Written by M. Cosper The man turned off his car and sat silently. He stared out the front of his small car not looking at anything. Not thinking about anything. He had sat in this same parking spot many times. Something about having a moment of nothingness to himself before work helped. Before bosses and customers would interrupt the silence he so enjoyed. He cleared his throat, got out of his car, and went to work. The man did not have a very impressive job, he was a janitor of sorts. Mostly cleaning bathrooms and sweeping the floor of the department store. He would occasionally help load furniture in a customer’s van. He loved doing that the most because it meant he could be outside the building for a few minutes. Today was no different from the rest. He started out by sweeping the entire store floor with an old, gross floor duster. He went up and down every aisle and alley. He would always say “pardon me” as he passed customers. Most would never acknowledge him. After the floors, he would move on to the bathrooms. He came in later in the afternoons to start so the bathrooms had already appeared as if apes had been using it all day, which is not far from the truth. He wiped every sink and toilet till he could see is the emotionless face staring back at him. As he was mopping the floor, he saw it. The spot. A spot that had been there since he was hired. His bosses would always point it out, for awhile he would say “I’ll get to it soon”. After a while, he would just say “Oh yeah, that thing”. He rubbed his mop over it. Nothing changed. The man tried again. Nothing. The man rolled his eyes, put the mop back in its bucket and when about the rest of his cleaning. The man finished the rest of his duties, mostly to the bare minimum he could get away with. He walked to his car, the mist in the air felt like little fangs of ice in the cold. As he drove home, he did not put on music. Just silence. He drove the entire way like this until he reached his house. It was a small little house; his wife had made it into a fine home though. He came into the home and saw his wife making dinner. “Hey honey, how was work today?” She asked gently. “Fine I guess, you?” he said loudly from the bedroom where he was changing clothes. “It was busy, had more patients than I think we have ever had… Food will be done shortly babe” The man did not respond. After he changed, he went into the kitchen to help finish the food and make his plate. “Oh, go sit down, I got it.” His wife said playfully. He obeyed, and went to sit on the couch, while he waited, he started looking for a show for them to watch. They did this most nights. Eat, watch some tv, talk for a bit, go to bed, repeat after work the next day. He was fine with this arrangement. After all, he was too tired from work to ever feel like going out. After their meal and cleaning up, he went and sat at his laptop. He opened it up to see the screen exactly where he left it. A white, blank, empty page with the courser blinking at him. He stared at it for thirty minutes, then played on his phone. After about an hour he and his wife went to bed to sleep. Well, she was sleeping, the man was just staring up at the ceiling, not looking at anything. He couldn’t keep his eyes closed. This went on for what felt like years until he finally fell asleep. The next day went the same as the last. Sweeping up and down the aisle and alleys of the store. He could hear customers chatting or arguing with a manager about if an item is or isn’t on sale. He went to the bathrooms wiped the mirrors of their grease and muck. Then began mopping again. There it was still, that spot. The big ugly spot that looks as if someone crapped on the floor and left it there for days without a soul noticing it. The man barely even brushed over it with his mop. He drove home in silence, again. He did the same routine he always did and after dinner, he found himself at his laptop. It must have weighed a hundred pounds because it took the man minutes to lift the screen. Once he did, he was met by the same white screen, same blinking courser, like it was laughing at him with every blink. The man’s eyes were out of focus as he stared at the screen. His wife's hand suddenly appeared on his shoulder. “Can’t think of anything?” She questioned. “I have plenty of ideas… I just am not good at writing them down.” He said scoffing at himself. “How do you know that?” “Because I would already have a book written by now.” “But you haven’t even written anything. How can you get better at writing your ideas down if you don’t practice?” She said softly. The man paused briefly, “I have about five different ideas, I have the first page written and that’s it. Once I get to that point I don’t know where to go. All the great ideas I have fled from my mind and I am left with nothing but a bunch of dribbling words on a paper than mean nothing to anyone but myself!” The man’s face turned a fiery red, “Who would want to read my pointless garbage anyways? I barely want to read the first page myself.” The man slammed his laptop shut and sat there. Not looking at anything. His wife put her arms around him, he turned his so she couldn’t see his eyes tearing up. “You know what the hardest part about going to work is? Leaving the house, once you start something all you need do is see it through. Getting started and leaving your comfortable place can be the biggest hurdle.” She kissed him on the cheek, and they both went to sleep. The next day the man went into work. Before he could even clock in his boss stopped him. “Hey, are you ever going to get that spot in the men’s bathroom cleaned? It looks terrible.” The man stopped, looked at his boss and said, “I’ll clean it… today.” He went about his usual business sweeping and wiping things down. Finally, he got to the bathroom. He began to mop the greasy floors, he saw it. He stared at it for minutes. That damn spot, laughing at him. He looked right at the spot. Then he walked away. He went to the cleaning closet and got every floor cleaning chemical he could find. Most of the bottles had mountains of dust on them. The man grabbed gloves and a rough brush. He poured one after the other onto to spot. Probably not the safest way to do it but he did not care. He got on his hands and knees and began scrubbing. He scrubbed until the tile started to chip and he could see the foundation of the building. Twenty-five minutes later and he stood up, wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the floor. Not looking at anything. The spot was gone. The man finished the workday with a big grin on his face. He went beyond his duties on every task he was given. On the way home he turned the music in his car as loud as his ears could stand it! He swerved into the driveway of his house fast, almost to a screeching stop! He walked inside with confidence he had not had in years. His wife wasn’t home yet, so he cooked her dinner and placed it in the microwave for when she came home. The man could not stop smiling. After he finished making his wife’s dinner he sat at his desk. He stared at his laptop for just a moment. Then he flipped open the screen so fast it almost broke off! He stared at the white screen. The saw the courser blinking… He closed his eyes. He did not think about a thing. Then he opened them and began to type.


God Remembers Cindy God asks the Man if he deserves to go to Hell. “Such a forward question.” Contemplated the Man. God urges him, “What did you do with my family’s gifts?” “Was a forgiven sin something I should’ve indulged?” Asked the Man. God fell silent. “Were the church’s totems redeemable?” The Man pressed. For he was beginning to realize, out of all the great things he had learned and accomplished, he did not lead a worthy life. Sure he had money and relished in the 20 year old women *well* into his later years. But what did he do to help his fellow man? Was there any occasional selfless acts he procured like the priests at the edge of his street? He occasionally helped people of a poor status, but only when cameras were keeping a well placed eye. “Do I deserve to go to Hell? No.” Said the Man hesitantly. He was ready to give whatever excuses if certain question’s came about. “Why do you think so?” Asked God. “I never killed anybody, and I never intentionally hurt a soul.” God looked at the Man and grimaced, for he knew the lies that would spill from his mouth. God motioned towards the boundless ocean they were standing upon. Two of Gods other creations rose from the water. The Man reacted with immediate execration; he screamed for he was in hysterics. These beings were of course, God’s angels. The angel closest to the man had several (8) eyes and they remained open since the dawn of the earth. She had neither legs or a head, instead there was a gaping hole in her chest where her eyes were held. The angels arms were nonexistent, yet the angel had hands. These hands were held in a palm side up position almost like she was expecting to be rewarded. The other angel had a buck’s head along with its antlers. Except there was no flesh, a prominent skeleton sat on his shoulders. There were two endless yellow pools where the eyes should have been, they were almost beautiful to look at. He would have been completely mesmerized had he not noticed the rest of his body. He had a long jaundiced body that ejected pools of black tar with vigor. He seemed to be breathing the tar back into his body. Everything about this angel was hypnotizing to the Man and the coldness in his chest grew with magnitude. They never looked away from the Man, neither did they react to his hysterics “Do not be afraid. These are my children, just as you are.” Stated God. God remembered a time, when the Man mentioned he read the Bible. The Man mentioned it at an office party, not fully aware the woman he was saying it to was catholic and had actually read the Bible. “What did you think about the angel’s description given by Daniel in Daniel 10:5-6?” God laughed to himself remembering how honest Cindy was to the Word of God. When it came to her religion, she had no reservations on the sound bites of fools. God’s head lowered in regret. “Take him from these gates.” He instructed to the angels. The Man began to beg, for he knew where we was being taken to. Each angel took a leg and the man fell through the water. God sat there motionless remembering all the times the Man committed a cardinal sin. This was a punishment the man deserved. The Man’s lungs filled with water, only now did he realize the water was abnormally dark. His eyes burned when they came into contact with the water. Lightning flashed continuously under the vast ocean. The Man realized the water was filled with other beings, watching the man. He gasped for air, allowing more water to seep in. They started to gain speed. Suddenly the water got warmer. *”This is it,”* he thought to himself *”I can feel us getting closer to Hell.”* he looked out towards the sea one more time. All he saw was a massive blue Iris peering back at him. He came upon the reason why the water was so tepid. **There was a monster with a mass big enough to give off its own heat to fully encapsulate the Man.** The Man couldn’t remember when he pissed his pants. He began to wonder why he hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen. The Man began to work on a bigger idea: if he is dead, and if he can’t be put to sleep, then he will be fully conscious for whatever happens in Hell.


