own choices. This is my chance to make mine. I can't control the sickness. I can't control death. But I can control my choices, and I choose this place as my final stop on my way to the next life. As I stare up at the stars, I am grateful for the life I've lived—and all that awaits me in death.


The line in the water began making subtle jerking motions before Corey whipped it tight in an upward motion as he attempted to set his hook. No luck. It was just a nibble and he had let excitement get the best of him. As he reeled his line in he only felt mild disappointment. It was early in the evening after all and he was no professional fisherman. It wasn’t the first or last time he would let a fish get away. All he could do is try to wait until the perfect time next time he felt a curious fish taking jabs at his power bait.

By the time the hook and sinker reached Corey the bait had either fallen off on the journey or made a delicious dinner for a lucky rainbow trout. With any luck, it would be the trout that was for dinner by the end of the night but first the hook would need re-baiting. Was it time to switch to a lure now that the fish were possibly familiar with his current ruse or would the best tactic be to stick with what got their attention in the first place? He switched to a lure as he contemplated how inane this thought process was. Was there even a right answer? This action and current conundrum reminded him of fishing with his sister Amanda. Corey was constantly switching tactics, depths, reel speeds, lures and it seemed to no avail. No matter what he did his sister seemed to catch more fish with a simple baiting setup. Last summer when they had fished this very lake together she had more than doubled his bounty for the day. The worst part was she clearly didn’t know as much as he did about fishing. This was evident when she spent the first five minutes with a lure sitting at the bottom of the lake.

“You reckon those fish will sniff out your hunk of metal in the bottom of all that lake mud?” Corey jeered after he noticed the lack of reeling from his fishing partner.

“Oh. Is that how it should work? This is the only way I’ve seen people fish.” Amanda retorted.

“I put a lure on yours. That means you have to reel it in so the fish think something shiny is moving through the water. Then you gotta recast.” he explained.

“Hmm. I think I want to switch to bait then. That’s how grandpa always did it.” she noted.

“Reel it in then and I’ll help you switch. I had no idea you actually paid attention when grandpa fished” “Only when I wasn’t feeding the ducks”

Corey figured that was his grandpa's fault for using marshmallows as bait.

“Woah!! I think I got a bite!” Amanda said excitedly, only seconds after beginning to reel.

“Think?” Corey said while examining the bent pole. “Either that or you hooked onto the back of that F150 that’s driving out” Corey netted the impressive rainbow trout while glancing back at his own pole to make sure it wasn’t getting any tugs. He had staked it between two rocks and it had felt fairly secure, not that it seemed to matter.

“We’re eating good tonight!” Corey exclaimed as he held the large trout in his hand.

“No thanks to you!” Amanda teased as a wry grin spread across her face.

“Oh you just wait. I’m pulling a state record out of these waters tonight, I can sense it.” As it turns out, Corey must have never been bitten by a radioactive bass because the biggest of the two fish he caught that night was average at best. One he caught with a lure and the other with bait in an attempt to copy his sister’s setup. She caught three fish just in the time he spent playing copy cat. How could she do so much better when their baits were identical? Regardless, at the end of the day Amanda had caught five trout to his two. He let both of his fish swim free. Five would make a hearty fish fry for the two of them and there was no point in killing more fish than necessary.

Besides the stories, banter, and nostalgia of fishing with an old childhood friend; Corey especially liked fishing with Amanda because she enjoyed eating them as much as he did. Part of the enjoyment for him was savoring his fresh catch with his fishing buddy and continuing the banter, stories, and nostalgia. He knew plenty of people who liked fishing but didn’t have the taste buds for such a distinguished piece of meat. His friend Blake, who he had originally invited, was one of these sorts of people. So when Corey had called Amanda instead, he knew he wouldn’t be eating fish alone tonight.

Although, as he reminisced, he admitted to himself he remembered not being so sure that Amanda would be interested in driving down from the city for an afternoon fishing trip. She enjoyed being active in her free time and was usually up for whatever adventure Corey may suggest, but it went without saying that she was no avid fisher woman. In fact, it didn’t quite seem to matter if Corey had called to go skydiving, fishing, or play checkers in the park. She seemed to just be happy enjoying his company and being out in nature.

‘Afterall, isn’t that what it’s all about?’ Corey thought as he finally wet his line once again. Being with family and friends, enjoying nature and each other’s company. The things that would be remembered for Corey were the fishing methods used, the silly stories like feeding marshmallows to ducks, and just the fact that he spent time with his sister and they both enjoyed it. Didn’t they both spend time thinking about the memories their grandpa had taken time to create with them? And wasn’t he spending time currently thinking about the time he enjoyed on the lake with Amanda?  The only question left was why did Amanda agree to go fishing with him? As Corey pondered this he could only come up with so many answers. Either she felt bad that his buddy Blake had bailed on him, she really did just want to spend time with him and the activity didn’t matter, or she just wanted to see how long it would take for a fish to find a lure that was stuck in the mud. Wailing and screaming came from the back seat in protest as Amanda slowed her minivan to a stop a few feet before reaching the stop sign. After a peaceful highway journey to her sleepy hometown the squealing of her freshly awakened six month old boy signaled that the trip was almost over. “Just a few more blocks. I know, it’s so sad I had to wake you up” she said in a gentle but sarcastic tone. “No more stop signs until grandma’s house okay?” It was after dark so she wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy the drive through her old neighborhood where she and Corey had played when they were younger. She turned her thoughts to him and wondered if he would be home from fishing yet. Certainly he wouldn’t be fishing in the dark but he might still be driving home from one of his nearby fishing holes. He had invited her to come along but she needed to wait for her husband Jaden to get home from work. With her watching the baby, and him always at work or on business trips it was hard to find much free time at all. Amanda did remember being able to go fishing with Corey before she had given birth.

