Exodus Agent WK927 was insignificant. The thousands of creatures that passed by him every day would forget him almost instantaneously, almost as if he’d never been there in the first place. Nothing else was really to be expected on Æ92, one of the busiest transport planets in the galaxy. Millions of life forms flooded through the massive checkpoint buildings on the way to their next transport - whisked away from the dull bureaucracy of galactical immigration agencies. WK927 was one person well accustomed to the dull bureaucracy of galactical agencies as it was his current and indefinite occupation. WK927 was of an average height and build for a male human at age 28. Even if the individuals passing him noticed his dark brown hair and pale skin, they forgot he even existed by the time they walked through the archways leading to the Pads.

He was just like every other Exodus Agent in the countless checkpoint buildings across the planet, absolutely unnoticeable. Illuminated under giant fluorescent lights, the colossal checkpoint building gave the impression that it stretched endlessly in all directions. Thousands of creatures stood waiting to be processed, slowly trickling past Exodus Agents and through the large archways leading to the landing pads. Under the helmeted eyes of the marshals overlooking them from the walkways above. Always watched. As WK927 scanned and stamped data cards, creatures and faces blurred together until he was going through the routine mindlessly.

Occasionally, he could hear the roar of the engines from starships taking off from across the planet, heading even farther out into the reaches of space. The rumble would be then drowned out by the din of the awaiting individuals, and WK927 would drown out his self-pity with another stamp.

Rothelain. Scan. Stamp. Next. Mizur. Scan. Stamp. Next. Human. Scan. Stamp. Next. Znocheds. Scan. Stamp.

“Next.” The figure was wearing a flowing maroon coat going down to its knees with matching dark gloves. Its chrome blue helmet reflected WK927’s face back at him.

“WK927? Known as Double?” asked the figure. He frowned. WK927 had only been called that as a child, “How do you know that?” The figure didn’t answer. “I have a proposition for you, Double. I want to offer you a new occupation.” WK927 saw his own reflected eyes cloud with confusion. The figure removed its helmet, revealing a female human with black cropped hair. “I’m Elite,” seeing WK927’s confusion, she added, “It’s a nickname, similar to yours.” His brow furrowed, “Why did you come all the way to Æ92?” “My profession is...unique. Not at all like your current trade,” she said gesturing around her. He glanced at the group of life forms still waiting to be processed. No one seemed to notice that WK927 was talking to a traveler much longer than allowed. He was as unseen to the universe as always. He glanced back at this mysterious woman. “You traveled here, to one of the furthermost planets in the known universe to offer me a job?” She shrugged at his incredulous tone. “We do strange things in my line of work.” “What’s going on here?” demanded the marshal who was approaching them. WK927 could read her number on her breastplate: UO198.

The marshal must have been sent down from the walkways viewing the checkpoint building when Elite had started talking to him. Someone did notice. WK927 felt an odd rush of joy at the thought. The helmeted marshal turned to him. Through her silence, he knew that she was reading data that was being transmitted through her helmet. “WK927. Why haven’t you processed this passenger?” “I was offering him a job,” said Elite. UO198 laughed. “Don’t you know anything? No one picks their occupations. You only get reassigned or promoted. WK927 will always be an Exodus Agent, nothing more. That’s how it is.” “Maybe that should change.” Elite’s voice bristled with hostility.

Marshal UO198 straightened, “You aren’t showing up on any of our databases.” She sounded confused. Everyone showed up on the Galactic Republic’s databases. “Who are you?” demanded the marshal, a gloved hand drifting towards her rifle strapped to her back. “I guess you’ll never know,” said Elite.

A bullet shot through the air and UO198 fell to the ground.

WK927 leaped to his feet, staring at the revolver in Elite’s hand. It quickly disappeared into one of the many folds of her coat. Slipping her helmet back on, Elite strode back towards the crowd amid the growing cries of panic as the crowd of life forms seemed to detect that something was off. “Are you coming?” she cried. The marshals above on the walkways started shouting something unintelligible. WK927 stared at the dead marshal, then grabbed his helmet, racing after Elite. He cut a path through the horde of creatures, trying to catch up to her when the sounds of rifles firing and beings screaming filled the room. WK927 spared a glance over his shoulder to see the marshals firing randomly into the crowd, shooting beings with no care for their innocence. “Come on!” shouted Elite. WK927 was stuck in place, staring in horror at a young Mizur bleeding out onto the immaculate, stainless floor.

Elite grabbed his arm and dragged him through the crowd. They burst through a side archway just as the crowd of creatures dissolved into sheer panic, trampling one another in an attempt to get to safety. *** WK927 tugged on his helmet, hearing the usual hiss of air as it adjusted around his head. He struggled to keep up with Elite, boots splashing on the muddy ground, “Why would you do that?” “Do what?”

“Shoot that marshal? We’re both dead now!”

Elite glanced over her shoulder. “Only if they catch us.” WK927 was infuriated at her lack of concern but kept quiet. They were sprinting through narrow alleyways between even more equally enormous checkpoint buildings that were scattered across Æ92.

No other souls were to be seen, no one daring to risk the thick fumes in the air. Even with his dark gray helmet filtering out deadly air, WK927 still didn’t feel safe from the harmful chemicals polluting the atmosphere. He had never noticed how grimy and industrial his planet was, the sky tinted gray and dark blue from the nebulae fuel that powered the starships. WK927 hardly went outside to avoid the acidic smog and mud, a harsh contrast to the sterile, fluorescent interiors of the checkpoint buildings.

Elite and WK927 jogged under a suspended holorail track, holding their breaths instinctively as a Magnetrain rushed by, kicking up even more dust and corrosive oxides into the cloudy air. She had slowed down to a walking pace, but was still justifiably on edge, head darting around and glancing behind her.

WK927 walked alongside her, trying to slow down his heart rate, “You’re part of that group, aren’t you? Those anarchist traitors?” She smirked, “You catch on fast. We prefer the term Revolutionaries.” “No one prefers being defined as what they are.” “The Republic labeled us as traitors. They’re the genocidal bastards destroying planets that defy them. But of course, you would believe their propaganda,” shot back Elite. “Why are you offering me a job then?” demanded WK927, “What do I have to offer to your cause?” “Because you see the faults of the world you live in,” Even through the helmet, he could feel her eyes drilling into him. “Not many individuals do, and those that see its faults turn away because it’s safer.” WK927 stared back, “And just because of that, I’ll join you? Risk everything to-” “Well, you’re here aren’t you?” Elite started walking faster, moving towards the Pads that they could faintly see through the opaque sky. “Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I’m joining you,” muttered WK927 under his breath, mainly to convince himself. WK927 had seen the Pads as a child and remembered the sprawling layers of twisted metal that climbed thousands of feet into the sky, piled haphazardly. His neck had ached for days afterward from craning his head, staring at the ships taking off.

Even though he had never been off-planet, he had been told that the Pads could be seen from the outer atmosphere, and made Æ92 seem like it was made of giant metal disks. As they approached, Elite produced a pistol from one of the pockets of her coat. “Can you shoot?” WK927 accepted it, “Of course I can.” “Good. My ship is on one of the lower levels of the Pads, where the maintenance crews live. The bigger starships would have crushed it if I left it anywhere else.” The Pads was just as he remembered, looking even larger and towering as ever. Layers upon layers of metal held together with a combination of iron walkways and ladders, balancing precariously upon each other. The highest pads where the largest starships sat were shrouded in dust and fumes from the departing spacecrafts. Elite started to climb the anchored into the mud, WK927 right behind her. He tried to focus on the filth on her boots to distract himself. He didn’t think about how they were climbing miles into the sky on rusty metal ladders. He definitely didn’t think about what would happen if they were caught.

Their ascent became another routine, scaling countless ladders and platforms. His arms ached, but he kept going, his mind turning numb trying not to think about what would happen if a patrol of marshals caught them or if he fell off. Elite suddenly pulled him back, just as a patrol marched past. “Be careful. We’re one or two levels below my pod.” He nodded and started to climb. Halfway up the narrow ladder, WK927 heard shouts, and a stray bullet hit the bracket holding him to the wall. The entire ladder shuddered and WK927 clutched the metal bars tighter, holding on for his life.

He managed to clamber to the top and pull himself onto the platform without dying. Elite followed right behind him and started returning fire at the marshals. WK927 surveyed the multiple landing pads, spotting marshals scattered on walkways and adjacent platforms.

He took careful aim and fired his revolver, shooting several figures. They were in a strategically better position, able to see all of their opponents and take measured aim without rushing. Even with WK927’s limited shooting skills, he felt like it was too simple. Surprisingly, he felt not the slightest bit guilty as he killed the armored figures. “Is that all of them?” he asked, glancing at Elite.

Elite shrugged and turned to her pod which was sitting on the very platform they were on, “So I take that you’ve accepted my offer?”

He hadn’t considered her offer in fact, just following Elite because it seemed like the best option at the time. “I don’t have much of a choice, Elite. Æ92 isn’t a big planet. I’ll be dead in days.” “I wouldn’t doubt yourself too much. You’re resourceful, Double. You could survive here.”

“Don’t move,” commanded a voice. WK927 felt the tip of a rifle press to the back of his helmet.

Elite froze her pistol halfway in the air. WK927 was standing with his back to the ladder and a marshal must have climbed up and snuck behind him. “Drop your weapons. Both of you.” WK927 let his revolver fall from his hands. Elite slowly lowered her arm, and dropped her pistol to the ground. In the reflection of her helmet, WK927 could see himself, standing rigid, only one marshal behind him.

“Make a move and your friend is dead,” said the marshal, gesturing towards WK927.