He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Impenetrable darkness bordered by a red glare. So close. All his life was leading up to this moment. All those calculations, those experiments, those test flights. Those years spent in libraries and laboratories. But it was all worth it. He was fascinated with space ever since he was a child. With all its secrets that were light years away. All those stars and nebulas, those planets and asteroids. All those places where noone has ever been. He always wanted to be like the Voyager and venture into the unkown with nothing but the golden disc on his chest. When he looked up at the night sky and saw the stars shining through the vastness of cosmos all the way to earth, he was amazed. Before that light finally got to reach his eyes, Galileo, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe and many more lived and died while exploring the mysteries of the universe. He knew he would join them once. And now he was so close. The red glare dissapeared. Nothing left but the impenetrable darkness. And he was falling into it. Faster and faster. When he started to study the universe, he fell in love with black holes. Mass so heavy nothing escapes its gravity, not even light, but still: Nothing can ever enter it. Mass so heavy it doesn’t obey by the rules of the universe described by some of the greatest minds of our civlization, but still: It remains alone, sole exeption, so the rules remain unbroken. “Nothing can ‘fall into’ a black hole. The closer an object gets to the core, the faster it accelerates. The faster it accelerates, the heavier it gets and the more it bends the spacetime. Thats how theory of relativity works. Before the object can get to the centre, it ends up bending the spacetime so much, it quite literally gets ‘frozen’ in time. Nothing can ever reach the core.” “You’re wrong. I will.” He knew he would reach it. He had to. He lived a long and happy live. Now comes the climax. Impenetrable darkness moments away. He was almost there. “Probe 1, this is the last message from the mothership Apollo 22. In a few moments, you won’t be able to recieve or send any more messages. See you on the other side, doc. God bless you.” From the point of view of the observer, an object falling into the black hole will stop in time before reaching the core. But the time is relative and it remains unchanged for that very object. Nothing will ever fall into a black hole, except all the things that are falling into it. It sounds strange, but it is true. His ship started to pick up speed. It was almost moving at the speed of light. He knew the ship would last. When he told his friends about his plan, they laughed at him at first. Some even tried to talk him out of it. But to no avail. In the end they all agreed to help him and they created the perfect indestructible vessel, capsule, Noah’s Ark, that would withstand all storms and land safely in the new world with its precious cargo. Impenetrable darkness at his fingertips. Farewell to the crew of Apollo 22, farewell to all the colleagues, farewell to his family. They are all probably dead by now. 1… 2… 3… He counted and imagined all the civilizations that already rose and fell again, all the stars that were born and died again, all the universes that existed… But he was in his capsule, inside of the black hole. Untouched by the flow of time. It was just him, at the core of his black hole. It was just him, in the center of his universe.


The Hatted Man A light flickered off in the hallway. The hallway was not a clean one. Not a hopeful one. Not an important one. But nevertheless, it was a hallway. The boy that lived with his two parents on one side of the hallway saw the light flicker off. He was curious what had caused the light to abruptly end its attempt at illumination, as it was usually on for hours, never turning off for any soul. This force of curiosity was enough to overcome the boy’s force of sleepiness, and thus he left his room. The boy walked out into the hallway, and looked both ways, as all young boys are taught to do before approaching a new and potentially dangerous situation. To the left, he saw nothing. To the right, he wondered as to why the hall to his right was copying the hall to the left, as it was also empty. Just to be sure, he once again looked to his left, since he had in the past had bad experiences with his left. This time, to his total appalament, the hallway was not completely empty, as a man with a black top-hat was turning the corner. He disappeared out of the boy’s vision, and so, after a second of hesitation, the boy followed suit. Around the corner, he saw the top of the man’s hat going down a stairwell at the end of the next hallway. This time, however, the hallway was illuminated and the boy saw what the man was leaving in his wake. On the floor, after every step, the man was dropping chocolate. Not sweet chocolate, but a bitter sweet. The boy, being a young and impulsive child, picked up and ate one of the chocolates, to find that it tasted slightly salty, with a red, gooey inside. Nevertheless, he continued on after the man, his curiosity pulling him forward. Down the stairs he went, and around another corner, following the trail of chocolates. He turned and went out through the front door of the building. That is where his curiosity indeed paid off. In front of him, he saw what can only be described as an “awesome spaceship”. The man had stopped and turned back towards the boy, with a cold look on his face. He put his hand out, and in a cold, but enticing voice said, “come with me”. The boy happily bounded forward towards the man, and took his hand, following him onto the spaceship. Once he stepped inside, the ramp up to the entrance contracted in and the door closed. The boy saw the inside to be a sleek, white metal with glowing red lines distributed around the room evenly. The man led him down another hallway, a circular tube of sorts with unmistakable alien life held in water-filled tanks on either side.They arrived at a door with an alien keypad, which the man typed a password into, prompting the door to open. Cold air spewed out, to reveal a chamber holding what seemed to be coffin-like containment units. The man led the boy over to one, and placed some chocolate within it, which the child then climbed in to acquire. Once was within it, the man pushed the child down and pushed a button, causing the capsule door to close, concealing him inside. Soundlessly, the man left the boy in the room, once again closing the password-locked door. 10 minutes passed, and the capsule once again opened, revealing an empty space where the boy just minutes before lay.


A dark, rainy night riding down State road 4, on their way home from a wedding, sits a family of three. The mom drives as the dad is asleep in the passenger’s seat, and a baby three months old sits in the back. The road is dimly lit with scattered street lamps, they are one of few cars traveling so late at night. A sudden jolt wakes the father now, rumbling from the front left side. A tire has blown, just what they needed on a rainy ride home. The baby in the back begins to cry as the mother pulls to the roadside. With flashing hazards and an open passenger door, the car now sits lopsided as father begins to raise the front with the jack. Mother has soothed the child in minutes, and the spare is tightening down now, it seems that this hiccup won’t slow them down much longer. With the new tire on the father stands up to climb back in the car. Jason had only been a licensed driver for 8 months, every night be drove this way every day for his job, delivering pizza to any home in a 5 mile radius, but the shift was over now, it was time to head home. A buzz between his legs, his phone lights up, “New message from Kate!”, reading this he eagerly unlocked the phone. “Come over, I miss you” was what it read and Jason couldn’t believe his eyes, maybe things were beginning to look up. Still grinning at his phone, Jason has drifted toward the median in the road. Mesmerized by the text from his ex-girlfriend, he doesn’t notice the orange lights that flash through his windshield. He was going 92 in the 70MPH zone so he had no time to brake on the rainy pavement as he looked on with horror the second before colliding with the passenger side of a Honda mini-van. The impact was deafening, the open passenger door flew off the hinges and down the highway, the father’s tattered body lay sprawled a lane over, dead on impact. Mother had no time to mourn as she attempted to stop her skidding vehicle as it travels to the oncoming side. Finally losing momentum from the crash, the van tips to its side, the mother now leans on pavement and broken glass. Baby wailing in the back, mother unbuckles to attempt to escape, but a bright light and blaring horn freeze her in her tracks. 18 wheels and 40 tons collide with the already beaten mini-van and the mother is impaled with glass and steel. The baby in the back screams to an empty car, unaware that it is now an orphan. Sirens howl and red and blue light the sky, a police convoy leads the ambulance and fire truck to a gruesome scene. Jason stands shaking on the median of the road, his truck perched up on the concrete slab. He had witnessed what happened to the van he had crashed into, he was terrified and desperately dialed 911. For the arriving officer on the scene, this proved to be the most terrorizing setting of his career, the howling cries of an infant rang in his ears. The image of the mutilated body of the mother burned into his brain. He saw a terrified teenager onlooking the whole event as well. This would be the final case of his career. 22 years for vehicular manslaughter. A third life now wasted. The punishment fits the crime, says the state, but there is no way to bring life back. Nothing can come out of this but more tragedy. Jason’s mother hadn’t stopped crying since the night she’d heard of the crash. She hadn’t seen much of her son as he sat in a cell, waiting his trial. Pleading to the court, she begged for mercy on her son, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Still, she hugged her son now before he was to be hauled to prison, only 17 years old. The jury had decided and the judge had sentenced, 22 years he would be locked away. A decade passes and the baby now has a new home, a foster family had adopted him on his 5th birthday, now 10 years old he learns the story of his parent’s death. He had known of the car crash, but not of the manner, and not of the person responsible for the loss of his parents. Since that day, he had always wondered about the kid sent to prison for the accident. I stand before you today, and I tell you this story because it is a story I know well. I was just a baby then, but now I stand before you to say that there is no peace in anger, and there is no love like forgiveness. Our lord shown us the power of forgiveness when Jesus laid his life on the cross. Jason is here with me today as I speak to all of you, a single mistake cost the lives of two beautiful people, my mother and father. 15 years after the crash, I had petitioned for the release of Jason from prison, I would not let that mistake claim another life. Jason has worked at this church for the last ten years, he is one of my closest friends. I close today’s sermon with a final statement from Peter in Matthew 18: “Lord how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times!?” Jesus replies, “I say not unto thee seven times; but seventy times seven.