Jaden was on a business trip at that time too. Starting new local offices for his insurance company led to a lot of business trips at that point in time. She remembered how she felt that day. Stressed. Scared. Alone. She had just gotten back from the doctor’s office and was trying to find the courage to call Jaden. He had told her to call him after the appointment and let him know how it went. They had just barely started trying to get pregnant and there was a lot of excitement and nerves about such a fragile idea. Failed test after failed test had made it feel like the universe didn’t want them to have kids. That is, until one holy grail of pregnancy test finally gave them a shimmer of hope and a doctor’s visit was immediately scheduled.

Now the results of that doctor’s visit had left Amanda in tears. For an hour or more she sat on the stairs, crumpled in a ball of distress, trying to find the strength to get up. Finally, after who knows how long, she pushed the matted clump of wispy light brown hair out of her face and wiped the tears from her equally light brown eyes.

After a phone call to Jaden explaining the situation and a few more minutes of deep breathing she would be together again. As together as she would ever be after that doctor’s visit. Jaden would be on the next flight home but still wouldn’t be home until the following evening due to lay overs.

The next day was just as bad. She felt lonely, discouraged, and overall just frustrated. Why couldn’t she have a baby? Why would the universe hold something like that back from her? What had she done? She wished more than anything that Jaden could be home. The phone call to him earlier wasn’t easy. His soothing, patient voice did help to calm her down but she knew it would be just as hard for him and almost felt as if she had let him down somehow. Just then her phone began to ring. She picked it up quickly, expecting Jaden to be on the caller ID but instead it was Corey. Wow, she began to think. How many times has he even seen me cry? It couldn’t be more than a handful if any. She was his older sibling and had made it a point to not cry in front of him. Not only him though. Really it was the entire world. It wasn’t her style. Would she be able to keep it together now though or just fall apart as soon as she heard his voice? “Hello” she said after accepting the call. “What’s up?!” Corey’s voice bursted through the other end of the line. His gleeful tone was refreshing and relaxed her a little bit.

“Just sitting at home” “Great!” he said “because I’m on my way over now. Blake totally bailed on me so I guess you’re stuck being my fishing partner.” “Oh I see. So I’m just your back up plan?” “No no no. I would’ve invited you either way. The difference is now that Blake bailed you gotta come. It changes it from an invitation to more of a kidnapping if you get my drift” She knew it was true that he would have invited her and that it would’ve been on this short notice had Blake not bailed last minute.

“Oh my, you’re too much sometimes” “Well I figure Jaden is out of town so you got plenty of time anyhow. I’m just leaving so it would take me about an hour. Think you can be ready by then?” “Uhmmmm. Yeah. Yeah that should be fine.” She said hesitantly.

“Alright sounds good!” Amanda was very hesitant, not because she didn’t like fishing or hanging out with Corey but because she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be around anyone at all right then. This was a difficult time but ultimately a distraction away from home could be a good thing. Amanda would remember how she felt on that fishing trip for a long time.

She would remember the sound of the gentle waves crashing against the shore and the birds in the trees on the lake side chirping a melancholy afternoon tune. The feeling of the sun rays hitting her back or the tug on the rod when a fish finally decided to take the bait. When she was really fighting mr. trout on the other end of the line or busy tormenting her little brother it was hard to think about anything else. She thought back on that day and the joy she was able to feel. Sure her problems weren’t solved and they were still in the back of her mind but it is still hard to think of the universe as such an awful place when you’re enjoying nature or a freshly grilled lake trout. Amanda was in a good mood as she pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She kissed Jaden on the cheek and smiled back at her little cry baby in the back seat. That day fishing with her brother gave her a spark of hope that may have indirectly led to the bundle of joy that was now the center of her life. Sure, she probably would’ve kept trying for a baby with Jaden but that day still got her through a hard time and she had her brother who took the time to think of his sister to thank for it. A simple and ambitionless afternoon on the lakeside made all the difference and after all, isn’t that what it’s all about?