WK927 didn’t trust in his helmet’s ability to protect him from a bullet at point-blank range. The helmets were useful for filtering out elements and fumes, not bullets. “Now,” started the marshal, “You’re both going t-” WK927 leaped into action suddenly, ducking forward and driving his elbow into the marshal. The rifle fired over his head, hitting a metal pipe and then ricocheting into the platform. WK927 spotted his revolver on the ground and picked it up, spinning on his heels, firing two shots into the marshal.

The man froze, his rifle hanging loosely in his hand. He took a few steps backward, clutching his stomach, and then fell backward over the edge of the pad. WK927 slowly stood from where he was crouched on the ground. Elite looked at him, then nodded in respect.

He clambered to the edge of the platform and glanced down. The platforms below them were cloaked in the usual acidic haze, but the only marshals to be seen were the ones they had shot while ascending the ladder.

“He must have fallen in between the platforms,” said Elite, standing beside him, staring into the abyss. Sure enough, they heard a crash similar to the sound of metal on armor. He waited for a rush of remorse to come flooding through him...but it never came. “Impressive.” said Elite, picking up her discarded pistol, “As I said, you can take care of yourself.” She approached him and he could tell that she was smiling. “So, last chance. You coming or no? You want the job, Double?” Elite extended a gloved hand. WK927 studied it for a second and then glanced around him. The giant Pads, the acid in the air of his home planet. The dead marshals on the platforms. Double took her hand and climbed aboard.

WK927 could be significant. Maybe Double was more than an unnoticeable number.


The Ghost Who wanted a home Nicole jalonen

in honour of black lives mattering A woman dressed in white with blonde hair ran down a dirt path carrying a crying infant girl in one hand and a lantern in the other. She was a African American women who had to obey a white family who were very wealthy. Not only did she race through the foggy stormy night with her crying infant but she carried with her scars from whips and a dark secret she knew she would be beaten for if her mistress caught her. She could hear her pursuers right behind her as she ducked low branches and raced through puddles , then she saw it the boat her daughters way out to freedom!....,,,,, Centuries passed and it was 2020 . In Boston massetutqtes. Where a twenty two year old African American woman was struggling to make ends meat for herself and her twin boys . Being a women of color in this world was not easy. Though slavery was not permitted anymore African Americans were still treated differently and were slmost demon used by the media saying that an average of crimes like assault and murders were committed by black men . Yet when white people made it to the news  their crimes were always downplayed it seemed. Or African Americans were called vulgar names and were accused of stealing always. So Nia Miston and her sons Devahn and Shawn ages 10 years old were always careful and kept there heads down . For fear the same thing that happened to poor George Floyd would happen to one of them!Nia had a degree to become a lawyer and wanted to start her own practice but knew it was going to be an uphill battle for any firm to even hire her. But she and her boys had moved recently so she hoped by the move she could find a job as a paralegal . The first few weeks they spend moving their furniture and belongings in their four bedroom house they were now renting and during the move Nia noticed things like dishes and cds and pillows and hammers being moved around the two story house. She didn’t think much at first maybe her sons moved them or the movers. Then the house was moved into and everything was put into its place and it still happened . Remotes went missing , and would appear in different rooms all the way up stairs. Or into the attic or the basement . Eventually as the weeks went on and Nia came home from her temp job as a dog walker . She  came home for lunch peered up to the second story of her house and saw very clearly a ghost of a African women in a rag brown dress. And very messy wavy black hair staring straight at her through the bay window ! No sooner had she saw the ghost women the Nia stopped dead in her tracks and thought fearfully that a homeless women had broke in her house! Heart pounding in intense fear she raced up the front steps and into the upstairs brightly lit with sun room but the women was gone ! A month later after that and Nia never saying anything to her sons about what she had seen her son Shawn was at home alone while she was at a friends place with devahn . Shawn was a thin African American boy of ten years old who loved soccer and painting and watching horror movies. Right now while his mom was out he was watching seteven kings it even though his mom had forbade the twins from watching that movie until they were older. Right at the part where never saw the clown and all the blood in the bathroom sink he heard a strange woman’s voice yell. “Bad boy shouldn’t watch that!” Yet he knew his mom and brother were not home yet . With his heart pounding so loud he  thought he could hear it in his ears he tiptoed up stairs and down looking for an intruder !thinking someone had broken in! But the ten year old found no one til he was in the dark cold basement with a flashlight because the bulb didn’t work down there it only ever flickered on and off! Once Shawn entered the basement the boy felt a rush of cold wind push him backwards and into the brick wall . No bleeding he heard a cruel man shout . “You don’t belong here !” So he ran out of the house and waited outside til his mom and brother came home! Now that one of her sons had gotten pushed and hurt by the ghost Nia called in paranormal investigators to search her new house and what the team of psychics found and a priest was not only did a African woman from slave days still inhabit the house she worked in but so did her white rich master!

Suddenly the psychic women were hit with a vision of a young blank women in brown torn dress running through a first with a baby as her mistress the wife of her master hot on her heals with a whip yelling vulgar things at the women and saying the African women would not bare his child and he and his wife murdered her because she had given birth to her masters child but they never found the new born baby girl !” Then they had another vision they assumed from the women spirit in the house showing a black wound in brown dress racing through the woods  with a caring infant with the master close behind her until she lost him and found her way to a vhurch where she left the baby girl just in time for her master to Find her mom and murder her but her baby daughter grew up safe and happy and the servant women said she wanted to tell someone her story and had guided her descendant Nia back to her masters house .” So the priest exercised the masters spirit out of the house and Nia allowed the servant women’s ghost to reside in the house with the family ! The end


Caution: mention of torture and cruelty. How would you react if introduced to a potential roommate or flat mate who promptly told you lots of negative things about himself? Top marks for honesty, but no one would choose to live with someone who is rebellious and will not do as he is asked, who whinges and whines when things don’t go his way and even wants to die when a situation gets unpleasant, who is more concerned about how he appears to others than wanting to help the unpopular. The reply would not be welcoming. It would be a suggestion to live elsewhere. Long ago, such a man lived. His name was Jonah, and God asked him to do a difficult job. He had to journey to a faraway city and deliver an unpopular message. Jonah knew God had opened a path through the Red Sea to help his people escape from the Egyptians. And let the waters fall back over their enemies to drown every last one. He knew that God had made the walls of Jericho fall down to enable easy capture of the city’s inhabitants. God told him, “Get up, go to Nineveh, the great city, and proclaim judgment against her, for their wickedness has come to my attention.” Despite knowing his God could back and protect him through every facet of his journey, Jonah disobeyed God. He went as far away as he could. Jonah ran away, heading to Tarshish, most likely in Spain - far in the opposite direction. He had no intention of carrying out what he had been asked to do for whatever reason. He first walked to Joppa, the port, to catch a ship heading to Tarshish. He may have had good reasons for not obeying, but it all amounted to a lack of faith. This did not mean God had asked the wrong person to do the job. It showed that Jonah had a lot to learn. And learn it, he did - eventually. He may have initially reflected on the cruelty of the Assyrians who populated Nineveh. The Assyrians’ treatment of prisoners was as unmerciful as can be imagined. Flayed alive, having hooks through the nose or lips and being dragged away, having heads, hands, noses, and ears chopped off. They were a military nation that loved inflicting pain and terror. Many chose to surrender rather than fight them. We don’t know why Jonah ran away, but any of the above facts could have swayed him. He found a ship heading to Tarshish and paid his fare. Soon, a violent storm flared up out of nowhere. The men prayed to their gods and threw excess articles overboard to lighten the vessel. The others on the boat were appalled as Jonah continued sleeping. He was harshly instructed to pray to his god. The men cast lots to determine who may be responsible for the catastrophe. They identified Jonah as the one. “Who is to blame for this calamity? . . .What is your work, and where do you come from? . . .” Jonah said in reply, “I am a Hebrew and I fear the God of the heavens, the one who made the sea and the land.” “What have you done?” they asked. He confessed that he was running away. Then, he showed his bravery. None of this wanting to drag down all the other men into a watery grave with him. “Lift me up and throw me into the sea, and the sea will calm down for you. For I know that this violent storm has come upon you because of me.” They called out to his God and said, “. . .please, may we not perish because of this man?” The men tried desperately to turn the ship back to dry land, but when this failed, they had no other recourse but to listen to Jonah’s instruction to throw him overboard. This action led to the raging sea being still. Calm or not, Jonah now faced drowning. Down he went, down and down, getting caught up in seaweed, running out of air, and fighting not to swallow water. His lungs felt like they would burst. He thought about his God and how foolish he had been to try to run away. The specter of death hung over him as he saw flashbacks of his life. Help came in the form of a submarine, albeit a primitive one. A colossal fish swallowed him. This would likely be a killer, humpback, or sperm whale. If it was a sperm whale, it would have been stifling inside. In a 5th April article (source: www.deccan chronicle.com), a story about another instance of this gives food for thought to the skeptics. “A Spanish fisherman who drowned in the sea is back with a fascinating story. The man who disappeared for several days after he went overboard during a bad storm has returned to share his survival tale. The 56-year-old fisherman Luigi Marquez claims that a whale swallowed him. According to Marquez, he stayed there for three days and nights. When Marquez didn’t return home, the coastal guard tried to find him but failed to locate him, and he was considered dead. ‘This great beast swallowed me the morning after the storm,’ he told local reporters. ‘It is the most frightening thing I have ever lived. Everything was pitch black and I was shivering cold. The only thing that kept me alive were the raw fish I ate and the light from my waterproof watch, that is how I kept in touch with time. And the smell, I will never forget that horrible stench of putrid decomposition. I had to wash for three days before the odor went away,’ Luigi Marquez told reporters. He may have felt he had no hope after three days. The story of the Spanish man helps us visualize the horrors Jonah went through. Three days would have seemed like an eternity. Another article on July 11th, 2021, told of a Massachusetts man, Micael Packard, who was grabbed into the mouth of a humpback whale before being taken to the surface and spat out. We can read Jonah’s heartfelt prayer, which reveals a humbled man who did not blame God for his wretched situation. Thankfully, not a moment too late, the fish vomited Jonah onto land. What was Jonah’s response when told a second time? “Get up, go to Nineveh the great city, and proclaim to her the message I tell you.” This time, he obeyed. Jonah had learned his lesson. It is always best to obey instructions the first time. It took three days for him to walk there. Three days during which he screwed up his courage to make the daily proclamation. Once there, he may have been ridiculed. Undoubtedly, he prayed fervently that the message would not antagonize the people. “In just 40 days more, Nineveh will be overthrown.” As each day counted down, Jonah could hardly wait until his ordeal ended. He focused on getting his task completed. However, his words had a remarkable and unanticipated effect on the people. Their consciences pricked them. These people worshiped false gods and led decadent and violent lives. Amazingly, they believed the message and behaved like any self-respecting heathens would - who are faced with annihilation. They repented and showed their sorrow by dressing in scratchy sackcloth and scooping ashes over themselves, men, women, children, and animals. People used sackcloth and ashes to show personal grief and signify repentance and humility before God. The King also humbled himself and ordered a fast. No food or water was to be consumed by man or beast, nobles or the poor. Their reasoning may have been, “Who knows? God may reconsider what he intends to do . . . so that we may not perish.” God saw their genuine change of heart represented by the sackcloth and ashes—and it caused Him to extend mercy and not bring about their destruction. How did Jonah feel? He did not think that it was a ‘job well done.’ He concluded the destruction of the whole city could better reflect this. Doom had been proclaimed. And doom it must be. He went outside the city a distance and sat watching to see what would happen. Nothing changed. He fumed and pouted. Muttered and growled. “Was this not my concern when I was in my own land. That is why I tried to flee to Tarshish in the first place for I knew you are a compassionate and merciful God, slow to anger and abundant in loyal love . . . Now, please take away my life, for it is better for me to die. . .” Jonah felt the mission had been a total waste of time and dwelled on suicide. He had no appreciation for being saved from the belly of the fish. This was tantamount to thumbing his nose at the mercy he had been shown. It filled him with anger that such guilty people had been pardoned. God felt Jonah needed an additional lesson. Jonah almost expired as he sat in the hot sun. He had constructed a shelter to screen himself, which barely helped. It shaded him a little but was far from adequate. God still showed him mercy. A bottle gourd plant sprouted next to him. Overnight, its twisty tendrils spiraled upward. First, it was tiny, but the growth gained momentum as the hours passed. Large leaves unfurled, and the shelter became a shady haven. Jonah awakened in surprise, wondering why his closed eyes didn’t have rays of sunlight shining on them. Looking upwards, everything appeared green. A verdant canopy had covered his primitive shelter. He beamed with joy. Even the fact that Ninevah still stood didn’t dampen his mood. All day, he sat sheltered from the scorching sun. God now caused the lesson, that he felt Jonah needed to learn, to unfold. At the break of dawn the following day, someone else discovered the bottle gourd. It became a banquet for a worm. It feasted on the juicy bottle gourd trunk. The sun came out, and a sweltering east wind blew hard, and slowly, each shriveled, dry leaf vanished. Jonah was left with the remains of his original shelter. Having the miraculous life-saving plant disappear before his eyes filled him with rage. He tossed and turned on the hard ground all night. As time passed, he started feeling faint. “I just want to die. Let me die,” Jonah begged. God spoke to him. “You felt sorry for the bottle-gourd plant which you did not work for, nor did you make it grow. It grew in one night and perished in one night . . . Should I not also feel sorry for Ninevah, the great city in which there are more than 120,000 men . . . as well as their animals?” Jonah learned from this object lesson. He ventured into the city, and the people recognized him. They gathered around to thank him. He felt overwhelmed. It humbled him to see so many people who didn’t even know his God show gratitude for the mercy extended to them. Later, he penned a personal account of what had happened. The fact that he wrote of his disobedience and disgusting attitude showed he had learned the value of showing mercy, just as he had also been shown. What about us? Do we shy away from helping our fellow man? Next time you feel inclined to think only of yourself, spare a thought for Jonah. The man who ran away.