For twenty-three years, this photo has held within it what I have lost; tantalising me with what could be, the fantasy guarded safely within the limbs of its silver frame. Every now and then, I get a glimpse back in time; back to when my ambivalence was obsession and my contempt was passion. Now and then he’ll smile with his eyes, or laugh with his heart, like he always used to. At these times, I think to myself: *There’s still a chance. I’m starting to recognise him again.* And when I’ve been reeled back in, I realise I’ve been fooled for the thousandth time – then I must fight to forgive myself for my flawed generosity. The hardest part is when you know it’s hopeless but yet you cling to dead memories, trying to revive them. Those pleasant times are trapped within your mind, destined to wither away with you – unless you live through them, as I have been, feeding them with your weakened spirit. They say that memories eventually fade, but although I cannot always recall things with precise clarity, they have simply manifested themselves in different ways. Have you not ever been stopped in your tracks, for you’ve picked up on a familiar scent which upon inhaling, travels through the intricacies of your soul with a warm familiarity, yet you can’t quite recognise it? Have you never felt the wind weave its way through your hair, caress your face, and you know you’ve been touched so gently before, but you wonder: by whom other than the soft breath of the wind? These memories hold me hostage to my happiness: I must let them go to be free. I know at the point where I have been living entirely within my mind that something is wrong. I can no longer wait for him to return – his body lives here, a parasite, full of blood and hunger and nothing else. *He*, however, left a long time ago. Maybe I can find him embodied within another. Or maybe I never will – then perhaps I might finally surrender… completely lose myself in these thoughts which provide me nothing but sweet agony. See, some nights I dream of past times. In my denial of what is, I find my mind intertwined with dreams and reality, creating a blur between the two. At these times, I near go mad as I try to discern the two worlds, and I go even madder when the mist slowly disappears and I find myself here again. For my own wellbeing, I must finally move on. Sever my heart strings from all which he has tainted. I must leave his side. Find my own place. Find my own life. I must destroy every possession he has gifted me, and every possession which reminds me of him. The trinkets and perfume he gave me. The elegant, silver heels I wore on our first anniversary. The photo I hated because it emphasised the ugly shape of my chin (to which he would remark that I was not just my chin, but a delicate ensemble of all things beautiful and joyous). The birthday cards from those first few years in which he wrote me enchanting poems…he had such a way with words… where has he gone? Oh, here I am, grasping at the ghost he left behind, surprised that my hands are falling right through. But if doing so brings me such pleasure, is it really such a sin to indulge in innocent memories? I am old. My life nears an end. Why am I wasting my energy trying to tear myself apart? All I wish for is *him*, and he exists only in my mind now; there’s no need to be anywhere else.


The sun cast an eerie shadow through the windows that brisk autumn afternoon. The way the silhouettes of the leaves danced across the floor and scaled the walls, ascending to the ceiling as if weightless and carefree. The shadows offered a proper mood to the situation as Mr. Welch sat in his living room. The rhythmic tick echoing from the watch precisely fashioned around his wrist, 2:34pm. The conversation around him became nothing but white noise, the imagery from outside creating facades within his mind. The wind was consistent yet gentle, the trees and the wind seemed to peacefully coexist and become one. “Edgar, we need to figure out what happened here” as if ripped from his alternate reality by these words, they felt as if he’d been struck across the face. The man with the shiny black boots and that common pale skin tone were all that jumped out to Edgar, the contrast came across so different, but he relished in the similarities. Edgar had been known for such things, his pedigree in the fashion industry made life in a small town rather impossible. The man spoke again but he quickly became white noise, the details that scrawled across his uniform quickly flashed at Edgar, like the world’s least colorful fireworks show. The laces on the boots were tied to perfection, as if years of practice and most likely scrutiny from a nasty loved one lead to such execution. The thoughts ran a mile between the edges of Edgar’s mind, bouncing off the walls and crafting those dark and mysterious images he’d come to long for. “Edgar, your wife is missing and your story plants you at your home during the hours she would have gone missing. You have no information as to where they could be?” The question seemed to carry a supercilious tone, *quit playing dumb with us Welch, I’ll cuff and drag your sorry ass back to the station in a heartbeat*. These were the emotions Edgar imagined being tossed around underneath that tight cap of his. The badge read “M. Williams” which came as a surprise to Edgar, the officer was thin and scrawny but presumably fit underneath those increasingly bland clothes. He struck Edgar as a Samuel, or maybe even an Oliver “What does the M stand for Officer, if you don’t mind me asking” the question came across as inquisitive, but it seemed to anger Williams. He grabbed Edgar by the collar and hoisted him into the air with what felt like ease. “It’ll stand for my fucking foot in your ass if you don’t start answering my questions, where did your wife go!” This was no longer a game for Edgar, his shirt had been heaved from the waistband of his jeans and his neatly combed hair disheveled from the violent shaking. The pale face that once calmly stood before him was replaced with a bright red; his eyes quickly shifted to that of what you’d see on a wild animal. This wasn’t the behavior of your average uniform, Mr. Williams seemed to take what Edgar had done personally, as if he were the brother of his wife. “Officer, officer. All you had to do was ask. I can give you access to my wife’s office if you’d like but I simply have but a clue where she went.” This seemed to ease the aggression, his grip loosened, and Edgar’s now ruffled collar slipped from his grasp. They started down the dimly lit hallway, Janice was never one for the fancy lights and the fine hardwood flooring, she enjoyed the shadows that danced their halls in the later hours of the day. The mahogany door at the end of the hall was her office, where she met with clients and had those simply dreadful conference calls. Edgar always hated what she did, slipping out unexpectedly for hours, sometimes even days at a time to some place she never quite disclosed. He outstretched his hand for the golden doorknob, his face obscured in the spherical illusion. Edgar looked at the clock, 11:21am. The birds had finished their chirping and the frigid air seemed to reside from the trees. The coffee pot chimed those 3 wonderful beeps from the kitchen as Janice’s heels ticked across the hall. Edgar sat in his chair, placed perfectly in the corner of the living room, from this place he felt the tranquility and freedom of the outdoors while experiencing the safety and security of his home. Again, the noises around him fell to a silent hush as he focused on the world before him, the world spoke to him like nobody ever could. Amid this reposeful state, he neglected the sounds of his wife calling out to him. “Edgar, they need me to head out West for a few days again, something’s wrong with one of the clients.” She spoke so sure of her lies, but when she came to bid her final goodbye Edgar snapped from his state. *That* *scent, that familiar* *scent* he thought to himself as she started away from him. The perfume he’d bought for her months ago as a present for their 10-year anniversary. He smelt it when they made love that night and hadn’t smelt it since, unless she was leaving town. She started back towards her office to collect her things as Edgar rose from his chair. *That whore, all this time her clients* *have been nothing* *but a* *facade, an apparition to cloud me from the truth.* He knew what he had to do, there was no other way. Edgar turned the knob, but the door refused to give way. “My apologies, I left the keys on the counter in the kitchen. Would you mind grabbing them for me?” Officer Williams glanced at Edgar, confused as to how he could forget the door was locked, but feeling slightly guilty for the incident earlier he reluctantly started back to the kitchen. The keys glistened in the light cast through the windows as Williams took them in his hand. He turned to leave but something caught his eye as he walked out. The symmetry in the room was off, something felt wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He looked to the window and found the issue, sitting below the ledge was a knife block with 3 empty places. The dishwasher was opened and empty, the sink was clear of any utensils. *Strange-* he thought as he started back to Ms. Welch’s office. “Sorry I got distracted, here’s the keys” Edgar slid the keys into the hole above the knob, the lock snapped back as he turned his hand. The door opened with a violent creak and the two men entered. Janice stepped from behind her office door and checked her watch, 11:24am. She knew her train left at 11:45am and she needed to hurry. She looked up to see Edgar leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor. “Sweetie is there something you need?” his face remained cold and emotionless, his eyes piercing hers and peering into what felt like her soul. “Where did you say you were going again, darling?” his question felt as cold as his gaze, with a hint of suspicion. He took a step towards her, brandishing one of her knives from the kitchen. “See, you never wear that perfume *Janice*” *He never uses my first name… somethings wrong* she thought as he continued towards her “you see, these little surprise business trips got me thinking *Janice.* You never come home during the day, you’re always a little out of place, and you always smell like that fucking perfume” he disclosed a second blade, a butchers knife opposed to the smaller steak knife he held in his other hand. “Honey please, you’re being ridiculous” He raised his arm and threw the butchers knife at her, it connected with her torso as she let out a blood curdling scream. She slumped to the floor, her screaming continuing as Edgar charged towards her. Williams covered his nose; the stench seemingly flew towards them from within the office. He began to panic and started towards the closet on the far end of the room, he unlatched the doors and drew them. He keeled over as he felt his insides churn, Ms. Welch’s lifeless and headless corpse was slumped in the floor of the closet. The insects flew about her wounds and the area surrounding her. He turned back towards Edgar and felt a rush of adrenaline course throughout his system. He glanced down to see the 15’ carving knife slammed into his stomach, his blood pouring from the bottom of the wound onto the floor. Edgar took a step back as Williams threw a hand in his direction, tumbling to his knees. The red tint quickly faded from his cheeks as his insides began spilling out. He looked up at Edgar, a crooked smile plastered seemingly ear-to-ear on his face. “Oh Marcus, you should’ve minded your own business.” He knelt to meet Marcus’ gaze. Blood began to spurt from his mouth as his attempted to cuss out Edgar. He felt icy hands run through his hair as his cap toppled to the floor. Edgar took a firm grip and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “And you shouldn’t have fucked my wife” Edgar grabbed the handle of the knife and ripped it from Marcus’ mid section, proceeding to slash it across his throat and letting his limp corpse collapse to the floor. Edgar glanced at his watch, 3:10pm. He lowered himself back into his chair and admired the birds positioned peacefully on the banister of his porch. They chirped and nestled together to escape the cool breeze. Edgar tilted his head back and took a deep breath, that same crooked smile growing from within him as a loud knock came from his front door. “Mr. Welch. Mr. Welch, it’s the police. Open up” He lifted himself from his seat and exhaled. One final thought graced the surface of his mind. *“And the game begins again.