[content warning: death] Sarah sat in a powder blue wingchair that matched the color of the walls, bouncing the one-month-old Noah on her knee, looking into his scrunched red face. The lamp on the nightstand spilled soft light onto the block-color carpet, and illuminated the white cloth clouds swaying above the crib. She gently fought Noah’s squirming legs and pulled the knitted booties from his feet, revealing pink splotches on his wriggling toes. She tugged the booties off and tossed them onto the floor. A wave of warmth pushed behind her face, but she exaggerated her smile. A tremble threatened her voice as she shushed him. “Everything’s alright, everything’s going to be okay.” Sarah spoke this lie to herself often. She spoke this to herself at the baby shower, watching the doorway as her mother came into view. Sarah’s husband had encouraged the invitation, though the two hadn’t spoken in years. He said that Sarah needed some semblance of a relationship with her mother, or she’d regret it—she would feel better if she could forgive and move on. Maybe her mother knew how she had messed up, and wouldn’t admit it—maybe a grandchild could be her way of apologizing. She could care for this child in a way that she couldn't care for her own, he said. Sarah still didn’t want to invite her. Her mother didn’t deserve a chance at redemption, and it wasn’t fair that she had to be the one to provide the opportunity for it. Her mother couldn't come into this child's life and then disappear. But her arrival at the shower made a sort of promise. It stated that she was here, that she would be here, that she was going to make an effort. The part of Sarah that didn’t distrust this resented the fact that her mother was making an effort—she’s capable of it, but had decided not to for her. Past wrongdoing and resentment went unacknowledged, suppressed into a stiff hello. Friends sat around Sarah’s living room, which was decorated with streamers and balloons, dots of blue against the white walls and light gray settee. Dyed napkins were fanned out on the coffee table, amongst the potluck casseroles and vegetable trays. Her mother brought a store-bought sheet cake, atop it a blank rectangle that was supposed to have something written out in icing. A bare effort, but at least she brought something. It made Sarah nervous for the little gift bag that she carried. It would contain something revealing their relationship to the other guests, revealing how she had only come to the shower to perpetuate her self-believed persona of a good mother, revealing that she didn't truly care. Sarah sat in the circle of her friends and opened their gifts. A sling, a bottle warmer, and diapers—lots of diapers. Her husband even wrapped the stroller that they had picked out and placed it like a secret in the pile. She laughed when she opened it, it was sweet. She left her mother’s gift second to last. If she put it off long enough, maybe it would disappear. But she knew that it wouldn’t disappear, and wanted some buffer to the disappointing endnote. She tried to not make a face while grabbing for it, smoothly moving her hesitant hands to the single piece of crumpled tissue paper spilling out of the top of the bag. 3 baby booties. Obviously handmade. One was pink and wobbly, every row seeming to lose or add a stitch—it was missing a second for the pair. She must have given up on her failed project. And a second pair, off-white, much neater than the ones before it, with soft fuzz standing out from the stitches to nearly double the booties' size. Though they were still too small to imagine fitting onto any person’s feet. # Sarah hadn’t heard anything from her mother for two months after the shower. The baby was a day late, wouldn’t she have known that? Sarah sat at the dining room table while she and her husband prepared dinner, trying to distract herself with conversation, as to not jump at every pinch and ache. She was peeling potatoes while her husband was sautéing veggies, the smell of bell peppers overpowering everything else in the popping pan. Time seemed to be passing slowly because of the stress she was under, he reassured her, but it had only been two months. Maybe Sarah could call her? She could make a decision right now, no longer having to carry the worry of how, if at all, her mother would be involved in the baby’s life. She grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the table to wipe the starch from her hands, slowly wringing each finger, picking under her nails. She called her mother, and as expected, the line continued ringing. The automated voice prompted her to leave a message, and urged her to hurl her phone at the wall, to watch it shatter out in a million shards. Instead, she threw her phone onto the table from an inch away, taking satisfaction in the loud thump. Sarah sat looking at her mother’s name on the screen. She was busy, had somewhere to be, had some imaginary thing to do. Something that was more important. # A week later, she got a call from her sister. Their mother was in hospice. An infection she couldn’t fight off. Sarah should come visit. Sarah was emotionally and physically exhausted, drowning in the undercurrent of the most joy and excitement that was possible to experience. Why was it her responsibility to resolve things, to remind herself of what she had already lost, grieved, and moved on from? Seeing her at the baby shower had been like seeing a ghost, a haunting reminder of what was lost. It had already been lost. And Noah was a week old, she couldn’t leave him—not for someone who had left her. It made Sarah wonder even harder how that was even possible. Had her mother not experienced this? It was a one-day trip, she could manage that. One day. She spoke to her husband, who agreed that she’d regret it if she didn’t go. It was only one day, and he could manage that alone. She changed her jeans, but wore the same shirt and cardigan that she’d already had on. Lazily pulling a hairbrush through her hair, she gave up on the tougher knots, and folded them into a bun. She pulled on her coat, and hollered an ‘I love you’ behind her as she walked out the door. In the driver’s seat, Sarah sat in the noisy silence. What if she got into a car crash? What if she died and left behind Noah—her husband would be okay for a day, but not much longer than that. Even if she was only injured, she couldn’t spend time in the hospital right now. She buckled her seat belt. And what if she picked something up at the hospital, bringing it home to her newborn? His little system wasn’t ready to fight off serious illness—the pitiful coughs of his small voice rung between her ears. She sat, unmoving, grasping the ignition key. She sat there for as long as it would have taken to drive to the hospital, watching worst-case scenarios play out, until convincing herself that she didn’t need to go. To see her dying mother, who never loved her anyway. Who was unresponsive, her sister had said. So, it would only hurt Sarah to see her, and not mean anything to her mother. Sarah couldn’t even tell how this all made her feel, and wasn’t inclined to confront it face-to-face. # After soaking Noah’s feet in a lukewarm tub of dissolved oats, gently patting his feet dry, and rocking him to sleep, Sarah laid him back in his crib. She looked down at the booties tossed on the floor, unsure what to do with them. Noah couldn’t wear them. She drew in a deep breath, and a hot chill shivered out from her ribcage. She huffed, and tried again to fill herself with resolve. On the out-breath, Sarah swooped down and scooped the booties from the floor. The soft fuzz emanating from them scratched at her palms. Maybe she could donate them. She walked out to the living room, put the booties in a Ziploc bag, and tossed them on the coffee table. She would deal with it tomorrow, for now, she needed sleep. Sarah looked over to the few boxes left out from the shower, piled in the corner of the room. From the small gift bag atop them, she plucked out the pitiful pink booty, and nestled it on a shelf between framed wedding pictures and a glass bowl of collected seashells, before going to wash the itch from her hands.