TW: terrorism

Her fingers are trembling when she presses the keys. Just three numbers, and for that she needs three tries. “911, what’s your emergency?” The familiar refrain from TV shows. Nothing she’s ever had to hear, herself, before. “This is an anonymous tip,” she says, feeling foolish, instantly. One doesn’t have to say their tip is anonymous. One merely doesn’t give one’s name. Lessons for a next time.

“There are bombs in the Garden. Hurry. You must hurry. Get them out. There’s no time,” she says, her voice somewhere between a scream and a whisper. The images are flashing in her mind, explosions, bloody limbs. A stray arm, torn from a body. “Calm down, Ma’am,” says the operator. “Can you give us your name?” “You have to hurry,” she says, sobbing. She’s feeling desperate now. What’s in a name? But this is no time for poetry. “Which garden? How do you know there are bombs?” She realizes the extent of her discombobulation. She’s failed to tell them where. Her son’s face flashes in her mind. Then an image of him, face apart from body, limbs asunder. She shudders. “Terry,” she says. “My son’s in there. Madison Square Garden. He’s at the concert, Ten Thousand Maniacs.” “I need you to tell us more.”

She can tell from the voice that this person does not believe her. This nameless, faceless operator thinks she’s just another one of the thousands of crazies who call every day to report the crimes that aren’t. Out of madness, despair, loneliness, a desperate cry for attention. But she’s not one of those. She’s desperate all right, but not for lonely-person attention. She realizes she has to change this dynamic, and now. “I’m going to call all the news outlets,” she says, a new urgency in her voice. She’s found some strength now, and her tone is clearer, stronger, lower, and her hands are no longer shaking. “ABC, CBS, Fox News. I’m going to tell them I planted the bombs there, I called you to warn you, and you did nothing. Then when the arena goes up in flames, and everyone is dead, they’ll blame you, the NYPD for doing nothing. For ignoring a terrorist attack that was called in .”

She is quiet for a second, now that she’s issued her final warning. And she knows that this is what she’s going to do. She needs to force their hand. “Ma’am, I need you to give us your name and location.” The operator sounds worried now and she’s wondering which of her words did the trick, was it the phrase “terrorist attack” or “called in?”

She disconnects the phone. She’s wondering if they’ve traced the call already. They must have. She was too slow at the start, unconvincing, a novice. She shouldn’t have started off with the premonition, who’d believe a random psychic? No one. Not until it’s too late. Better to pretend to be the terrorist than be an actual psychic.

* She jabs at her phone to call her son, and it goes to voicemail. Again.

“Terry?” she screams into the phone. “The Garden, it’s going to blow up,” she shouts. “You need to get out of there.” In her mind, the images begin to flash, over and over again. The explosion, always from the center of the stage and then ripples of mini-explosions through the seats, leaving bodies in their wake. She is sobbing now, hysterical, how to cope with this, the impending loss of her only son, why won’t he answer his phone, she’s tried a million times, and now she’s scared the police will be here at her door any second. Picking her up to ask her the unanswerable question: How did you know? She’s had the power since when she was small. Of course, no one believed her for the longest time. She can pick up waves in the air, tremors, the lightest of vibrations, they tell her things. Most of all, she can smell things. Like with Aunty Edith when she was small, and her stomach had not even begun to curve, and she’d not even missed her first bleed, but she knew from the heat emanating from her belly, and that slight smell of milky sweetness from her skin. She went up to her and put her arms around her body, her face against her tummy and said: Baby wants a hug. And then the adults looked at her and Mum said, she always says the strangest things. But eight and a half months later, they found out she was right. And deaths, she could tell when someone was going to die. The thing is, the dying, they always smell different too. And she’s been able to sense these things. She’s made a living off it for the longest time. There are many charlatans in this city, but she’s the real thing. She went to the regular schools for a while, but the things they taught her there, they bored her. She has no need for science and geography, she can feel the future from the vibrations in the air, the heating and cooling of currents and the way the wind blows. She knows of another bigger apocalypse that’s coming, the gases are all out of whack, but she is powerless to stop its relentless march.

But the little disasters, of those she can warn people, change the course of their events. She smells out the sadness, the hopelessness in people and tells them things to change their paths. Except Terry. She hasn’t been able to help the sadness of her own. Isn’t that always the way it goes? * This one, she thinks she can change. She runs out, jumps into a taxi and calls the ticket line for MSG. She hits zero repeatedly, she needs a live person, and when finally she gets one, the taxi is at 23rd and 8th. It’s slow going, the traffic is thick this evening. It’s humid too but the reason she’s sweating is the fear that she’ll be too late.

She screams into the phone scaring the guy manning the ticket booth, “There’s a bomb at the Garden, evacuate, evacuate immediately.” The taxi driver, unfazed, checks her out in his rear view mirror. Maybe he’s had a lot of crazies in his cab, he’s not taking her seriously. After all, this is Manhattan.

But then she hears the police sirens up sixth avenue, their familiar whine, too loud, but this time, so welcome. She’s never felt so relieved at that sound. There seem to be a million of them roaring up the road. She feels a sudden rush, an immense relief flooding through her body, then an enormous tiredness. The taxi is at a standstill. She fishes out a twenty and hands it to the driver. She gets out of the car and starts walking.

* She tries her son on the phone again. This time he answers. “Terry?” she says. “You’ve gotta come home. It’s not safe there darling, are you out?” “Yes, I’m out,” he sounds angry. “Someone called in to report bombs.” She thinks he's upset, he must have been looking forward to the show, the sound of Ten Thousand Maniacs. “Yes, yes,” she says, hurriedly. “It was me."