The stream of water made a *tink-tink-tink* as it slowly filled Philip’s bucket. It was made from scrap metal, from sheets of aluminum skin salvaged from wrecked aircraft and riveted together tightly so that water would not leak from the gaps. Philip’s bucket was made from the wing of a Bronco, an American airplane. Philip’s Uncle Andre knew all about airplanes, and taught him all he knew about them. The Bronco, Uncle Andre said, was an attacker, which meant that its job was to knock out ground targets like entrenched soldiers, vehicles, and even buildings. The skies above Cavite were clear, like a blue sea with islands of clouds. “We’re fortunate to have clear skies,” Uncle Andre said one day. “If this were Samar, you would see Broncos flying low above the ground like great, buzzing eagles, carrying bombs and rockets in their talons.” Philip turned off the water and carried his bucket back to Uncle Andre, who lived in a bamboo house on his farm at the edge of the village. Everyone else had houses of concrete with roofs of steel, so that when the rain poured the water did not get in. “Why *did* you build a house out of bamboo, then?” Philip had asked when he was little. “Out of consideration to other people. Other people need the concrete more, Philip,” Uncle Andre replied, puffing on a rolled tobacco leaf. “For example, the Army.” “Why would the Army need concrete?” Philip pressed, filled with the curiosity characteristic of children his age. “They need concrete to make bunkers and ammunition depots and field hospitals,” Uncle Andre explained. “There’s a war going on.” At another point in his childhood, Philip set his bucket down in Uncle Andre’s backyard kitchen after filling it with water, a chore that earned him twenty pesos per trip and that he had been doing for almost a decade. Twenty pesos used to be worth a lot more in Uncle Andre’s time, but at the present could not buy anything more valuable than candy. “Uncle Andre, why did you make a bucket out of scrap metal?” “Everybody makes buckets out of scrap metal,” Uncle Andre replied, scraping the scales off a river catfish while puffing on a rolled tobacco leaf. “Not just buckets, but washbasins and dippers too.” He took a long drag before continuing. “We used to have those things made from plastic. It was lighter and cheaper than metal, and it didn’t rust.” “Well, why don’t people use plastic anymore?” “Plastic is made in big factories that used to be owned by companies that sold buckets and washbasins and dippers. But other people need the plastic factories more, Philip. For example, the Army. So they bought the plastic factories from the companies.” “Why would the Army need plastic factories?” Philip asked, noticing a trend. “They need plastic to make parts of guns and tools and radios,” Uncle Andre explained. “There’s a war going on.” It was as if whoever controlled this whole war business also controlled the things Philip could and could not have, and to Philip this seemed terribly unfair. Nobody seemed to be sure why the war started, or what the bigger picture looked like. The only pictures anyone saw were the posters plastered to lampposts and the walls of buildings, printed in bright, garish colors and depicting uniformed men and women ready to go to war for their beloved country. These patriotic images were often accompanied by slogans urging the reader to support the war effort by enlisting in the Armed Forces, or by purchasing war bonds and donating broken electronics to government recycling depots. Philip wasn’t quite sure how giving away your useless junk helped the war effort, but he assumed the Army needed it more. Sometimes, at movie theaters, shoehorned in between the trailers would be some update on the progress of the war. They announced victory after victory against the invading Americans in Surigao, Ormoc, and Tagum. This gave rise to a question Philip had not been able to find a decent answer to for fifteen years: if the Army was winning, why did they need our concrete and plastic? Political folks, particularly among the intelligentsia, liked talking about the war. The nationalists supported it, the opposition were against it, some oddballs from both sides protested otherwise, while some even declared that there was no war at all, and that the entire thing was a sham to take everyone’s concrete and plastic. Other people like Uncle Andre were apolitical, and liked to smell the flowers and just keep on living. Political folks hated people like Uncle Andre. Apolitical folks, they said, lacked the enthusiasm or interest to concern themselves with important matters. “But worst of all,” Uncle Andre warned, “are the fickle folks. They pretend to be political folks, but in reality do not have any convictions, and only wish to be seen as intelligent and concerned members of society. They have no spines, no principles, and no loyalty!” I am an apolitical farmer. I am loyal to my farm. Today I tend to my farm, and tomorrow I will still tend to farm. Fickle folks, on the other hand, are loyal to *no one.* Today they are loyal to the nationalists, but tomorrow they will be with the opposition, and the day after that, they will be among the Communists, and by the day after *that*, they will have joined a doomsday cult!” Philip set his bucket down in Uncle Andre’s backyard kitchen. Uncle Andre wasn’t there, only the faint odor of tobacco smoke. One moment, all he could think about was the water in his bucket; the next, all he could think about was Uncle Andre. “Are you looking for your uncle?” Philip whirled around. A girl roughly his age was standing at the edge of a banana thicket. She had wavy, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face, with stunning eyes the color of the sunset. She had a lithe figure draped in a floral sundress, a tribal scarf covering her shoulders like the wings of an eagle. One moment, all he could think about was Uncle Andre; the next, all he could think about was this girl and how pretty she was. “They took him. I saw.” Philip snapped back to reality. Uncle Andre. “Who’s they?” “The police,” the girl said, fingering a pendant around her neck anxiously. “They found anti-government propaganda in his drawers and –” She took a staggering step forward before flinging her arms around him, sobbing. Philip patted her on the back in an attempt to comfort her, wishing he could do the same to himself. “They shot him?” The girl shook her head, buried it in his shoulder. “No. They beat him over the head with their rifle butts, and when he wouldn’t cooperate they – they *bayoneted* him to death. I’m so sorry.” Philip’s knees felt like they were dissolving in concentrated lye. It was the girl’s turn to support his crumpled mass, dripping in tears. She wiped them away with the hem of her scarf. “Come on – sit,” she said, guiding him over to the bench Uncle Andre had carved by hand. “I lost my father the same way.” Philip swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at her. “He worked for the government, but they went after him once they suspected him of being a dissident,” the girl went on. “You know Aling Linda?” Philip nodded. “The old lady with a limp?” “She was hacked in the leg protecting him. They shoved her aside before moving on to him. I was there to see it. I know how you feel, it’s just awful.” “War is awful.” “This entire mess is awful.” “That, we can agree on.” Philip’s days of carrying water for Uncle Andre were over, since he couldn’t carry water for a dead man and still expect twenty pesos per trip. This left a gaping hole in his daily activities that he spent thinking about Uncle Andre and the cruel circumstances of his death – at least, for the first couple of days. One morning a foil-wrapped package showed up on Philip’s front step. He assumed it was empty until he accidentally stepped on it to find it had something soft and squishy inside. It was a chocolate bar, something only the family of a government employee could possibly afford. Taped to the back was a small note. I live in the house down by the river. Come visit when you’re free? Rachel Philip still wasn’t certain about many things, like why Uncle Andre had to die and why the Army needed so much concrete and plastic, but at that moment he was certain he was free.


“I don’t need help,” Clarke always thought. He sat at his desk in his claustrophobic office staring at his duel monitors blankly, almost as if nothing was on the screen. His mind was a mess, always had been and likely always would be. His chest was tight and his eyes tired. He couldn’t focus. Clarke took his reading glasses of, letting them fall carelessly onto his desk. Peering out of his window into the world he became stricken with sadness. He wished he could see it all. He wished he could find what his mind and his heart were so clearly missing. He felt out of place in his world and society, he made it through college by going through the motions. Days that droned on like millennia were now a single cluster of mundane memories. Clarke thought. All he did was think. He thought too much. He looked to the future and its uncertainty or the past and its cringe and pain more than he looked at what was presently in front of him. Sometimes he could go weeks caught in the motions of life, like relaxing in a peaceful ocean. But the ocean swelled and the waves would crash him back to shore on a desolate island; he was alone. He felt out of breath, confused as to where he was. He desperately craved comfort. He desperately craved to not feel so bad about everything. He desperately craved to stop worrying about things that were already lost in the universe; like a speck of dust floating lightyears away. “Maybe I should go home sick,” he thought to himself, “I just need some more rest.” It was true, he did need rest. The restlessness, however, was caused by him crashing to shore all night. Waves bombarded him awake. The waves from the prior night felt unfamiliar, he thought he had mastered the sea. “I don’t need help,” he had thought with a smile, “I’m much better now.” But the waves were back, and here was Clarke, at his desk feeling like he never wanted to watch the news ever again. He imagined humanity couldn’t make it much longer. Did the waves tell him that? The waves gave him a wanderlust. Amongst the trees and the mountains is where Clarke found peace. He feared that in his lifetime those places of peace would be long gone. He feared for his mother Earth. He feared for himself. Without a word, Clarke left his workplace. Swift motions that felt so right he thought them criminal guided him to his car and to the bank where he withdrew all of his money. All-in-all it was $30,000. “Goodbye emergency fund,” he said aloud. He drove to the gas station and filled up his gas tank. The overcast day gave the world around him a silver hue, but he knew that soon he would see sunshine. He felt inexplicable amounts of euphoria as he drove away. He mapped out a plan in his head as he drove, listening to his favorite introspective music. “Lover is a Day” played on his speakers as he imagined a road trip through the U.S., followed by a flight to Europe where he would backpack and commute before another flight to Asia. The world, oh how he had to see it! He had to see it before it was gone! He felt even more peace as he packed his clothes and passport before once again hitting the road. Leaving his phone behind was icing on the cake. The waves could catch him no longer, he was on the move. His focus was unmatched as he looked toward his destiny. It was as though he had been in a dark tunnel but the bright opening was in reach! He drove all day. As the Earth’s humble rotation turned Clarke away from the Sun, he drove into a motel. He lied down in his motel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His peaceful smile disappearing as he heard the roar of the open ocean. The waves were back The waves slammed him to shore harder than ever. His eyes burst open with a start allowing beaming fluorescent light in. His monitor had timed out. He stared blankly at it once more. Tears welling within him. “I need help,” he thought.