Her tight smile never quite reached her eyes, and the irritable way in which she answered every question told me something was wrong with Tara. Staff and patients scurried in and out of the waiting room while she assisted each need with thinly veiled annoyance. On a good day, Tara's eyes were these huge, wide-set owlish things that seemed to evoke as much curiosity as wonderment. Today, the watery, unblinking tenor set a more uneasy tone.

I spent the first half of my shift cataloging and dismissing all her cues, but interacting was unavoidable; the obvious nagged all night like an itch. “What’s wrong with you?” I waited until things were quiet, though I knew from experience it wouldn’t last long. As if following my train of thought, Tara's big eyes quickly darted left to right before landing on me with the same level of annoyance she’d possessed with others. “Nothing, I’m fine.” “Are you sure? 'Fine' is universal for—“ “Fine is universal for fuck off,” she claps back. Shoulders slumping, she apologizes, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, that was uncalled for.” I've always thought Tara was sweet, so I give her a break. She’s beautiful, certainly, in a strange kind of way. A work friend, nothing more, though I wouldn’t say no to a nightcap if we ever found ourselves together outside of work.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I gently demand. “I’m uh… I’m just a little irritable tonight." "It seems like there's more to it. You can talk to me, you know." She makes a strangled sound, followed by an awkward wince. “It’s really kind of embarrassing.” Intrigued, though I try to maintain an expression of concern, I lean forward on the desk between us. Tara's phone sits dormant beside her, the computer screen bright with the evening's calendar.

When she realizes I'm not going anywhere without a little more information, reluctantly, she attempts to explain. “I’ve been in this sort of… recovery group. It’s just a little embarrassing to talk about, is all.” Her cheeks tinge pink, and she gestures with an aloofness she clearly doesn’t feel. “Oh, Tara, I had no idea. Are you okay? You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do you have someone to talk about this with? Maybe in HR—“ “No! Sorry, no, I don’t want anyone from HR knowing about this.” “You know, they have no right to discriminate against you for your addiction. It's illegal.” Another strangled sound escapes her. “No, it’s not that kind of addiction.” There's a commotion by the revolving front doors, a couple of security guards dealing with an unruly drunk. I can see the matted blood against his hairline from here. I wish I could say that was uncommon, but it would be a lie. Addiction comes in all forms. I never judge. Turning back to Tara, I remind her of this. She still looks uncomfortable, but at least she's no longer weaponizing those giant, expressive eyes, making me feel like a bother for my concern. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's just… I don't think you'd understand." "That's not really fair, Tara. I mean, if you don't want to tell me, that's one thing, but don't use your insecurities against me." Her eyes narrow, but her shoulders relax slightly, falling further from her ears where they've been taking residence all night.

"I guess it could help to talk about it. The truth is, I'm obsessed with reading." I wait for the punchline that never comes.

She squirms, "Look, I know it doesn't sound like a real thing. But I can't go an hour without it. Since it's books, I always assumed it wasn't a real problem. So what, I'd spend a few extra minutes reading a few paragraphs in the line at the grocery store or stay up a little too late finishing a book because I couldn't sleep without knowing the ending." "Okay…" "I know it doesn't sound like a big deal." I want to dissuade her of that notion, to assure her I understand, but I don't think I can. "I started to realize how much I was using books to escape reality. I skip dinner plans with family or cancel plans with friends or first dates because I'd rather be inside a world created in my head than with other humans. Sometimes I pretend to work, but I'm actually on my Kindle on my phone!" "Tara, that's not good," I chastise her. "What we do here is very important—" "I know, I know. It's awful. I just couldn't stop. Anyway, I'm working on cutting back, it's just hard." "Okay… alright, that's good, Tara." I do my best not to sound condescending, but my fleeting crush on her has, well, fleeted.

With a little more confidence, she sits taller in her chair. "I mean, some of it's sophisticated. 'Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.'"

Tara's big eyes flutter, watery and distant, lost in some romantic quote from another time and place. Her wistful smile falls off, replaced with the fake, tight one. "That's James Joyce—one of my favorites. And last week, I finished this incredible book, Demon Copperhead. It won a Pulitzer ." "That's very nice, Tara," I give her my own fake smile back, standing a little straighter, ready to get the fuck out of this weird conversation. "But then… then there's this book, Mated by the Monster Orc." "What?" "Yeah. Or like, Seducing the Vampire King. Stuff like that." Blink. Blink. Silence.