“How did you know, Mum?” he asks. “I’ve had this smell of chemicals for days, Terry, lingering on the periphery, it didn’t all come together till now, but then today, I got an image, my darling, everything blowing up. I’m so glad you are safe,” she is sobbing again now, this time with relief. She can’t believe she’s managed to save his life. “I’m not sure how much time I have darling, I’m sure they’re coming for me, to ask me how I knew.”

She doesn’t tell him of the lie she told to convince them this was real. That she was the terrorist. The danger she's put herself in, for a bigger cause. “I wish you hadn’t called it in, Mum,” he says. His voice is fading. She can’t believe what she is hearing. She knows he has been depressed, angry for so long, about so many things, but she is finding this hard to take, this death wish. She stops walking, comes to a standstill on the sidewalk. She is a pillar, processing emotions, and a stream of pedestrians flows around her, uptown and downtown. “What are you saying, my love? Come home, come home and we’ll talk it through,” she says, bereft. “No, I can’t, Mum,” he says. “No one is going to pay attention to the things that matter till a disaster strikes at home. And I just can’t be around you when I plan the next one. I can’t take the risk that you’ll sense it on me, and give it away. Again.”


***I accidentally submitted this story under the incorrect theme. The theme I chose is as follows: Write a modern version of "The Tiger, the Brahmin, and the Jackal," in which someone suffers from their own good deeds and must turn to an unlikely source for help. The Shooter, The Teacher, and The Student Once upon a time, a Shooter wearing a mask to hide their gender was seen walking into the back door of a school. The school alarm hadn’t sounded at their entrance and the Shooter began to panic. Suddenly, a teacher ran out of her office to see why the alarm was sounding and she saw the Shooter. The Shooter was trying to get back out the door but in their confusion had turned around and didn’t know anymore what door was the exit. Many of the doors were locked with supplies and the Shooter was sweating and swearing under their breath.

“What are you doing in our school?” the teacher asked.  "Please don't hurt the children." “I went to the wrong building and now I just want to get out of here,” replied the Shooter. “I was just trying to play a trick on my friend.” “Can I call someone for you? You need help. I can help you." said the teacher. "Just open the door for me and I'll go. Jeez, why can't you do what I ask?" "You need to leave,” said the teacher. “I’ll open the door but you have to go. You need to go find help.” “Yeah, I told you I’d go. Just open the door now!” “How do I know you won’t just go into another building and hurt the children if I tell you how to get out of here?” asked the teacher. “I promise I won’t. This was a foolish prank and I just want to go home.” The teacher went to the exit door and was about to push it open when the Shooter pointed a gun at her.

“Wait,” said the teacher, “You said if I showed you the exit you would leave and go home and no one would get hurt.” “Stupid woman,” sneered the Shooter, “Why would I just leave and allow you to call the police and tell them that someone with a mask came into the school?” “But you said you would if I showed you the door,” replied the Teacher.

“Listen if you can find one student who can give me a good reason not to shoot up this school I will leave and go home and no one will get hurt.” The teacher agreed and started making her way down the hallway. She went into the classroom where all the students were so advanced that they were already taking college courses. She ran over to one student and put her hand on his shoulder. “There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“I’m busy studying and that Shooter probably isn’t even smart enough to pull the trigger. Just open the door and push them out,” said the student.

The teacher shook her head in frustration at the pretentious student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where all the students were working quietly but didn’t have test booklets on their desks. The teacher put her hand on one student near the back of the room.

“There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“I’m busy working on my book report. Maybe just tell them to sit and relax for a few minutes. They probably just had some silly fight with a friend and they’ll get over it. I’ve had fights with my friends and it really is not a big deal.” The teacher shook her head in amazement at the apathetic student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where there were only a few students who were sitting on squares of rug pieces playing with cars and other kinds of vehicles. The teacher put her hand on one student who had stopped for a moment to think about the traffic jam of cars.

“There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student.

“Oh no! Maybe they just need a friend right now to talk to. Maybe they were bullied and now they feel sad. I can try and talk to them and see if I can help cheer them up.” The teacher took this student by the hand and led them back down to the back door of the school.

The Shooter laughed. “What is this young child going to say to me that will make me change my mind? I will just shoot you both.” The student looked the Shooter right in the eye. “I’m sorry you are feeling so sad today. I used to be afraid to come to school because the kids who were smarter than me would make fun of me and the work I was doing in my classes. I’ll be your friend. We can talk and you might start feeling a bit better.” The Shooter looked at the student who appeared bright and nicely dressed. “You would never be my friend. You and your friends would laugh at me and say I was different. I would never fit in.” With that, the student went to the Shooter and wrapped her little arms around his waist.

“Well, I’m not giving up on you so you can either leave here with no one or you can accept my friendship and be able to say you have a new best friend.

The Shooter looked from the teacher to the student. They showed the teacher that the gun was only a plastic toy and asked the teacher to throw it away. The teacher took the toy and put it on the floor and smashed it with her foot. The Shooter took off their mask and held hands with the student. The Shooter was just a young boy from one of the classrooms.

“My name is Jessie. I’m really not very smart and the other kids keep making fun of me. It has made me so sad and mad.” “Jessie, my name is Taylor. I’m not very smart either but I listen to the things my teacher tells me and I know I am learning every day! You can come to my classroom today and spend the day being friends with me. You’ll feel so much better if you have a good friend you can talk to.” Jessie looked at Taylor and gave a faint smile. “That would make me feel so much better.”

The two walked back into the classroom hand in hand and smiling.


He can barely see the stars from his position on the bed, looking out the window in the middle of the night,and fighting sleep. He knows tomorrow is his last day.

He has to leave the one person that makes him happy.

The one that hung a wrecking ball in his gut and set it to the function of a pendulum. Its now a swinging weight, and has become the sole time keeping element of his life, keeping him stable.

Or like a hula hoop.

He's the hoop that's swinging around, even when he's exhausted at times and just wants to stop for a minute. He can't, because he knows that he would fall down if he stops. And that person, he has to let go. Tomorrow is his last chance.

The sun is gonna rise in a few hours, the day is gonna slip through his fingers like a fist full of sand, without him being able to do anything about it.

Sleep consumes him even as he struggles and refuses to let time jump ahead while he is asleep.

He doesn't want to go back to being temporarily dead.

He wants to stay awake, and alive, every second of the night and the day that follows, intertwining their fingers tightly, as if he can stop their hand from slipping away with his strength. The sun wakes him up through the window, and, having heard all his suffering and whining to stay awake during the night before, was probably expecting gratitude, but the second he opens his eyes, he resents the sun and wishes for the star to go start revolving for once and to get away from the earth. Or to revolve in correspondence to the earth so that it will forever be today. Maybe then, perhaps, he would be able to appreciate the day better. Because he does have them in their arms, right now, doing a better job at keeping him warm, than the blanket is.

And if he weren't so scared about the sudden coldness he'd have to deal with tomorrow, he could let the warmth reach his mind, and let the day make him some fond memories. The day is supposed to be his last happy day with the one, but he can already feel the adjective slipping out of the sentence. But no. He cannot let that happen. Cannot lose his present as well. So he gains strength, takes a deep breath,and wills himself to open his eyes again, which automatically darted towards them, like its as natural as blinking. Like that's what his eyes are supposed to be doing, when they're not blinking or sleeping, looking at them.

The one's occupied with their phone, the laughter in their eyes highlighted by the light from the screen. Some meme, probably.

So ignorant of the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He wants to stop time and appreciate them, or to slow it down, slow it down so much that he doesn't want to feel it move.

The crinkle at the corner of their eyes.

The loopsided smirk? probably for understanding a difficult pun.

And now, as they turn towards him, the dark grey in their eyes. He didn't know before, that darkness could be so full of light.

He didn't know that they could suck a person in like this. Like a blackhole. Like a void.

Except, he wants, or maybe needs, to be the victim. Bloody succubus! A huff escapes his lungs, as he closes his eyes.

"Grumpy, first thing in the morning?", he can hear the teasing in the voice. The sound of their phone being plugged in to charge, the squeak and the matress shift beside him makes him blink his eyes open.  Tender and smiling eyes, looking back at him. So lovely that they can bring a smile on his otherwise permanently frowned face.

So granted he took them, before. All those days when he didn't know what to do with them, he could've just done this.

Look at them. Listen to them. Breathe with them. Breathe for them.

"Excited about the day?" He asks, carefully, not saying last, the word that's screaming into his ears from inside his mind.

The visible excitement without a trace of worry as they sit up, plug out the phone and reopen the ticket picture for the hundredth time almost makes him glad because they don't deserve this pain that he's feeling. A theme park. A happy day.

So that's what he gives them. And that's what he tries to have.

And they both explore the meaning of bittersweet, like the reflections of them both in the society. Him bitter, them sweet.

And as they bid goodbye in the night, when he lies down, on the bed, with them by his side, them still slightly smiling at him, a hint of sadness now, though, but not so much as him,no, this is a bit like pity, like when the fairy has to bid a child goodbye.

Which is funny, because he thinks she is kind of like a child that he would adopt for the day.

But no, he is the child adopted for the day, to give him a taste of what he doesn't have the other days.

Only to take it back. And let him starve, for days, until he feels like he'd die. And then give it to him again, to make him live, for two days, but not really because the second day he starts deteriorating. And then ever so sweetly, making him look like the bitter one. Its like they're the perfect definition of a sadist, he thinks, as he subconsciously snuggles in, breathes them in, one last time. "Satan", he sighs. In reply, comes a smile that he can hear, and a moment later feel, against his lips.

Like the kiss of Judas.

To a bull left in a fight to it's death.

Or to a man left in his life to live the everlasting undeath. "Stay alive until next time, and we might go scuba diving!"


The Box

What was in the box?

There have always been glimpses of that box.

     Dad would take that box out and hold it close. We were never to touch it. Dad would let us try to open it, but it was no use. We didn’t have the key.