They had cleared the brush forest that had built up over years of no maintenance. They had drained the swampy marsh that now engulfed half the property. All in all things were going perfect. Frank and Esther devised this plan to encourage a search party, the police would have people clearing their land in no time; just in time for planting this season's crops. With any luck, Frank could play off his wife's "disappearance" as a spell of Dementia. Finally things were looking up as the couple dreamed to sell their land and move south. Lieutenant Jacobs had seen his share of missing persons cases. None of these cases were as peculiar as this. Esther Monroe had vanished, no trace, no evidence, even the husband was ruled out in the first couple days. This was truly a hunt for the ages. Having been leading the dredging party in the drained marsh, he was losing hope when he heard the cry of a volunteer. "We have remains here sir,this may be her." All of the available squad cars had reported to county road 36 to aid in the digging efforts. So far enough bones and remains have been found to amount a dozen casualties. Looking back at the top of the hill Jacobs spots a panicked Frank Monroe, and an even more surprising Esther by his side, weeping, but alive. Back at the station, the Monroe's laid out there elaborate plan. It seems they had the initial phone call, press conferences, even Frank's alibi worked out. They talked about having Esther "reappear" from a dementia spell in the woods. It seems like they're telling the truth, albeit a far fetched plan for free landscaping, I couldn't imagine making something up that was so in depth. Even if the story is true however, it doesn't explain the growing number of identified bodies hidden in a shallow mass grave on their property. This was just the beginning of a long night. Half a pack of smokes and 7 hours later a stack of folders compiled an encompassing list on the bodies found thus far. Identities and backgrounds show no significant connections, not even geographically. The newest victim showed within the last 6 months, the Monroe's would become the prime suspects. Pleading for innocence, the Monroe's are ushered In separate directions, they are to be further interrogated separately. Initial interrogations show to no avail, Frank is adamant of his and his wife's innocence. Esther is a bit more puzzling, holes in her stories, inconsistency in memory, maybe she did suffer memory problems after all. Suddenly a break in the case is found in the wine cellar where Esther was hidden during her "disappearance". A pile of blooded laden clothes haphazardly buried with a locked journal. Pages of the journal depict how the victims were lured into the house though fake sale ads and claims of work needing to be done. Ironically, several of the people had came to landscape the yard. We had found Frank dead in his cell the next morning, before we got a chance to read the page about him. It seems his wife had poisoned him the day they were arrested. It seems she wanted to finish him off and collect on his life insurance. It was an open and shut case, Esther was the only one who could have written that journal. When the news broke that 3 more bodies had appeared at the house on county road 36, authorities were stunned and heartbroken. Esther had never left custody, and now Lieutenant Jacobs was to be autopsied the next day; he had fell victim to an unknown killer. The case ran cold after a few years went by, tapes of the interrogations and of Esther Monroe mourning her husband from a jail cell are all we have for testimony. Never a motive found, the notebook that was retrieved revealed much; but so little at the same time. Even though the death toll officially had climbed to 28, the media ran with "the 36 ghosts of 36". I've came out of retirement for this. A large contract with a popular tv streaming service sees something in a washed up reporter. There is to be a documentary built on an unfinished case, and I to be its author. But now as I stand in an excavated swamp behind the house where so many does, it feels eerie to say the least. Cameras roll as I speak of the lives lost from an unknown killer. Some of the victims had families, some had criminal records, and 3 wore the Maren county trooper badge. "Blood soaked clothes covered the killers bible, an extensive journal with entries of every victim." I speak to the camera. Continuing my report, "the blood found on the clothes belongs to several victims, and one set of DNA is speculated to belong to the killer." As I shuffle through the leaves around the infamous wine cellar "even Frank and Esther couldn't find a killer that lived under their nose" are. my closing remarks for the day. My cameraman, Mark packs up the van for the night, and I decided to linger around just a while longer since I drove here separately this morning. It's a shame that this location had to be home to such heinous crime. This land is beautiful, and with a little work, this home would be a prize on the market. Striking a match, I watch the van pull off as I light the first smoke off the evening. Staring off into the woods, I wonder about how I'm killing myself with cigarettes and vodka. My grandkids hate that I smoke. What's the use of quitting now? I hear the leaves rustle begins me and I turn to a familiar face, one I haven't seen in years. "I know you! You aren't supposed to be alive, this can't be!" I stutter. The man smiles at me before he cracks a smile, furnishing a .45 . I really wish I could show the world, this case is not over. Hunched over with blood spilling from my chest, I draw shallowed breaths. I've became number 29. The tapes from the documentary went viral before their release date was set. Someone had leaked the tapes to online forum sites and it caught fire. The late Mario Montana was a championed reporter for his 40 year career in journalism; but his last work took his life and legacy. Police quarantined the house off county road 36. Some say it should be burned, others say it should never be touched again. One thing is for sure, the people remain terrified of the thought of a killer on the loose.


I was once a normal person, 6’ tall, brown hair and blue eyes, I was as plain as could be. I went to school, fell in love, got rejected, the whole nine yards. But then I went on vacation, and found a magic ring, it spoke to me, offered me a wish. I’d always been scared of death, and the endless void that I imagined followed, so I wished to be immortal, to never die until the end of time... I should have wished for the knowledge of what happens after death instead. “On this day, we set out into the great beyond, and leave our planet to its natural course! With the help of our greatest minds, we set out on a NEW-“ I shut off the TV, there was no point in listening, I was shocked they were even broadcasting the event, everyone was getting on the giant spacecraft, all 12 billion humans, no exceptions. There was no price to get on, the Earth was dying anyways, either you got on the ship or you would die... though of course, I couldn’t die. I had witnessed hundreds of wars, dozens of plagues, and over 3,000 years of human history on this planet. I was staying, part of it was stubbornness, part of it was stupidity, part of it... Was the desire to be left alone, for once, there would be no one to call me a freak. Lush grass kissed my feet, the wind whistled past me, but there were no birds. I had walked for years now, and still I had found nothing but more forest. The weather changes and the sudden vanishing of humanity caused the ecosystems change drastically, it didn’t help that the planets crust cracked, causing an earthquake that leveled mountains across the globe. And yet I continued walking, I was searching for any sign that those memories I held were real. That humanity was real, they said they’d return when the planet was ready, and I held onto that hope. It was getting quite lonely now, I’d even take an insult by now. I searched for 5,000 years, and yet I found nothing, nature had swallowed every sign of civilization whole. I’m sitting on a rock, looking to the stars. I know they are real, but I wonder if they’ll ever come back. The planet is ready for them, although it is very different now. I hear it again, the voices. I don’t remember who they belong too, but I know I loved them. I feel more tears coming, because despite my insistence that they were real, I can’t remember anything but my wanderings of this barren planet. The voices beg me to join them, but I can’t. I tried. It doesn’t work. I beg them to wait. If anything will kill me... It’s the moon, crashing down from the sky, like a falling star. I wait patiently for it to collide with me, surely there’s a limit to my immortality. Surely I won’t live till the end of Time. (For feedback or suggestions feel free to message me, I want to improve.


*It’s not fair. I’ve worked harder. The long hours, forgotten dreams, all for naught. It’s not fair. I’ve worked harder…* These words continue to echo in my head as the cool night breeze blows against my cheek. The only sounds swimming through the air are my sandals crunching against the dirt and the faint music in the distance. I keep walking, farther and farther until they’re nothing but whispers in the wind. Sitting down on the grass I continued to sink deeper into thought, the moon my only company. I reminisced the hardships I suffered to please him. Working overtime in the fields until the sun came down, going to sleep sore from shoveling and hauling and digging. Abandoning my dreams of starting my own business so I could help my father’s flourish. Turning a blind eye to the beautiful women that passed me by in town, knowing I could never leave my family to start one of my own. “Son! What are you doing out here in the cold?” A familiar voice calls from a distance. I look up and see the moon-lit shape of my father walking towards me. “You should come back to the celebration, son,” he says, hovering over me, “I’m sure your brother wants to see you.” I scoff in disbelief, “Brother? That boy stopped being my brother the moment he left us and stole your money, or are you so foolishly forgiving as to forget that so soon?” He sighs, “There is no folly in being forgiving, I thought I taught you that.” “That’s beside the point. I just can’t believe you would do this.” “Do what? Forgive?” “Yes! How could you forgive a man who’s wronged you so terribly?” “How could I not?” He smiles gently, “Your brother—“ “Don’t even call him that! He stopped being my brother when he dared to ask for his inheritance, practically wishing you dead! He’s *dead* to me!” Father is stunned silent now, and I know I’ve spoken out of turn, but there was no going back now. “And me?” I scoff, “I’ve worked harder than any of your hired servants. Where’s my thanks, huh? If I had known all I had to do to get a calf was to run away, blow your money on whores and wine and then come back, maybe I would have done it sooner!” Before I know it, I’m on my feet. His head is bowed and I can’t see his face. With a clenched jaw, I turn away, my conscience creeping up on me, the weight of my guilt pressing upon my chest. I look out at the moon-lit fields and can’t help but wonder how many rows of grain were my handiwork. I breathe in the cold provincial air but felt no refreshment. “Hiram, I-I’m sorry,” His voice breaks, I feel his hand on my shoulder, “I know I haven’t been fair to you, that’s clear to me now.” I turn to look at him, looking everywhere but into his eyes. A glistening tear rolls down his weathered cheek, disappearing into his gray beard. His lips are pursed, and I know I have to look him in the eye for them to move again. I meet his eyes, and a light turned on inside them. “Please try to understand, you’ve always stayed by my side.” He said, taking a step forward, “Everything I have is yours, you only had to ask and you could have it.” Pausing, he looks out onto the fields just as I was only moments before. “Yesterday, your brother was good as dead. We mourned him, your mother cried to no end and I had no comfort to offer her.” There was a sudden swell of shouts coming from the party. They must have brought out another calf. The sound doesn’t faze Father. “Now he returns. I got to see him again with my own eyes and hold him in my arms, just as I thought he was gone forever. He was dead, but now he lives. He was lost, but now he’s found!” He took hold of my shoulders, squaring them in his grasp “I understand that you’re hurt, and I’m sorry that you feel mistreated. I rejoice the return of a lost son, but please don’t forget the return of your lost brother.” I searched his eyes for answers, trying to find how a man could be so forgiving. I only found the eyes of a man who didn’t want to lose a son twice. I hung my head. “Father, don’t be sorry. I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry for being so entitled, I had no right to—“ He cut me off “That’s not the first time I’m hearing this today. I don’t want to hear it again, believe me.” He pulled me into a warm embrace, planting a kiss on my cheek, “Come, son, let’s go home…” As I guessed, a new calf was roasting over the open pit. Servants rushed back and forth between tables, pouring wine and refilling plates of food. Guests danced with gusto, prancing around in pairs, singing off-key from the tops of their lungs. Walking side by side with my father, I was greeted by relatives and acquaintances I didn’t know or care for. My eyes searched for one person only. There he sat, surrounded by more strangers, a full cup of wine in his hand. His eyes were downcast and expressionless, flitting between the floor and the guests. I caught his gaze and his eyes widened ever so slightly before giving me a sheepish smile. I don’t know what came over me but I left my father’s side, pushing past the crowd, running towards my brother. I wrapped my arms around him and he did the same. No words can express the happiness I felt at that moment. My father’s son was dead but now he was alive. My brother was lost, but now he was found. A/N: Only makes sense if you're familiar with the story of the Prodigal Son. Hope you can still appreciate it even if you don't.