"Mostly, I like editing those books in my head. Can you imagine if they were done really well? Like, Tolkien meets Debby Does Dallas. Or Brontë meets John Wick. It would be amazing .” "Tara…" "I know, I know. I have a problem. My point is it doesn't matter what I'm reading. It can be the best literary piece of the decade or absolute trash; I just can't stop. It's interrupting my life, it's affecting my work. I love it, and… I don't. I just can't stop escaping reality, even for five minutes. It's so easy to fall into someone else's fantasy." She finally turns to me, but given the physical distance I've put between us, her brow furrows, and she shrinks away, shoulders climbing back toward her ears. I can't bring myself to care. I'm annoyed and offended that she thinks this is an actual problem. I take a deep breath, attempting to sound non-judgemental. "Addiction is a serious thing, Tara. It's complex and consequential—" "Exactly!" "And you're making a mockery of other people's struggles." Shame colors her cheeks, but I can't bring myself to care. "Dr. Matthews?" She calls out as I straighten my stethoscope draping across my neck, and stalk toward the entrance to the ICU. Slamming my palm against the swinging door, I look back at her slack-jawed expression and snap, "Why can't you just do cocaine like the rest of us!"


Breakfast felt like a trap. I stared at the stacks of golden pancakes, little bowls of butter, the apple pie syrup, and the little cut-up fruit salads. John, wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron bustled around, pausing to draw a drippy smiley face with an ungodly amount of syrup on Harry's pancakes. Harry looked up at John tiredly, then gingerly prodded one soggy pancake with a fork. Next to him, Elysse giggled slightly, sounding surprised. Devon and I shared a look: partly confused, part suspicious.

What the hell was going on? Elysse scrutinized a pineapple slice, also somehow cut into a smiley face. "Uh, thank you." She bit into it, under John's hopeful gaze, falling into the trap. "I'm glad you like it," John said, smiling way too much. "Eat up, everyone, Fiona's gonna think I haven't ever fed any of you." What did you do?  Devon mouthed over at me, like me, also not eating anything. Nothing! What did you do?  I mouthed back, doubly worried now that neither of us knew what was going on.

 John was acting weird, and in my world, very few things were constant. Sun rose in the east, I could trust nobody, Devon was annoying, and then there was John. Not to say John didn't make breakfast, but this all felt forced, overdone. Usually, he asked for our help, but today, nothing. He'd been on the phone this morning, Elysse had told me. But he'd spoken in German, so she hadn't understood a word. I was beginning to feel really, really worried. I reached out to Harry, asking him what was going on. But the exhausted telepath was studiously cutting his pancakes, looking like he was about to fall asleep at the table. Fiona seemed to be picking up on all the weirdness too. "This all looks amazing," The clairvoyant said, awkwardly accepting some fruit from Elysse. "You guys eat like this all the time?" She dove right in, unused to having so much food available. "No," I answered, staring at John. I had no idea what the hell his agenda was, but clearly, he was preemptively bribing us for something. John smiled at that, "Simin, you haven't touched anything. You want some eggs?" Devon kicked me under the table, a warning to not say anything. "Did you make sunny side up with a side of explanation, by any chance?" I asked, earning another kick from Devon. John smiled mysteriously and placed an omelet onto my plate. "You want any ketchup or anything?" Elysse looked worried now too. John usually just answered us straight up. "John, what's going on? Did something happen?" I asked, refusing to be swayed.

I'm not some child that needs to be cajoled with breakfast before bad news! John and I had a minor staring contest, and then he stopped pretending. "I need to get Fiona out of the city. The longer she's here, the sooner a witch will find the four of you." "So we're getting her out of here today?" Devon asked, sounding relieved, taking a bite out of his pancakes to appease John. John poured himself a cup of tea. I tensed up, knowing without Harry's telepathy that the bad news was coming. "Not exactly, there's a good coven in Seattle, and I'm taking her there. The four of you will remain here and hold down the fort." "What?" I snapped, my powers raising the temperature of the room. "John, let us help, we aren't kids. You-" "She's right, John, the witches found us four times in the last two weeks. It's not safe," Elysse added, looking worried. "We can help, or I can make a portal-" Devon started talking over Elysse, which annoyed me more than Elysse interrupting me. "Taking normal transport just means you're going to get caught! Fiona's aura signature-" "I understand your concerns, but none of you are coming," John said firmly. "I expect all of you to take good care of each other, and I trust-" "Why can't we help?" Devon persisted, and I nodded, feeling annoyed that he chose to spring this on us at the last moment. "You will be helping by keeping yourselves safe," John told us, his voice softening. "I understand that you're worried-" "Great, then let us help," Devon argued, and I was relieved that all of us were on the same page about this. "Devon, Fiona has a huge aura signature. The six of us combined will draw too much attention." John said placatingly, his accent increasingly coming out. For some reason, I glared at Fiona, who was calmly finishing off her pancakes. Elysse tried a more rational tack, keeping her voice professional and steady. "Okay, but John, her aura signature will be there no matter what, so it makes no difference if-" "Harry, tell me you don't agree with this." I turned to Harry, who was mechanically slicing his stack of drowned pancakes into pieces before eating them layer by layer. Harry looked right at me:

John's right, maybe if it's just him, and then my shielding powers somewhere else, Fiona can still sneak out. If we're all together, there is no way she doesn't get caught. "Why does she matter so much?" I asked, interrupting whatever normal,

rational  argument Devon and Elysse were attempting. John turned his eyes on me, narrowing them. "Simin, all of us matter. You've always known that." I struggled to defend the crazy position I had taken but refused to back down. "No, she's so much of a threat to us, Harry hasn't slept for two days, why-why are you risking-" John raised an eyebrow. " Enough.  Because I said so." He stared at me disapprovingly. "I thought all of you trusted me, but apparently not." "That's not what she meant." Elysse defended me, "We're just trying to-" John held up a hand, cutting her off. "I have a plan. I'm not sharing it because it isn't complete yet. If it's going to work, we need to keep Fiona safe. I don't want to leave you, but there's no one that can-" "I'll do it. I'll get her to the coven," I argued, and Devon immediately chimed in. "We can do it together-" "No," John said, tone final. "Both of you need to keep Harry, and each other safe. I trust you with that, the most important job today. Harry isn't going to be able to maintain the barrier for much longer. Any attempt of Elysse's to portal us out of the city will get you caught, I want all of you, to keep each other safe. If you cannot contact me, work together.

Do not panic. " John slowly said the last part. He made eye contact with each of us. "Simin, can I trust you guys to take care of each other?" Part of me wanted to mutiny, insist further that we could keep Fiona safe. But I sighed, annoyed, and sat down. I hadn't even realized that I was standing up. "Yes." John smiled, taking a seat too. "Okay, so let's all enjoy this amazing breakfast that Youtube and I made together. We're all going to have a long-" "Harry's asleep," Fiona said suddenly, her voice tight. It was true, the telepath had literally fallen asleep on the table, glasses askew. "Auzgezeichnet," John sighed, and I smirked at him despite everything, finally taking a bite out of my now-cold eggs. "Okay, the barrier's down. We have around-" John checked his watch, " Two  hours before we're compromised." He took a bite of his smiley pineapples, raising an eyebrow at me. "You like the eggs?" It was hard to ignore the argument. "Missing some of the explanation, and a little light on salt, but they're good." I smiled when Devon rolled his eyes and muttered something. "Shut up, Devon." "You shut up, I'm not the one who was ready to throw Fiona under-" "Kids, please," Fiona pressed her fingers to her head. "You're all adorable, but this is hard enough without coffee, please don't do this again." John laughed, setting aside his apron. "Okay, Fiona, we have to leave now, let's get going. Elysse, make sure these two don't do anything stupid," Elysse narrowed her eyes at us, scoffing. "You sure I can't do something easier? Like portal the earth to another galaxy?" Devon flicked a blackberry at her. "Like you're any better, that ankle didn't break itself, remember?" "See you later," I said to John, trying not to look nervous. Why did we have to separate? John smiled, putting on his coat. "I will see you all soon, be good." He took off Harry's glasses and folded them onto the table. "Auf Wiedersehen, children. I'm relying on you." As Fiona was getting up I opened my mouth to apologize, but the clairvoyant smiled kindly and waved a hand. She tapped her head and said, "I have a feeling we're going to have a lot of fun together, don't worry." I nodded at that, feeling beyond embarrassed. We waved and waited until the door shut to turn on each other. "Okay," Devon said, "So we need to-" "Oh shut up, you're not the boss!" I interrupted, taking another bite of the eggs. I heated up the plate with my hand, then stopped, looking around worriedly. "I'm the oldest." Devon pointed out and continued his nonsense. "So I think-" "By two months!" Elysse laughed, throwing a grape at his head. "Anyways, John left me in charge." "No he didn't, he just said to make sure nobody does anything dumb." Devon challenged, grinning. "Simin's gonna make sure you fail at your job." "What are you talking about?" I lowered my voice forcefully, keeping in mind that a certain telepath was asleep for the first time in two days. "If anyone's tanking the collective IQ of this group, it's you, Devon." Devon looked scornful. "I don't think you know what IQ stands-" Knocking. All of us froze, looking at each other. "Hello? Is anyone in there?" A cheery voice asked. "We have a special delivery of apples!" "Back door!" I whispered, pulling Elysse while Devon lifted up Harry. Elysse grabbed his glasses off the table.

Draping Harry over his shoulder, Devon slammed the dining table, chairs, and all the drawing-room furniture against the front door. "How are we already screwing up what John said?" Devon hissed, "Jeez, it was you Simin! Heating up your goddamn-" I quietly threw open the window, hurrying Elysse through it. "Let's not throw stones right now!" I whispered back, jumping when I heard our front door bang open. "Oh shit, run!"