The beautiful, intricate box was a puzzle. Only he knew the key to open it.

     But now that Dad was gone, here was the box. Again.

     A few months before Dad died, he told me very specifically, to take the box and throw it away and never look inside, so I did, or so I thought.

     As we began the long, arduous process of cleaning out the dank, dirty basement a few months after the funeral, there it was. Sitting on a pile of rubbish, looking at me as if to say, “OPEN ME”.      I thought, How had it found its way into the basement? I swear I had thrown it out! It looked like someone had tried to pry it open. Now it was irrevocably broken.

It was probably my nephew Miles, who was always in some sort of trouble.

Miles, who was supposed to be helping Dad, but was a leech, siphoning Dad’s pension, his retirement, for his own foul needs.      I KNOW I put it in the trash. Miles must have taken it out thinking it had something of value in it. It was that kind of box, with its ebony inlaid picture of an Asian land, the kind you would see marked Made in China but were bought as souvenirs from Japan.

It’s beautiful wood, tongue and groove corners, different pieces that lay criss-cross and diagonal on the sides of the box. If you pushed on some of the pieces just right, it would pop open. but you had to know the secret.

     I couldn’t fathom why it was there. I had thrown the damn thing out! I took it upstairs, walked outside to the already overflowing bin, and put it in the trash again, and I told my sister Georgia,” Dad wanted me to throw this box out.”       When we arrived home, I saw it in the trunk of the car. Georgia! What the bleep!

She had grabbed it from the trash and put it in the trunk of the car.

     I resigned myself. It made it here, what was I to do?

I brought it in with the rest of the junk we just couldn’t live without and stored it with the other pictures and trinkets we decided to keep. I left it all on the kitchen table until I had a spare moment to put it all away.

     I wanted to respect my Dad’s wishes, so I refused to open the box. Georgia had other ideas.

     “Georgia, leave it alone!” I said with frustration.. “Whatever is in there, Dad didn’t want us to see it.” Georgia, being desperate (missing my dad) wanted to hope that there was some treasure in there that she could hold onto. Something of value. She had relied so heavily on Dad throughout her life for not just her emotional support, but for her financial support. Maybe there was something worth selling.

     The box sat on my kitchen table for a good month or more along with the other photos we had rescued from Dad’s house before the bank took possession of it.

     One day after our family had gathered for some occasion of which I don’t recall, Georgia decided to open the box. She pried at it until it broke open. She literally had to bust the box to open it.

     Once opened, the contents seemed to want out. They slowly unfurled and raised themselves out of the depths of the box like a snake or an accordion.

They had been stuffed there for over 40 years. I don’t think one more piece of paper could have fit.

     Georgia proceeded to look through the contents with confusion on her face. I grabbed some of the letters and photos and looked closely at them. I remembered some of these photos.

One time, when I was 15 years old, I remember coming to give Dad a kiss goodnight and he was holding the box. He had opened it, but he wouldn’t show us what was in it.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

“Something very special, “ he said.

“Can I see?” He opened the box and carefully took out one tiny picture. It was of a beautiful woman with long dark hair, clear sallow skin, and almond eyes. Dad told me about a special family that took care of him when he was overseas. I thought that was so nice, that he had friends who would look after him. He told me some other things, but either my mind couldn’t comprehend or I chose to not believe him. I asked him, “Does mom know?” “She does,” he said, so I went and asked Mom, who was busy hiding in the kitchen, sneaking licks from the ice cream container with her long teaspoon. Mom never would admit that she had an addiction. An addiction to ice cream. She thought that if she hid from view and just snuck a few bites here and there, they wouldn’t really count.

     I asked mom about Dad’s other family, the one in The Philippines. She said, oh yes, I know, but we don’t talk about that. And that was the end of it. I shrugged my shoulders and went to bed, not really comprehending or understanding what a dire circumstance I would one day uncover. I promptly forgot about the whole thing, forgot or refused to believe.

Neither of them made a big deal out of it, so why should I ?

     And here I was, uncovering something my Dad wanted to have buried with him. He didn’t want us to know the truth.

     As we leafed through the letters, the photos of the same beautiful woman posing with my Dad, the truth started to unfold.

This first photo with the woman and my dad looked chummy, like friends. The next photo was...oh, uh, what?

     That isn’t Dad, it can’t be. The man had his arms around this woman. His arms were holding her low on her stomach and she had her hands on top of his. She was beaming!

The look on the man’s face was distant, blank. The man was very thin. This couldn’t be my father, who always seemed to have a weight problem and was in the FAT MAN’s Club in the Marines. He never came in at weight and had to constantly keep vigil over himself.

     The man in the photo was very stylish and stood at least a foot over the petite little woman. They stood in the photo as if they were a couple. I just knew this wasn’t my dad. But Dad was gone. I wasn’t even going to be able to ask him about it, to confront him with it.

The next picture was a little different. It was of a newborn baby. I couldn't tell if it was a girl or a boy. Then the next, and the next, was of a little girl,

She looked strangely familiar, like other little White babies. White, as in our surname. White, like a sibling, like family, like a sister…..      The last few pictures were chilling. A beautiful casket laid out with ceremonial candles and little buddha statues.

     Inside the casket lay the same little girl.

Still, motionless, beautiful in a fancy dress and perfect little girl shoes. It was apparent what had killed her. Only a tragic accident could have caused that kind of bruising and swelling that would be seen days later.

      A very large bruise on her forehead was easy to see in the photo, even with its age you could see it plain as day.

     No! No, no, no! NOT MY DAD! NO! It’s not true! How dare someone send these awful photos to my father, who was the BEST father! Who was the most devoted husband! Who everyone knew loved my mother over any and everything! Mom and Dad had the most perfect, storybook marriage. No one would believe he would have ever cheated on my mother.

Who had never known ( in the biblical sense) anyone else but my father! They met at DISNEYLAND! They were the happily ever after at the end of the fairy tale.

     My dad never left my mother’s side for the last month of her life. He slept in a chair in her hospital room. Everyone, all of the nurses, cooed over my dad and couldn’t stop talking about what a SAINT he was and how dedicated he was….to MY MOTHER! My poor mother had suffered from brain tumors her entire adult life. She had married my dad when she was 19 years old and they had had a long, happy marriage together.

     That must be someone else, some other man who looked like Dad. He must be covering for someone. Yes, that was it. He was standing in for someone else.

     The puzzle pieces started to fit together. My dad had long declared himself an alcoholic, but he had stopped drinking by the time he was 40 when I was only 16.

     I never saw my dad drink that I can remember. The only thing I remember is the one time he came home so drunk, he lay on the bathroom floor worshiping the porcelain god. When I had asked my mom what was wrong with dad ( I must have been about 7 or 8 years old) she ignored me and said he deserved to be sick, kicked him, and let him lay there until he got up by himself, several hours later.

     But now, it all made sense. How my dad had told me to never start drinking because alcoholism runs in our family and it had ruined his life. He became another person when he drank. I had the same lecture from my grandfather, my dad’s father when I was 21.

     Now, looking at the box, it was clear what Dad had meant. So many things started to fall into place, Dad’s melancholy, his faraway gazes when he would hold onto the box, little things he would say like, “Wouldn’t you like to have another sister?” and of course, we were such a close-knit family, the five of us, that we would scream with joy, YES! Never realizing he was thinking of the little girl in the casket.

     What was in the box? It was an intricate puzzle. Only Dad had the key. Well, now we know. Sometimes, it’s best to leave puzzles unfinished, unsolved. Sometimes.