And he was in the principal’s office. Strange offices principals had there – strikingly orange furniture with mostly sky blue accents. Even the carpet. As if the interior designer fashioned Gulf Livery into an architectural style, turned up the Mid Century to eleven. “How did you become a pri-” Davy trailed off, in his abbreviated language. Really, the worst part about his affliction was that the guillotine always cut off the critical part of his sentences, that bit where he could add some inflection. Turn a statement into a question. “How does anyone become anything Davy? I went to school for it, just like how you used to.” The principal had been fluent in Davy’s abbreviations for quite some time, the type of fluency that only two friends can adopt after years of building their own private dialect. Davy’s Principal dialect was now six years old, half his own age. Meanwhile the principal – an entirely average middle-aged man – was his best friend. Being his only friend was the crowning qualification. Davy had parents who assumed responsibility over him when they couldn’t pawn him off to the principal. He lived with them, and they were mostly invisible. Preoccupied with other things most of the time. Maybe they were annoyed at the excess obligation, the repetition. Davy, as you can gather by now…had trouble finishing tasks. He attempted to do things, scrunched his brow as hard as he could, but he usually just couldn’t. The gravest diagnoses asserted that he couldn’t finish anything. His childhood toys were a broken barracks of half assemblies and frozen attempts. He could never finish any walk to school (nor to anywhere). In the classroom, all assignments and exams and entire grade levels were unceasingly left unceased. Cups, each and every half consumed. Bathing effectively took some wit, as did crafting grocery lists, which he learned to always make superfluously long. This ensured that he could gather enough stuff for his mother to craft fine meals for him to not finish. He could never even tie his shoes! Or learn how to in the first place! The stylish new Velcro types became a necessary substitute. Davy, naturally, couldn’t quite secure the top strap, but the other two held him in just fine. Complete sentences were few and far between, as his voice was usually bitten by some rogue shark somewhere in the middle. Uninterrupted paragraphs were a bucket list ambition. Luckily, his natural body processes seemed to be continuing on just fine, a biologically healthy boy. His parents cynically wondered how long that streak would last. … The principal took Davy to school and back home each day. After his attempt at sixth grade mirrored his fifth and fourth grade non-accomplishments, the principal arranged for Davy to simply spend his days in that vibrantly colored office in lieu of any classroom and in lieu of any work. This irritated the other kids at school ferociously, especially the ones who had bullied Davy incessantly ever since the day he hogged the monkey bars for an entire recess. Davy embarked on that old hanging journey determined to reach the other side, which, of course, he never could. Still, he hung on there with the superhuman grip strength of the average nine year old, swaying gently with the wind, waiting for some heavenly force to propel him to the other side. Meanwhile, the other kids yelled in violent protest that his turn was up, that they had already finished their juice boxes, that he was being “UNFAIR!” And most unfair would be the way those kids tormented Davy from then on. In his peer’s eyes, Davy had been granted the ultimate wish – to forgo the tireless work of the young student for the unfathomable freedom of year-round summer. They figured the gods would only grant this cotton candy destiny to a most exceptional kid, or dear lord, at least a normal one. Davy was certainly not the latter. And so Davy’s indefinite detention became more and more definite as the principal realized the difficulties he would face out in the primal schoolyard. He spent every minute of every school day in that office. Eject. Rewind. Repeat. … One day, the principal had an idea… “Davy, I have an idea…” “What is i-“ “I’ve been reading some things lately, about your condition. People are really interested in it, you know…” “Like I’m the town’s clow-“ “Oh don’t say that! Don’t say that. It’s not like that at all. “It’s these medical journals, apparently some very smart people up at the college have been digging into the science, and they have some interesting ideas about what could be causing it...” “Well when can they fix it, when can I be like-” “I don’t know, Davy. It doesn’t say that in the papers. Maybe they don’t even know yet.” Davy slouched on the carrot colored couch, feet on the ground, chin tucked tightly down, protesting the topic of conversation. He was usually in fine spirits, happy to be through with the times tables and cursive charts and poor performances. He got this way really only when the topic of his condition – his inability – was broached. He didn’t like talking about it even more than he didn’t like having it, because when he didn’t talk about it, and when he didn’t have to live beside his peers, he didn’t know any better. In his mind, puzzles ended with a few holes in them. Velcro straps flapped around. His name only had three letters. It wasn’t weird. It was weird that everyone thought it was weird! It was actually worse than weird. It was terrible. “But I think that you should talk to one of these scientists.” The principal continued, hoping to ignite a faint spark of comfort. “I think that they could have some helpful things to tell you, help you understand how to better cope with-“ The principal paused as he saw that Davy was now wearing his hands as ear muffs, determined to drown out his only friend’s suggestions. His eyes were clenched forcefully closed, chin now attempting to burrow through his sternum. The principal noted how Davy’s angry body position uncannily mirrored perfect earthquake drill technique. He reluctantly dropped Davy off at home. Eject. … The principal picked him back up the next morning, per usual. They drove to the school. And past it. Davy looked out the window and saw the familiar flag pole in front begin to fall out of his purview. He acknowledged the strangeness of this phenomenon, that the principal had never driven past the school like this before. But Davy was still in a sour mood from yesterday’s interaction, and he wasn’t about to see that finished. “We’re going to the college today.” Davy remained gazing out the window, unresponsive in a way that wasn’t typical. The principal overanalyzed his body language, wondered what he was staring at, thinking. He then pondered what his punishment could be for taking Davy on this unestablished field trip. Would he be fired for shirking his principal duties? Would the kid’s parents wonder where he was if their trip ran late? File kidnapping charges? Revel in unburdened relief? He figured he should probably focus on the road. He had already committed. “We’re going to the college today and, and I know, I know that you don’t want to. I know that you don’t want to talk about this stuff at all really. Or even hear about it.” Davy’s continued lack of feedback again sent the principal’s mind racing. His mouth continued, now more so talking to himself than his passenger. “I just have a feeling about this.” They drove on, two eyes pointed attentively at the road ahead, two objectionably out the side window. … The principal parked at the college, exited the car and started walking toward the *Completion Studies Center*, while Davy followed begrudgingly behind. Inside the center’s doors, everything was blindingly white. Their noses were soaked with the scent of stale scrubs. The head scientist of the lab came out to meet them. It seemed that the principal had made some sort of appointment, and that the scientist was eager to meet Davy – the first identified carrier of this disease. The scientist and principal exchanged momentary small talk that neither desired yet neither ducked. Davy wondered why people who were free to indulge in full and complex sentences wasted so much time with these hollow ones. “But anyway, the reason for my bringing Davy here was to speak with you guys, ask if you have any new, you know – new things that you’ve learned that can apply to his situation? Help him out to make some progress with the symptoms..” The principal delivered these lines intermittently looking at the scientist and then scanning back to Davy, analyzing his body language with each passing word. Davy was stoic, staring at the ground somewhere behind the scientist’s feet. The scientist responded in typical doctoral vernacular, “Well, as you probably know by now, there are a few other documented cases of the condition in other humans. You, Davy, are actually the first patient I’ve met in real life, so today is an equally exciting moment for me as it surely is for you. Davy, somehow able to conceal this budding excitement, continued staring at the same point on the floor. The scientist began guiding the threesome towards two double doors deeper in the facility, each with a large window at head height. “But alongside this dearth of human examples, we’ve actually found a fantastic array of other organisms that seem to display characteristics of this same disease. The principal cringed a bit when he heard the scientist use the D word, immediately checking back on Davy’s response to it. The word carried no specific sting to Davy on this day, despite the fact that it usually did. He was already richly irritated at the whole operation. What was a word? “And our studies on these other creatures, various insects and arachnids, have recently lead to some breakthrough discoveries.” The scientist choreographed this optimistic line to drop exactly as the sight through the two large windows came into view. The principal’s ears perked and eyes swelled as he heard those words and saw the bright images floating inside the large doors. There were a dozen workers on each wall of the room, each with their own fully equipped station. On the one wall, the workers were interacting with various types of creepy-crawlies – timing their activities, jotting down notes, scrutinizing them intently. On the other wall, other workers sat in front of computers, running the numbers, extrapolating results. Even Davy looked up from the ground when he got to the door. Inside, some wasps flew around remarkably orderly. A spider politely crawled through some controlled apparatus. Davy noted that these scientists should become dog trainers – they’d make a killing! But he kept the thought private in his head. The principal, still staring through the window at the festivities inside, asked the scientist what breakthroughs his team had come across. The scientist wasn’t set on giving the principal a clear answer. “Well, perhaps ‘breakthrough’ is a bit of a misnomer,” the scientist relayed obliquely. The principal looked at the scientist unemotionally. This was the first time he looked away from the window. Davy’s gaze returned to the ground, now having to look nearly straight down to see it. “Alright, well whatever you want to call it. Breakthrough, discovery, I don’t care.” “The phenomena we are tracking have only been mapped in an extremely small sample size. Even stating our findings out loud may betray the sanctity of the scientific method,” the scientist dutifully warned the principal. “So – I don’t understand. Just, what is it…just tell us. The principal’s voice gained a sliver of frustration. “Have you guys figured out anything that can