The mountains of Stoney Creek have always been a home away from home for Katie. She loves the outdoors, whether its cold or hot you will always find Katie breathing in the fresh air. It's the middle of January and its time for Katie's annual trip to the Stoney creek Chalet. Her four best friends Mia, Brianna, Vanessa, Selena, along with Mia's and Vanessa's boyfriends Jacob and Samuel. Two days later Katie and her friends are on their way to the Stoney Creek Chalet. In four hours they will reach the Chalet. On the drive to Stoney Creek Mia begins to sing and everybody joins in, then they talk about what they are going to be doing. Jacob and Samuel want to go skiing, they ask the girls if they want to go. At first they are hesitant to go, but after some talking, they agree. Four hours later Katie and her friends arrive at Stoney Creek. Katie drives up to the Chalet and parks the car, they get out of the car and begin to unload. The Chalet is just as beautiful as Katie remembers. A two story house with a sloping roof, constructed wood and other materials like stone, walking inside the home look up and you will see a beautiful high ceiling both on the first and second floor. In the front and back of the home are two balconies with a perfect view of the mountains. "I love this place every time I see her." Katie says. After settling in and unpacking Katie and Brianna go food shopping, while the others take out the ski equipment. Katie and Brianna arrive back with tons of food, water and snacks. They put everything away and walk to the living room to talk to the others about they are going to be doing. Mia points out the sun is setting, so they decide to stay in, make dinner, after words, build. fire, make s'mores and tell ghost stories. Everyone happily agrees. Dinner consists of stake with mash potatoes and veggies. Once dinner is made and eaten, Jacob builds a fire and they sit around the fire place. Katie asks who is going to tell the first story. Jacob raises his hand. Jacob begins to tell the story. "It was a cold winter's night, the wind is howling, the moon is high in the sky, inside the hill manor all is quite expect for little Ava. Little Ava is playing with her dolls when someone calls her name Ava, Ava, Ava. Little Ava is not scared, she is happy and smiles. She goes to play with her friend. They run around the house playing hide and seek. Ava giggles when her friend finds her. They play until Ava's mother tells her it's time for bed, a little while later little Ava wakes up, she laughs and gets out of bed. Little Ava walks to the kitchen, picks up a butcher knife and walks to her parents bedroom. She opens the door, silently walks to her mother's side of the bed and violently stabs her over 50 times, then she walks to her father's side of the bed and stabs him over 50 times, then little Ava takes a knife and stabs herself. Because of the snow storm, and where the manor is located the bodies of little Ava and her parents were never found. Two decades later the Hill manor was finally found, but the bodies were never found. The manor was restored to its former beauty and sold to a young family, then the unimaginable happened the family was murder, this time their bodies were found with no explanation, the house was again sold and again the family was murder, then the house was sold again and again and again and each time the family was murder. The Hill manor was finally closed and torn down, but the surrounding area is said to be haunted by the voices of the people murder inside Hill manor. You can still hear the wails of the children." Jacob finishes his story by adding that Hill manor is a few miles from where we are and if you are quiet the wails of the children can be heard from here. Everybody stayed quiet looking at Jacob. Mia spoke up first and tells Jacob he's crazy. Jacob smiles. After a few more s'mores and more ghost story telling Katie and her friends go to bed. The next morning Katie wakes up bright and early, she takes a shower, gets dress and heads down stairs to make breakfast. A few minutes later she is joined by Brianna, Mia, Vanessa, Selena, Jacob and Samuel. They eat breakfast quietly, then they get ready to go skiing. Katie and her friends hike up Stoney Creek Mountain, once they get up the mountain they put on their skis, Jacob is the first to go down followed by Samuel then Mia, Vanessa, Brianna, Selena and last Katie. They ski for the next two hours, then they go back down the mountain, when they reach the Chalet, Katie and her friends have a snowball fight, they have a blast, then they go inside change their clothes and make dinner. After dinner the friends gather around the fire place and they talk about anything, there life, work, family, now they decided to play Monopoly. They laugh so hard their stomachs begin to hurt, after sometime playing the friends go their separate ways. Mia and Jacob go to their bedroom, as well as Vanessa and Samuel. Brianna and Selena stay in the living room and Katie goes to the balcony, she sits on the chair and looks at the mountains. "What a day today? this is the reason why I love coming here. There is no place better to be." Katie says to herself. Half an hour later Katie goes back inside, she grabs a snack then joins Brianna and Selena in the living room, they play board games and talk until the next morning.


“I have Blue Angle Pins, Hats, and Balloons. Get one for your kid. No kids…no worries! Grab one for your nephew.”

Dam This Guy! Get Out The Road! The pesky peddler in the middle of the median was slowing traffic down. I screamed out loud again. Get out the road….I want to go home! My damn temper was governing my thoughts! Why did I waste my breath? I knew better. The street salesman could care less, he kept moving from car to car as he hawked cheap souvenirs. Another year and another air show. We need to move! All I wanted to do this evening was attach myself to the couch like an old worn-out piece of velcro. Stuck, but still capable of making a move.

After what seemed like hours I finally made it to the entrance. My stress deflated. A couple of cold beers and today would be history. I was praying the neighbors were still at work., that’s all I needed right now.

As I started walking toward my apartment two Blue Angels flew in perfect formation. Their dazzling areal display painted the sky as my heart pumped to the beat of the engines.

I hated the congestion from the Blue Angels but dam this show was intriguing. The sheer force of the Super Hornet and the way they moved always kept me gazing up. It reminds me of playing Mario Cart. You could always catch player two with a super boost.

Now that I was home I went into stealth mode to avoid my neighbors. Cat-like reflexes moved me through the parking lot like Pink Panther. Sneaking around every corner with careful precision. Yet, being stealthy was only in my own mind. At 6'3 I was too clumsy to sneak in. It was all a pipe dream from Saturday morning Kung Fu movies.