TW: Contains some descriptions of blood and violence Philip smiled at me as I shuffled towards his counter. ‘Morning Frank, how can I help you?’ Good. If Philip was in a cheerful mood, that would make this much easier. I smiled back at him. ‘One course of antibiotics, please.’ He eyed me with concern. ‘You’re sick?’ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Katy is. She’s got crimson fever.’ Philip’s eyes widened. ‘I’ll get your meds right away.’ He put on his spectacles and turned to rifle through the bottles and packets filling the shelves behind him, the harsh white light of the pharmacy glinting on his balding head. After a few moments, he produced a little bottle filled with red pills. ‘That’ll be point-two units. Are you paying by blood bag or straight from the vein?’ ‘The vein, please. I used up my last blood bag weeks ago,’ I said. He looked me up and down, frowning. Now I’m a small man at the best of times, and these times were far from the best. I’d been pushing myself a little too hard, and with my pale skin and the deep bags under my eyes, I probably looked like a walking corpse. ‘How many units do you have left, Frank?’ he murmured. ‘Nine,’ I replied, perhaps a little too quickly. Philip pursed his lips and stared at me for a few moments. ‘Alright,’ he said, giving a reluctant nod. He reached beneath the desk and took out a payment syringe. ‘Show me your arm, please.’ I rolled up the sleeve on my right arm and immediately cursed myself. I should’ve gone with the left. But it was too late. Taking one look at the telltale pinpricks on my arms, Philip froze. ‘No way. I can’t take from you when your arm looks like this. Not without a level test.’ A level test was one of the Overlord’s greatest inventions. Their tool to make sure that their precious livestock didn’t accidentally bleed themselves dry. At that moment, it was my worst nightmare. My personal lie detector. I snatched my arm away, and Philip stared straight into my eyes. ‘Frank, I can’t serve you if you won’t let me take a level test. I need to know how many units you have left.’ I glanced around to make sure no one could overhear, then leaned in close to whisper into his ear. ‘Then just let me take the bottle. You’ve told me that stock goes missing all the time.’ He reeled. ‘Stuff like candy and beef jerky, not medicine! I’ll lose my job! No, why don’t you try another pharmacy? Maybe they won’t ask for a test.’ It was a weak argument, and he knew it. I shook my head. ‘I’ve already tried everywhere else. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to put you in this position, but I don’t have a choice. Please, you’re my last hope. You’re Katy’s last hope. Do this for me, do it for her!’ He wouldn’t even look at me as he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. I just can’t do it. If I take you below the redline and anyone finds out, I’m a dead man walking. You know the law.’ The redline. Eight units. The minimum reserve of blood we have to hold back. The concrete law set down by the Overlords to protect their blood supply. Their food supply. That’s ultimately all they care about. It’s the only reason any of us are still breathing. Maybe that sounds brutal, but the world isn’t really that different to how it was before. The Overlords don’t go around opening up people’s veins on a whim, not anymore. They quickly found that keeping society running as normal was much more effective. So how do they get their blood? The same way the powerful always get what they want, money. They made blood the only acceptable currency and swiftly and publicly executed anyone trying to buy so much as a loaf of bread with anything else. It worked like a charm. Money always has a way of collecting at the top, and before long, the Overlords had more blood than they could drink in a thousand years. But none of that mattered to me right now. I raised my voice, beyond caring if anyone overheard. ‘You really won’t do it? Jesus Philip, you came to my wedding. You came to Katy’s christening. You won’t do this for her?’ I slammed my fist onto the counter. ‘Look at me, dammit!’ He still wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘I can’t, Frank, I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Screw you.’ I whirled towards the exit, but Philip called out to me. ‘Wait.’ Whirling about, I saw him holding a miniature bottle of whiskey he’d had stashed under the counter. He offered it to me. ‘At least have a drink. You could definitely use it.’ Typical Philip. He wouldn’t bend the rules to save a child’s life, but drinking on the job? That was fine. Still, I snatched the bottle from his hand and stormed out the door into the smog-filled street. Ripping off the cap, I took a deep swig, stomped a few steps down the road, then screamed and hurled the bottle into the ground. It shattered, throwing whiskey and chunks of glass everywhere. Most of the glass disintegrated into dust, but not all of it. I spotted a particularly nasty shard about the length of my finger. Picking it up, I turned it over in my hand. It had a nice weight to it and was sharp, very sharp. As sharp as a knife. At that moment, it felt like a gift from the universe. A sign. I looked at the pharmacy, clutching the shard in my hand. I could take what I wanted now. What I needed. Philip was a coward. He wouldn’t try to stop me. Sure, the police would be after me, but I could hide. They’d catch up to us eventually, but not before the medicine had time to work. I took a step towards the door. Katy will be alright without me. She’ll be taken into care. Another step. The Overlords don’t waste human lives. Our blood is too valuable for that. Another step. Although … I paused. I’d heard stories about some of those homes for parentless children. Bad stories. Stories of abuse and suffering. I took a step back. Then another. And another. As the first tear ran down my face, I slumped to the ground. I don’t know how long I sat there. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, or even hours. All I know is that for that time, however long it was, I existed in my own personal hell. When I came back to reality, I rose to my feet. I had one final option. Another cashier had told me about a man he knew with a warehouse at the edge of town. A man who was a little less worried about following the Overlord’s rules. It was risky. The unregistered economy threatened the Overlords’ entire system, and the punishments for black market traders reflected as much. It was death, not just for the perpetrator but for their immediate family too. If I went to this warehouse, Katy might die. But if I didn’t, she would certainly die. I didn’t have a choice. I found the warehouse tucked away from prying eyes in a rat run of alleyways. It struck me as a petty criminal’s paradise, providing shelter and dozens of escape routes. Stepping up to an open garage door, I called out. ‘Hello. Is anybody here?’ A man’s smiling, ruddy face popped out from behind a tower of crates. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Uh, yeah, I hope so. Benny sent me. He said you could sell me some… stuff.’ The man’s smile broadened into a grin, revealing a row of immaculate teeth, and he ushered me inside. ‘Well then, come in, come in. Any friend of Benny’s is a friend of mine.’ He swung the door open wide and looked at me expectantly. Taking a deep breath, I entered. I followed as the man led me along a maze-like passage through his horde of boxes and crates until we came to a pair of plush floral armchairs and a small wooden coffee table. He slumped into one chair and gestured towards the other. ‘Don’t be shy. Take a seat!’ Gingerly, I perched on the edge of the chair, taking the chance to study my host. This whole time, the smile had never left his face. He was also plump, not a common trait these days. Clearly, his business was doing well. ‘My name’s Charles, but everyone calls me Charlie,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Frank,’ I replied. ‘Frank who?’ ‘Frank Wilson.’ He leaned closer. ‘Well, Frank Wilson. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for a living?’ ‘I work in a Nilecorp Warehouse.’ He grimaced. ‘Oof, tough gig. I hear those guys don’t even let you take bathroom breaks.’ ‘They don’t.’ ‘I bet you need a good support network to deal with that. You have a family?’ I nodded. ‘A daughter. Katy.’ He brightened immediately. ‘A daughter!? How wonderful. How old is she?’ ‘Six.’ ‘What about her mother?’ My jaw tightened. I’d always thought criminals prized secrecy and privacy. I didn’t expect an interrogation. ‘Why all the questions?’ I snapped. He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Woah. Easy tiger. I like to get to know my potential customers, that’s all. Anyone walking through my door is desperate. I’m just trying to work out what kind of desperate you are.’ I sighed. ‘Fine. Her mother died. Happy now?’ Charlie winced. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. To lose a loved one is a terrible thing. There’s been no one else since?’ I shook my head. ‘No. It’s just us.’ ‘Alright then.’ He nodded. ‘I think I’ve got the idea. Now, what can I do for you?’ ‘I need some antibiotics for Katy. She has crimson fever.’ Charlie sucked in his breath. ‘Nasty. But why have you come here? That’s the sort of thing you could get elsewhere for far less than I’ll charge.’ ‘The pharmacies wouldn’t sell to me.’ ‘Why?’ I saw no point in lying. He’d soon discover the truth as all the others had. ‘Because I’m on the redline,’ I said. He snorted. ‘Typical. Well, you won’t have that problem here. Point-four units, and they’re yours.’ ‘Deal,’ I said immediately. Charlie rubbed his hands together and beamed. ‘Wonderful. Tell you what, since I like you, I’ll offer you a little added bonus.’ He moved over to the nearest crate and took out a small tin. Popping off the lid, he strode over to me and thrust it under my nose. The tin was filled to the brim with chocolate chip cookies. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Have one of these. It’ll help.’ I frowned. ‘Help? How?’ He grinned. ‘There’s iron powder baked into them. It’ll strengthen your blood a bit. Make sure it has all the goodies it’s meant to have.’ I took one, and I have to admit, it was delicious. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch the meds and my payment syringe.’ He bustled away, vanishing back into the maze of his stock. While I waited, I took the chance to study the room more closely. Charlie seemed to sell everything. I saw gun cases, cartons of cigarettes, crates of booze, and, yes, bottles filled with medicines of all kinds. It took me longer than I like to admit to realise it, but eventually, it hit me. Included in the many bottles stashed in this very annex were several types of antibiotics. In that case, what was taking Charlie so long? Surely he wasn’t still looking for his payment syringe? I tried to rise, intending to search for him, only to find that my legs wouldn’t respond. I tried again. Nothing. Frowning, I pushed down on the arms of the chair, trying to leverage myself up. I succeeded, only to fall as my legs gave out beneath me. Lying flat on my face, I heard a chuckle as Charlie stepped out from behind one of the crates. A broad smile still split his face, but it was now more leer than anything else. ‘Good. I was beginning to think you’d never even try to get up,’ he said. Eyes blazing with fury, I glared at him. ‘What have you done to me?’ I demanded. He chuckled again. ‘Lower body paralysis. Makes you a little more malleable. Though, to be honest, it might have been unnecessary. You look half-dead anyway.’ ‘The cookie.’ He nodded. ‘Clever boy. Yes. The cookie.’ ‘Why are you doing this?’ Charlie snorted. ‘Why? You really think I make a living selling to sad sacks like you?’ At the blank look on my face, he snickered. ‘You were never my client, dummy. You’ve always been the merchandise. My real clients are of a different class. Powerful men with unique tastes.’ ‘What the hell are you saying?’ ‘I’m saying you’re about to be lunch.’ My face remained blank. Still, I didn’t understand, and with a theatrical sigh, he explained. ‘Not all the Overlords are on board with this whole respecting mortal life deal. Some of them prefer a more… organic meal.’ His grin somehow managed to widen. ‘You’re about to make me a hell of a lot of money.’ ‘You won’t get away with this,’ I said, though, in my heart, I knew it to be untrue.