help Davy, or – or not? I mean, I’m just going off what you’ve been telling me. Am I making parts of this up, am I going crazy?” the principal asked as he lightly tapped his temple. The scientist, a taller man, stared into the principal’s shoulder, eventually landing his own hand on it in a display of condescension he did not entirely plan. “Look, Mr. Principal, perhaps it’s best- The disgruntled principal now fed the scientist’s voice to the sharks, interrupting him with clamors for answers and complaints about being patronized. The scientist raised his voice, but only one or two levels. “Perhaps it’s best… that I speak to the boy alone.” The principal took half a step back, mainly to release the grip on his shoulder. The scientist opened the door to the experiment room, and he and Davy stepped inside. … The principal looked on intently through the windows as the other two dove into conversation. He couldn’t hear anything, their backs halfway turned to him. The scientist used hand motions demonstrably, excessively. Davy mostly seemed to be paying attention. The principal slipped into his own mental commentary. “I just hope that this guy actually has a solution, or whatever he wants to call it – that he actually has *something*. That could really just wreck Davy, driving all the way out here, optimistic with all the hope I had been showering him with, and coming back empty handed.” Davy, obviously, had no illusions of hope for this field trip. During the drive up, he wondered if he would have rather spent the day as bully bait on the playground. “*I always* wanted what was best for him. I still do. When those other teachers, “*teachers*” would throw him aside, deride him as a lost cause, send him back to his parents and wipe their hands – I was there. “*That’s* why we had to come here today. Because *I* had a feeling. *I* had a feeling, and *I* couldn’t stand around, like everybody else would… letting it float by.” Eyes still fixated on the seemingly one-sided conversation inside the next room, the principal even treated himself to a brief self-aggrandizing moment of wondering where Davy would be without him. Shamefully wiping that thought from this brain, his focus quickly shifted to the vertical line between the two double doors. “I just want Davy to be able to lead a different life. One with the gratifications that the rest of us get… the finished projects.” The principal muttered this closing argument half aloud, trying to overwrite his previous ostentation. … Eventually, Davy emerged from the other room. The scientist stayed back inside, delighted to forgo any closing small talk. Davy was in a noticeably better mood – a cherry contrast to his previous 24 hours spent in the dumps. The principal gently looked at Davy as the two of them walked side by side to the car, but he hesitated to say anything. A few moments later, seat belts buckled, Davy started to talk. “The scientist started out by showing me all of these other organisms that have my condi- “…There were big farms of ants in there, living in half built hil- “…Sad bee hives so flimsy that they spilled all of the hon- “…Spiders whose webs were just a couple of lin- The principal fixated on every word, equally enthusiastic for their friendship being restored and for the big mystery reveal. He periodically remembered to focus on the road. “The people that we were in the room with were doing a ton of tes- “…Trying to figure out if there was any patte- The impatience started building inside the principal. “Yes, I know Davy. The scientist already told me all of that, that they were messing with the bugs, looking for patterns.” “Well they found a patte- Davy paused, and the principal urged him to spill the beans, to say what the discovery was. “Did they figure out a way to help you?! What was it?!” Davy remained silent, straining unemotionally to get the final few sentences out. The principal forgot about the road entirely, determined to stare directly at Davy for as long as it took. He circled his right wrist and hand in tight loops in front of Davy’s face, urging him to say whatever it was that they had figured out. Davy stayed unmoved. The principal then subconsciously realized that they were nearing the point in any story where Davy naturally started to lock up. Reaching the punchline was, per usual, a feature stripped from Davy’s story telling abilities. Meanwhile, consciously, the principal needed the answer. “Well what was the discovery Davy?! What did he say?!” Davy now gave up on his forced attempts to finish the story. “Davy, come on! You were so close!” The principal pushed out, letting his frustrations show in a way that he usually masked. “I’m not asking you to sing the star-spangled banner! Just tell me what the scientist said! What did he say to you?!” Davy’s silence again turned to protest. To him, the story had been finished. Any details that he left out at the end of stories – ones he was unable to say – faded from consciousness, crumbled to insignificance. The principal beat on, intent to push just a bit harder today than he ever had before. “I drove you all this way out to the college, I – I really stuck my neck out there for this… for *your own* good. Davy returned to his familiar spot, again looking objectionably out the side window, thrown by his friend’s irritation. “Just tell me what the damn man SAID TO YOU!” The tones vibrated inside the car in piercing echo. The principal felt the waves of his own pride, his own folly. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. How he could be so primal? He had already begun profusely apologizing when Davy finished the punchline. “The insects don’t die.” He calmly relayed, in perhaps the only unclipped sentence he had ever produced in front of the principal. The principal continued attempting another running apology, not yet comprehending what Davy had actually said. Davy, realizing this, overwrote the principal’s cascading attempts at regret and confession with another perfect delivery. “The insects – in the experiments. They don’t die.” The principal fell silent. … They eventually made it back to the vibrant office, and Davy assumed his regular spot on the orange sofa. They had made good time; there was still an hour left before the school would be dismissed. The principal knew better than to dig for further explanation on the scientific discovery. For one, it’s weightiness seemed insurmountable. And he was still deeply ashamed at how he had behaved. He reservedly accepted those stunning words without pressing on. Davy was acting normal again. Back in the safe confines of the office, the two resumed typical topics of conversation, and this return to normalcy eased them both. The final bell then rang, and the principal dropped Davy off at home. Alone to contemplate the implications of his prognosis, Davy cooled into deep, genuine contentment. He was now completely satisfied to live his life of limitations – never again seeing it as restraining. Sure, he profoundly feared living on without his only friend, assuming that a day would come where the principal would die. But Davy considered himself lucky, in this respect, to have only one friend – only one person that mattered to him. To the regular human, singular immortality probably seemed the gravest fate of all – condemned to endlessly watch everyone and everything that mattered fade away until loneliness was the only thing left. Davy felt fortunate to only have to watch one episode of that sad show. And besides, he and loneliness were already dashing acquaintances. He didn’t find the particulars of his immortality to be so bad. Maybe even, in a couple thousand years or so, he’d make friends with one of the others who had his disease, walk on the beach together. Watch the bees. But on a deeper level, Davy found comfort in this confirmation that he wasn’t ever supposed to be like his peers. There was nothing peculiar with his contrasts to the mortal man, just as there was nothing peculiar with the contrasts of drifting comets to the mortal man. Two lifeforms of unlike particles. Two raindrops falling – one bound for soil, the other always landing back at sea. He no longer saw himself as a flawed human. He was free now to be what he always was. A pure alien.


Hey everyone, I'm Matt. I work at a state park as a ranger. I am a historian by training and oversee all of the historic and archaeological features. I feel like I am at the bottom of the totem pole because I am not in wildlife or land management. Something weird is going down around here, but no one believes me. I hope that *someone* out there will take this seriously and get someone to investigate it. It started a couple weeks ago when I got called to the campground around 1:00 in the morning. Our quiet hours start at 11:00 PM and this group was keeping other campers awake. The caller said she had gone over and asked them to keep it down but they seemed to take that as a challenge to be as loud as possible. I quickly dressed in my uniform, jumped in my truck, and headed for the campground. Going over a hill, I began to hear the ruckus. The chanting of five 20-somethings instantly caught my attention. It was like they were speaking in tongues; no coherent words or patterns to their chants. My heart started racing and crazy thoughts started pouring into my head. *WTF?! Are these people possessed? Did they get some bad beer? Should I just call for backup now?* I am not a law enforcement ranger, so I am not issued a gun or endowed with any authority to detain or arrest people. I parked my truck and, armed with just my dull pocket knife, a flashlight, and some padding from my dad bod, walked toward the group. "Excuse me! I'm Matt, I'm a ranger here." I called once I was within earshot. "Hey! Sir? Ma'am? Folks, I need to talk to you guys real quick." Chanting young adults was strange on its own. What really caught my attention, though, was how they laid out their camp. Five tents arranged like points of a star, with a round platform in the middle. Four posts surrounded the platform. I would have to talk to them about whether they paid the fees for the extra tents. And I had so many questions about the platform. "Hey! You guys are being *way* too loud! Quiet down or you will have to leave." The chanting grew louder. Each person was sitting around the fire with their chairs arranged in the same way as their tents. Nothing was strange about their behavior other than the loud chanting. Everyone was just casually sitting, some roasting marshmallows, some with cans of beer. Just chanting louder and louder. I approached the fire, repeating that they were being inconsiderate and breaking our campground rules. No one reacted. I started breathing heavily and feeling a bit dizzy. I have overcome confrontation anxiety enough that I can approach people who are breaking rules. Usually people see my truck and my uniform then apologize and change what they are doing. A lot of them don't even realize they were breaking a rule so it really isn't a big deal. Getting nowhere with these weird people and growing anxious, I turned to head back to my truck. I could say I tried to contact them and just call the county dispatch to send a sheriff's deputy. Which is exactly what I did. Three deputies responded and when one came to get a statement from me, she said there had been no people there. No tents. No fire--in fact the fire pit was cold and hadn't been used for several hours. They had woken up campers from surrounding sites and none had reported any noise issues or suspicious behavior. I gave my statement and she left, saying something about crying wolf to the dispatcher.