The only good thing about the air show was the loudness. Maybe they won't hear me enter, god please don't let me see them today. The separation between apartments was only an arm's length. Which meant you had to be super careful when entering. If he sensed you nearby, he would open the door and watch you oh…so carefully.

Maverick was the chosen name for this confident, short-tempered blue falcon. He was, without a doubt a complete jerk. No matter the circumstance his anger always made him bang on the bedroom walls. Screaming, quiet down over there!

Does this asshole not realize the walls are paper-thin? I remember the day we moved in. He stood outside watching us with a thousand-yard stare. I’ll never forget his stance, it was daunting and scary. Something was out of place. He must have seen some serious action. Why was he sizing us up? It has to be something from the past.

I ran a bar right next to the base, so I knew all about the desert stare. We had folks belly up to that old plank of wood from every corner of the world. Most served on the base. Some served in combat and the rest were still battling it out upstairs. I approached each case with a cold beer and warm whiskey.

Back at the apartment Maverick's wife looked lost and on edge. You could tell by the look in her eyes. Throughout the day his wife came out and held onto his arm. I could see her begging and pleading for him to go inside. Except, he sat still. He wore these oversized headphones to block out the loudness from the Blue Angels. The only thing that moved was those glaring eyes. I tried twice to introduce myself to the old saltwater commander only to no avail.

As we hauled in taped beer boxes, worn down lamps, and half-broken furniture the watchman greeted every move.

During our short stay, we learned that Maverick worked part-time at the base for SOCOM. Each morning he would arise at five am and head off to work. Always making sure to slam the front door, which in turn rattled our entire apartment. Each day it felt like the trusses would collapse and the shanty would crumble. His daily departure would awake both dogs. And stir us out of a dead slumber.

It was after this initial slamming of the door that I decided to leave him a post-it note. The first of many.

Dear Maverick & Company,

I work nights, you work days. Can we find a happy medium? Maybe you could stop slamming the door at 5 am.

Before heading to work that evening I found a note on our front door.

Hey Log Head, Try investing in earbuds. I could care less about your schedule.

Regards, your neighbor After speaking with my fiancé I decided to squash the drama. And let bygones be bygones. But the next day Maverick had a different plan.

Dear Log Head,

The conversation was last night about who gave your co-worker herpes it is not something I want to hear at 4 am. It would be nice if you could refrain from talking so loud after 10 pm.

P.s I hope you learn a lesson from your co-worker about STDs

Not Maverick

We both became addicted to leaving notes. Maverick,

Do all SOCOM members spy on their neighbors.?

There has to be a better choice in music than Barry Manilow?

Your concerned neighbor, ( aka log-head)

The following day I received this note after stepping into a bag full of dog shit.

Log Head,

I took it upon myself to pick up your dog's shit. And I brought over some extra bags, I assume you’re out. I also dropped the shit in front of your doorstep for easier clean-up.

With Love

Your neighbor Can you believe this asshole, he thinks we have the only dogs in the complex. I am over this!!!

Dear Poop Patrol,

We are not the only residents in the complex with dogs. Maybe you should bring the SOCOM team out to run an investigation?

Do your friends know about your secret crush on WHAM? If they had a couple more members would you consider them a boy band?

Your concerned neighbor,

And the notes never stopped.

Log Head

I know the poop came from one of your dogs. And I am not a WHAM fan… it’s my wife’s favorite!

At this point, I figured I would start messing with them since they watched our every move. I recalled when we first moved in that his wife screamed...SNAKE!!!! I overheard the entire dilemma. The twisty serpents ruined their day.

Maverick,

Our pet snake escaped last night. There is a slight chance he squeezed through your front door. His name is Mr. Huggy. I’ll be at work tonight so if you could hold on to him until tomorrow that would be great.

Your concerned neighbor,

While I thought my note would scare him into rage the opposite happened. The banging on the walls stopped along with the daily notes and threats.

During this period we received this letter from his wife.

Dear Log Head & Company,

My name is Mia and I am the wife of Captain Sam Birch,

The Captain is doing fine these days. He is a man of much pent-up anger but your notes and letters over the last year have seemed to put him at great ease. I am not sure why that is but I thank you. When the captain was serving in Noth Africa, on assignment he was struck with great trauma. To this day he still has yet to recover.

"At this point, I paused my reading, looked down at the paper, and braced myself for what was about to learn." Captain was on a March when he fell behind. His superior officer told him to "hurry up" but he couldn't physically move any faster. This sent his superior commander into a fit of rage and Captain Sam Birch was confined for 3 months. His offense was simple. He was charged under Article 257 as a "Straggler." He spent three months in Military jail and forfeited two-thirds of his month's pay. But the real damage was done by the taunting. His new name was Sam the Straggler. This taunt put him into a rage. With that being said, your notes, as crazy as they are have enabled Sam ( aka Maverick) to have some type of friendship again. For that I thank you. Our marriage is on the upside.

It took me about a week to process the letter. As crazy as it was. I remember being taunted. It's some serious shit. The following Sunday I awoke early. Knocked on Maverick's door. Invited him outside to sit down in the lawn chair. Then I handed him a pair of oversized headphones. We both sat in silence as we watched the Blue Angels prepare for the upcoming airshow. We also stared down any new tenants.