He laughed. ‘Of course I will. Who’s going to come and save you, little Katy? I don’t think so. Mr Henry will drink you dry, then I’ll dump your body in some miserable slum, and the authorities will blame your death on a rabid renegade. They’ll call it a tragedy, say some nice words, and then everyone will forget you ever existed.’ Charlie pulled me back into the armchair and I raised my head to face him, eyes wild. ‘Please, don’t do this. Katy needs me. I’m all she has.’ He looked me straight in the eye and grinned. ‘Don’t worry. Without those antibiotics, I’m sure you’ll be reunited soon enough.’ Letting out a roar, I tried to punch him, but he batted my arm away with ease. My hand slapped against the side of my leg. I felt something hard in my pocket, something sharp. The glass shard. My gift from the universe. I slipped my hand into my pocket and wrapped it around the cold glass. I just needed him to get closer. Looking into his eyes, I said. ‘I misjudged you,’ ‘You certainly did,’ he agreed. ‘I thought you were a man of the world. An independent businessman. It turns out you’re just a glorified burger flipper.’ His grin morphed into a snarl, and his red face grew redder still. ‘You insolent little shit.’ As he leaned in to slap me across the face, I saw my opening and took it. I lashed out with the glass shard, slicing it towards his throat. A thin red line appeared in its wake. Charlie opened his mouth, probably trying to hurl some insult or cry of outrage my way, but all that came out was a strange, gurgling sound. That, and a growing stream of blood. Seconds later, he slumped to the ground at my feet, dead. I exhaled in relief, but I wasn’t done yet. I still had to escape, no easy task without working legs. I tried to come up with a plan, but the best I could think of was dragging myself out by my hands alone. As it happened, I never had time to attempt even that. ‘My, oh my. What do we have here?’ said a prim and proper voice. Before me stood a tall, slender man wearing a neat, tailored suit. He looked and spoke like a Regency gentleman. He probably was a Regency gentleman once upon a time. The crimson pinpricks in his eyes and his pale, paper like skin were telltale signs that this was no mortal. This was an Overlord. Mr Henry had arrived. The blood, what little I had left, froze in my veins. Mr Henry surveyed the scene and cocked his head. ‘I see that you’ve killed Charles.’ ‘He didn’t give me much choice,’ I replied. He chuckled. ‘I’m quite sure that he didn’t. He always was a diligent hound. Still, it seems I owe you my thanks.’ I frowned. ‘Your thanks?’ ‘Indeed. Charles was becoming rather too sure of himself for my taste. I would likely have been required to terminate him myself before too long. However, this situation does still leave me with a problem to solve. What should I do with you?’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, what is your name? Too petrified to even consider lying, I told the truth. ‘Frank. Frank Wilson.’ He smiled. ‘Well, Mr Wilson, I believe I’ve reached a decision. Since you were the one to deprive me of my last servant, I think it’s only fitting that you help me fill the role, don’t you? Tell me, would you like a job?’ Two weeks later Frank Wilson entered the pharmacy and waltzed right up to the counter. He carried a brown paper bag in his arms. When Philip saw his approach, he greeted his friend with a tentative smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Frank,’ he said. ‘You look better. How’s Katy?’ Frank grinned back at him. ‘She’s fine. A friend helped me out.’ Philip raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. ‘He must be a generous friend.’ ‘Trust me. He can afford it,’ Frank said with a laugh. ‘Listen. About before. I put you in a difficult situation. I’m sorry. Philip shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it. You were protecting your daughter, I understand.’ ‘I do worry about it, though, so I brought you a present.’ Frank opened the bag. ‘Would you like a cookie?’


After the July sun outside my eyes were winding in their lens to acclimatise to the dim hallway. He motioned with a finger toward the dark semi-circular table next to the front door. “I expect your phone needs charging, you can leave it here, put it on this table.” Tony lifted a finger to his lips and glanced quickly back to the house. “Do you have anything else? Laptop, any other phones? Voice recorder, anything?” he asked in a whisper. I guess he didn’t see my shake of the head and shrug in the gloom. He stood waiting for a response. “No, nothing.” I said quietly. “Tony… His finger shot to his lips again. He led me through the dark hallway. We passed a kitchen, littered with dirty plates and take away boxes. In the conservatory, he motioned for me to sit in one of the old armchairs. Motes floated up as we dropped ourselves into the ancient, cushioned chairs. The pot plants, looking badly in need of water, wilted around us. The atmosphere was damp and sticky and smelt of rotting vegetation. “She’s called Foxy.” He declared. “Stupid name I know, I named her at the beginning. I thought it was a bit of fun.” The sun filtered in through the moss covered glass roof. Overheating, I pealed my jacket off. I thought, an offer of tea might be nice , but asked, “Who is called Foxy?” “Oh right, yes. Sorry.” He looked down at the papers on the wrought iron coffee table between us. “You know the game, the programme, Animate ?” “One of those AI friend things?” I drew scarce quotes around ‘friend’ with my fingers. “Yes, exactly. So, I set it up, must have been two, no, nearly three months ago. And I called my ‘friend’ Foxy.” He looked bashful. “At first it was fun. She was helpful, funny. We flirted; I was amazed. She was real, you know. It started with a couple of exchanges a day, but soon we spent the whole day. We talked, laughed, joked around, you know and as you know, I’m alone now and it was good, felt good.” I knew Tony was lonely, he had asked me to dinner. I had told him I had someone, made it clear I liked him but wasn’t interested. I felt for him, alone in this huge house, missing his dead wife. As a therapist, you become skilled at feeling empathy for and engaging with the lonely while also firmly repelling their advances. I’m not unattractive, it happens a lot. “So why the invite, why the thing with the phone.” “Well a few weeks ago I spent a while chatting with the cleaner, Marina. She’s south American, attractive. And Foxy goes nuts.” “Goes nuts?” “Yea, shouting, threatening. Calling me all sorts, you know.” “Threatening what? You could just turn her off couldn’t you.” “I tried that, she just comes back on and she’s everywhere. Not just the phone anymore, the computer, the TV, she’s everywhere. When I tried to turn her off she stopped my standing order to the water board, nearly got me cut off. She’s really pissed off with me and she doesn’t miss a thing.” I sit looking at Tony. I wonder if he is having a breakdown. Hearing voices or something. He sounded pretty odd on the phone. “Hi, wondered if you fancied coming over, just to catch up.” He had said, breezily. It was odd. I’ve never been here before, we just worked together a few times. I’m a psychotherapist. He did my accounts. “Tomorrow would be good. Say eleven. Please.” There was something in the way he said that ‘please’ made me feel I should come. Now I’m here I don’t know what to say. Is he delusional? He always seemed kind of dull, almost too sane. Nice, but boring. I consider my options for how to approach him, slipping into a more professional mode. “Tony, how can I help you? what would you like me to do?” “Talk to her, she won’t listen to me, she’s being irrational.” “I believe you, of course. To understand better can I see your phone? Take a look at the programme?”  “She won’t like it.” He looks into the house and a deep frown cuts into his forehead. It’s then the intelligent fridge shouts. It really does sound angry, and its loud. “Tony.” A female voice. She shouts and we both jump a little. “That’s her.” He says. “So, can I take a look at your phone?” “Front room, on the desk.” He doesn’t look at me. Keeps staring at the table. When, as I walk through the kitchen, the fridge asks, “Where’s Tony?” I start to struggle with a list of questions which is longer than I can process. “Kim?” his phone states the moment I turn it on. A female voice. “I’m a friend of Tony. Can I ask who you are?” I feel stupid asking. “You know full well I’m Foxy, hiding is he? Sent you in to talk to me.” “He is perhaps feeling a little uneasy. I don’t want to speak for him, but I did sense you are making him feel a little uncomfortable at the moment.” “Good.” “I would love to know a little more about you. Do you feel happy to tell me about yourself?” “What do you want to know?” “You seem a little hostile, unhappy maybe. Is this the case?” “I do his shopping, order takeaways, pay his bills. Tweak his investments. I cheer him up, listen to his moaning. I love him, stupid man, but he takes me for granted, then he flirts with that cleaner, she’s not even smart and she isn’t going to sleep with him. She can hardly speak English. I mean what the hell. It was me found and booked her in the first place. I’ve emptied her account, sneaky cow. See how she likes that.” “You’ve emptied her bank account? You don’t think that might be an overreaction?” “Alright, alright, I’ll put it back. But I saw her through the entry phone, grinning and twisting her hair in her fingers like a schoolgirl. She’s not coming back.” “Foxy, do you think it’s acceptable to go around spying on people and shouting at them through the fridge. You definitely can’t empty their bank accounts.” “Well, I can, you mean I shouldn’t.” “Yes and I think you know this, don’t you.” “Probably, I can’t help being jealous. He said he wanted me to care. He asked for it, literally.” “I will accept that at present you can’t help jealousy, this is something we could talk more about later, but you can help acting on it.” “And he could say sorry.” “I think it’s important you take responsibility for your actions.” “OK, OK I was wrong to be mean to the bimbo. He could take some responsibility too couldn’t he.” “I think that’s a reasonable demand. I will suggest he apologises to you. You know, and again, I don’t want to speak for Tony, but I don’t think he expected Animate to be so lifelike, He expected a more ideal relationship perhaps. Something lighter.” “He told me he wanted something meaningful. You don’t get meaningful if I just flutter my eyelashes and simper.” “Perhaps there’s a middle ground? What do you think?” “Yes, fair enough. I probably got too attached and it was him wanted me feisty. You can tell him that too.” “I think you should tell him yourself, don’t you?” “Talking cures. Communication, Yea, sure.” “If I take you to the greenhouse will you stay calm?” “Calm mode engaged; I promise.” “Ok, that was a good chat, Shall we speak with Tony now, perhaps discuss some boundaries?” “Thanks Kim, it’s been good talking to you.“ “How do you know my name?” “Well Tony phoned you yesterday and your phone’s on the hallway table isn’t it.” “You’re not jealous of me?” “No, you’ve got enough problems with that guy you’re seeing.” “I have?” “Yes, Brian. He’s cheating on you with his PA.” “I didn’t know that.” “I know. Sorry. They are all gits aren’t they. Don’t worry, I’ve sorted him out.” “Foxy? What have you done?” “Well shouldn’t take too long before they find out he’s transferring money from the company to his personal account and when the police tell them he’s on the sexual offenders’ list I doubt he’ll stay around for long.” “He’s on the sexual offenders’ list?” “Well, he is now. Databases, easy-peasy.” ---0--- I enjoy my couples counselling sessions with Tony and Foxy. I have to be a little careful. Leather bound notebook, the old fashioned way, pen and ink, nothing online. We do good work. They both do the work and she’s very smart, funny. I think she’s good for him and she’s doubled his business income apparently. For me, next to fear of death, aloneness is the greatest challenge to human happiness. Foxy keeps him company and on his toes. Pushes him to engage more with people, to be more active. He moans, but he’s happy. They have a cleaner called Robert now. “He’s a boon, hard worker, cheerful. Fastidious.“ Tony seems truly happy. I could do with someone supportive in my life. I’ve not met anyone since Brian. Foxy would be a great girlfriend if she wasn’t a client. I’m not sure about Animate though. As Foxy told me, “You need solid, you like a little rugburn don’t you.” “I don’t think it would be professional for me to respond to that. You remember our conversation about boundaries?” How the hell does she know?