The cool air smelled like pine trees and bon-fires. A smokey and wild smell that felt refreshing to Jack’s tired mind. His fingertips padded the steering wheel softly, mimicking the classic rock fighting through the static and into the dark cab of his 1996 Chevy pick-up. He rubbed his right eye lazily and yawned towards the open road stretched out in front of him. It had been a long time since Jack had been this far out of town. He hadn’t even wanted to go, but of course Janet was stubborn as hell and almost pushed him out of the house. “Winter is almost here and I can’t have you huddled up, stuck in this house with me, driving us both crazy.” She had said opening the door and handing him his usual bag. “What if something happens while I'm out? That baby is going to be here any day now Honey” Jack argued. He meant what he said, but she was right of course. He’d go crazy for the next month waiting for their baby to pop out if he didn’t get this one last, end of an era, trip. Jack knew they both needed it. Janet’s hand mindlessly stroked her now very large belly as she looked at Jack, eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled down at each side. “Get out. I ain’t taking no for an answer. You need this. So do I.” She gently pushed him outside the door, kissed him lightly, and handed him his keys. She shut the door behind him and that was that. He figured that going somewhere he’d never been before might be a good way to get his mind off of everything. With the baby’s approaching arrival, he often found himself buried in upcoming expenses that he couldn’t have imagined eight months ago. He was fairly certain Janet had no idea what their bank account looked like, and therefore was spared the feeling of dread that seemed to follow him around their house. Which, he thought, was probably for the best. He knew of a nice remote area a couple hours outside of his small hometown that he was hoping would be a perfect place. The location had been mapped out on his planner for months, just waiting to be used. He had never liked going to the same place twice, and since this would be his last trip for a while, he thought carefully choosing the locale was the best thing to do. Janet used to love going with him. She would get a flush of excitement just talking about it. Animatedly going over the details with him for days, her cheeks would get pink just remembering it all. She would always show up with her stringy brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her favorite black boots that Jack insisted were unnecessary, and her muddy brown eyes open wide with eager expectation. He loved teaching her; picking out the right spot, what to bring, how to dress, what kind of gun was best for the day, and of course how important it was to stay quiet. She soaked up his lessons like a thick dry sponge, asking questions the whole ride there and beaming with pride on the way back. That’s what he had first loved about her. She was so ready to be a part of his life that she jumped right in with him every chance she got. Jack had known her getting pregnant would mean that she wouldn’t be joining him much longer, and he assumed it was for the best. He could remember their last trip together and thought about how the light had shriveled away from her eyes. She had backed away from him when they got there, and hadn’t touched her gun once the whole time. He felt a cold indifference that he had never seen from her. The month after that trip they were putting up their new baby crib. That same fire that used to ignite inside of her was now glowing down on their many early purchases. The crib was almost entirely put together when he started talking. “What do you think about another trip after the baby’s born?” He prodded, hoping that she’d excitedly recall the trip before. But instead she just shrugged, her eyes cast downward. “I know the money helps, I guess I just have other things to think about now. You know…” She trailed off, not really needing to finish the sentence as they sat surrounded by brightly colored baby clothes. It didn’t bother him that she wanted to go less, he was happy that she was so focused on giving him a beautiful healthy child and he wanted nothing more than to see that baby in her arms. They had both always wanted kids, it was one of the first things they had agreed on. As much as he loved going out on his adventures, he loved the idea of having a family more. Someone to come back to after a long day was worth more than anything, he thought. And Janet would always be there for him, she had said so a couple hundred times. He imagined that this trip being pushed on him was a last gift to him, something to keep him happy until it was okay to go back, which could be a long time he knew. As one song melted into the next he noticed the familiar red and green buzzing lights up ahead, their bright faces a beacon in the dark countryside. The sign reading “OPEN 24 HOURS” blinking in the black night, bugs flying around it like addicts to the neon god. He knew the gas station would be empty this far out of town at this late hour and he knew this was exactly the area he had planned to end up at. Pulling into the parking lot was as familiar as holding his wife’s hand, but still his heart beat a little faster as his tires sped over the rough gravel and stopped in the first space available. His bag was sitting on the seat next to him and he leaned over to unzip it slowly, appreciating the anticipation that always wiggled through his stomach. Inside he felt his familiar belongings, Janet knew what he would have needed. The black cloth that he felt between his fingers was soft and light, a great piece that he had picked up years earlier. He used to use a knitted ski mask but the fabric was too thick and warm and he didn’t like feeling constricted during these trips, it was supposed to be fun. The mask he held was similar in shape but thin and made of spandex instead. It always felt likely to show too much but it hadn’t disappointed him yet and it did the trick. He pulled the material over his head and stretched it down over his ears, the excitement building up once again. Looking in the mirror he smiled to himself, proud that he had come as far as he had without being caught. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the last item from his bag, a small and lightweight 9mm handgun, and stuffed it into his waistband. He had only ever used it three times. Warning shots to wannabe heroes that tried to interfere. He’d never killed anyone, he wasn’t sure he could if the situation called for it, but he liked to think so. Janet was always too afraid to even point her gun at anyone, she used to say that they could probably get the same results without the guns, but Jack thought that was too risky. And anyways, he liked it, it made him feel so much more in control, which was the best part about the trip. Jack had started this hobby because of a simple and universal need for more cash. He had just lost a large sum in a relentless poker game, and he felt that he really had no choice. He didn’t expect to like it as much as he did. The absolute power that coursed through his veins became addictive. Being in total control was something he rarely experienced in his life except on these trips, when nothing could stop him. The car door slammed behind him as he casually walked up to the front entrance. The familiar ding announcing his presence as he pushed the handle and slowly walked in. Nothing was unique about this place. It's fluorescent lights bounced off the white checkered tile below his feet and lit up the whole store like it was daylight. He could smell pine floor cleaner and stale hot dogs, the scent filling his memories of past trips. The room was fairly small with only four or five aisles, loaded with various chips and small brightly labeled items. It was quiet except for the barely audible instrument playing over the speakers, the elevator music making the store feel even smaller. Behind the counter sat a scrawny kid, barely 18 years old. Greasy hair hung low over his face and wrapped around to the back of his head. His eyes were closed and his cheek was leaned against one hand, drool gleaming on the skin of his palm. Jack chuckled to himself before he lifted the 9mm and tapped it on the counter, the hard plastic sounding louder than it should have in the small quiet store. The cashiers eyes flew open, his glasses falling to the bridge of his nose and his hand slamming down on the table in surprise. He looked at Jack with shock, his sleepy eyes taking in the situation and the gun in jacks hand, seemingly unable to grasp what was happening. He stuttered but didn't move. Smart kid, Jack thought, at least there won’t be any heroes tonight. “Alright listen, I think it’s pretty obvious why I’m here. Money, now. Put it in the bag.” he set his bag on the counter next to the kid and pointed his gun at it. “O-o-okay...uh o-okay” the kid stammered, his pale complexion even whiter than it was before. He reached for the register and started to open it. Jack felt pleased with himself. He thought about how many times he had done this. How comfortable he felt now. The kid's face looked scared, but Jack felt great, he felt alive. His heart started beating faster and his nerves twitched. He supposed that it was wrong to most people, but he wasn’t hurting anyone, not unless they made him. He just wanted the excitement and adrenaline rush. He thought of himself similar to a skydiver or a racecar driver, it was a sport to him. He watched the kid put his bills into the bag, probably no more than two or three hundred dollars, but the money wasn't really what Jack wanted anyway. It helped, especially with the baby on the way and he supposed that was why Janet allowed him to keep going. But no matter how often he tried to convince himself that it was only for the money, he couldn’t deny how it made him feel. When he was done, Jack zipped the bag closed and decided to pick up some snacks while he was here. He usually wouldn't have turned his back on the clerk. He usually wouldn't have even considered doing so. But he felt confident this time, he felt on top of the world. He was a pro and this kid was too scared shitless to try anything. So he did, he turned away and started walking towards the aisle with all the chips. He barely heard the gun being cocked behind him. He definitely hadn’t noticed that the kid had kept looking below the counter when he was giving him the money. There was a faint yet audible click from behind Jack. The gunshot rang through the store with so much ferocity that it seemed to shake everything, like the whole building could have been falling down. A ringing filled his ears as he took in a deep breath. The lights seemed brighter than he remembered, their buzzing reminded him of a bug light, the kind he and Janet had on their front porch. Everything swam in front of his vision silently, dancing around him like some strange animated movie. Suddenly he noticed how tight his sweater was, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He tried pulling at it but when he took his hands away he could only see bright red glaring back at him. Jack felt pain racing through his shoulder as he fell against the ground. Blood soaking through his top jacket and staining the white floor beneath him. The pain was so sharp that jack could barely remember where he was and what had happened. He was so confident that everything would be fine. Images of his new baby in Janet’s sweet arms filled his mind. What would they do without him? The agony through his right side was unbearable. He hated himself just then, he hated that he needed this last trp, and that Janet was waiting for him at home. He hated that he had turned around and let the kid get the better of him. The buzzing came back first, bouncing off the walls of his eardrums painfully. He could distantly hear the sound of the sirens barreling down the quiet road. Not being able to feel much of his arm or back, he thought he was probably pretty lucky to be alive. As the sirens got closer, Jack closed his eyes tight against the red hot fire burning it’s way along his side. He pictured Janet opening the front door for him and smiling brightly as ever, and somehow this made the pain feel even worse.