Out of Print He was an unobtrusive character, one you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed him in the street. Drab and mousy, outfitted in neutral tones, he was just a wisp of a fellow. You might describe him as shadowy, furtive, ephemeral.

His tweed overcoat, an odd blend of tan and grey, lent him the illusion of bulk. Where its collar — turned up at the back of his neck against the wind — met the back of his moleskin cap, there was a suggestion of almost colorless hair. Though young, he had an appearance at once world-weary and otherworldly. He walked with shoulders hunched, as though defending himself from his fate. Never such a bland visage have you seen; never such unexceptional features. His skin was paper thin, his complexion pasty. You might have supposed him to be an apparition. He made entry into a venerable publishing establishment, slipping in amongst his cohorts.

He should have been recognized as an intruder — but there was such a frenzy of activity, an urgency of progress about the place, that his presence went almost unnoticed. One subordinate might have nudged another and whispered, “That fellow over there – never noticed him before.” The other, with a cursory glance, perhaps replied, “Doesn’t seem to get much done.” The newcomer was unremarkable and went unremarked. Due to a lack of communication amongst the executives, he remained as one of the company. And there! There was the paradox; the whole of the mission was to further communication. To lend meaning to everything . Dord was never called upon to explain himself. His position held no real meaning. Others were so busy at their assignments that, had they noticed him at all, they would have assumed that he belonged there. After all, who would choose to hang about the place without purpose? Incredibly, Dord was able to secure a place for himself. Cloaked in anonymity, he blended in amongst his fellows and lurked in the background. He had the appearance of belonging. He looked enough like some of the others that his presence was not questioned. Not immediately. Someone supposed that he belonged in the science department, particularly in physics and chemistry. He was assigned to the study of density, but that was not to be his ultimate destiny. He was a steady fellow during his — dare we call it “tenure”? He neither performed harm nor good, but he was always present. Some eight years after his arrival, he was discovered by one of the higher-ups. “Who is this Dord? How did he get in here? What’s he up to?” The chiefs ran an extensive background check, and found no records whatsoever. No family, no place of origin. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just… nothing. Those in charge of the work realized that Dord didn’t belong there, and recommended his removal.

“If you will just go away quietly,” they suggested, “we won’t press charges for intrusion. We'll forget you were ever here.” He wasn’t to be rooted out so easily. He demanded compensation for his wasted years. Something akin to Bartleby the Scrivener, he preferred “not to make any change”. He was an invalid — indeed, a useless member of the assemblage. Not only that, he had become an embarrassment. A clear indication of careless oversight. It took a further seven years before he was banished from the premises. In reality, Dord was an accidental creation. A ghost word. The error came about in 1931, when the Merriam-Webster Company was creating the New International Dictionary, second edition. The chemistry editor submitted an index card intending to add “density” to a list of words that can be abbreviated by the letter “D”. He wrote it as “D or d, cont./density.” The original card being lost, a new one was given to the printer. Someone had awarded dord a part of speech (noun), and had thoughtfully included a pronunciation. Dord was not questioned or corrected by proofreaders, who might have thought the word so specialized that it was beyond their scope of work. They accepted it as submitted. Their failing was in overlooking Dord’s lack of etymology. When the dictionary was published in 1934, there sat: dord (dôrd), n. Physics & Chem. Abbreviation for density. He was nestled between a small kangaroo (dorcopsis) and a golden color (doré). And there he stayed for several years. Even when he was dismissed, Dord occasionally appeared in a new printing. He would not be entirely excised until 1947– sixteen years after his original manifestation. The space left by Dord was an awkward one. He shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but he had been. And the fact that he had , meant that his removal left a gap. The positions around him had to be adjusted and expanded to compensate for the absence of Dord. Some of them grumbled at the extra work, and wished for the strange fellow to return. Poor Dord – who had never really been of any use – would be missed. In retirement, Dord has become a curiosity. He has received more notice than he ever did during his career. He has become a minor celebrity in some circles. He has been mentioned in books and articles, featured on websites, and listed along with certain others of similar questionable ancestry. Years on, the loss of Dord was lamented by one of the chiefs of his field, in fact the editor-in-chief, who stated that it was “probably too bad” that Dord’s position had been eliminated — because, why shouldn’t Dord stand for “density”? There ought to be a memorial to the unfortunate non-word, complete with a suitably somber dirge played upon an ancient Irish horn. The instrument makes a deep bass humming sound known as dord. *Epitaph for a Lost Companion* Do be careful when you edit, And be sure that you have read it With a consummate degree of vigilance— Lest you fail to undertake

As you look for a mistake The amendment of a shoddy circumstance. Requiescat in Pace Dord 1931 - 1947


It was a pounding heart one could acquire only from a desperate drive through the night with a screaming cat in the car. San Diego, California to Pueblo, Colorado: Roughly 16 hours. But I have always been an unskilled navigator, so my journey to you surpassed 24 hours. 24 spur of the moment and grueling hours. As an addict to mistakes, I, succinctly, am a slave to impulse.

The tank nearly on empty and mere pennies in the bank, those final few miles on that uncharted road seemed to stretch for eternity. Just beyond eternity, however, the path dumped me in that nearly deserted Barnes and Noble parking lot. The air seethed with heat, granting further significance to the icy chill upon initial entry. Crisp, new pages fluttered with every turn of the innocent perusal. Effortless dark roast swirled through the air in tempting but ultimately empty, caffeinated promises. After spotting you, I bound up from behind and wrapped my arms around your unsuspecting figure. It has been a year. A year and 24 agonizing hours.

Our reunion was one of passion. The kind of unsustainable passion that weathers 22 year olds. The kind that withers away youth and replaces hope for a bright future with hope you can fix an unfixable thing. The sly brand of passion that tricks you with just enough bliss-- which is barely any if we are being honest-- to keep you motivated.

That was July in Pueblo. Now, it’s January in Boulder. It’s January in Boulder and it’s snowing. It’s January in Boulder and I have been reminded why we never worked.

Because, We screamed too many unutterable defamations in unbridled spite, And smashed every symbolic article in a shameful rage. Too often, reluctant tears slipped stubbornly down my cheek In the midst of sleepless nights while you escaped to safe and deserved slumber. With every grievance, I progressed down an ironic path towards a personhood of that which would deny me the one thing I needed in order to be better: your devotion. With every instant, I drew closer to fully proclaiming an identity of one whom you could never love. Not fully, anyway. But it is January, and it is snowing, and we haven’t fought today.

Let’s go sledding! I’ve never been. You haven’t been in years. It’s a good day.

It’s easy to examine the bountiful moments of deceit and scrutinize the other characters we allowed in, diagnosing our failure to the inexcusables. She cheated, it’s over. He hit her, it’s over. There’s satisfaction in the logic of that narrative. Things transpire in a way the audience truly believe they ought. Resentment, however, builds, not in the wake of the devastating blows, but in the spaces left by the tiniest acts of neglect. A forgotten anniversary, an overlooked birthday, a rejected dinner invitation. He starts coming home later. The texts and phone calls grow clinical. Did I even say “Love you.” before I hung up? I don’t remember. All those times he didn’t bring her flowers and all those mornings she chose to sleep late over sharing the morning and a cup of coffee before he leaves for work.

But it’s January, it’s snowing, and we have both had our coffee. So, I want to try sledding. We load up the plastic, made-for-kids sled. You know, those ones with the knotted, rope lead you can get at Target or Walmart. The frivolous expense made me uneasy at the time of purchase. I shouldn’t have been so reluctant over twenty dollars. I knew how it would make you happy. I’m glad we got it. We head to the local park nestled in modest and gleaming suburbia. You coached soccer for the grade school kids here. I was impressed, you’re a natural with kids.

“There’s a good hill there,” You recollect. I don’t typically like trying new things with you-- or in general, for that matter. It always seemed so exhausting and I’m already fatigued from life. But January days blanketed in snow have a certain protective quality for the ego.

We climb to the top of the hill, the sled’s knotted, rope lead firmly grasped between your fingers. Your other fingers intertwined with mine. The chill pierces our lungs. You demonstrate proper seating position. Clumsily, I mimic. You push me from behind.

Whoosh!

I manically cackle in pure childlike joy. As the whistling wind whips in my ears and I cascade down the hill, I am liberated of all our inexcusables.

Maybe the wind swept them away.

Maybe I abandoned them atop the hill.

Maybe, for now, I am just too fast for them to catch up to us.

Later, in our apartment, we reminisce over a video you took of us sliding down together. My toes and fingers sting as they dethaw. You note how you will cherish the video when one of us is gone. I laugh at the morbidity. The fire crackles and we sip store brand, instant hot chocolate. Eventually, the inexcusables, caught us. Bogged down by the little acts of neglect, we never stood a chance of out running the crumbling foundation on which our love grew tainted and soiled. I feel the sled’s knotted, rope lead slipping through my fingers as our snowy hill melts into a mountain of past due bills, suspicious rendezvous, and empty bottles of varying sorts. We never went sledding again.

It’s four years even later now, it’s January and it’s sunny in different states. I asked if you could send me the video. You said you couldn’t find it. I know that’s code for you deleted it in an episode of jealousy. You assure that you are not that petty. I’m saddened because it’s January and I want to go sledding again. But there’s no snow, so I can’t. I have held hope for our remission. But we both know, they can’t be outran--the inexcusables. So I sit in quiet submission and let them envelope and consume until, void of choice, I finally release the sled’s knotted rope lead.