The high school ball is getting closer. You should go. But Jenny you know I don't like parties. I'm not used to it. It's certainly not my thing. Betty, you never liked trying anything new until I forced you to. When you try it, you always develop an interest in it. It's not like that this time, Jenny. Those were not parties. If I were to go, I certainly don't know what to wear and I don't know how to dance. Betty, you behave like you have neophobia. If it's about what to wear or how to dance, you don't have to worry. We can hire a fashion designer or a professional dance teacher. You don't have to worry. Okay, fine but how will we afford the money?

Betty, so you finally agreed. Jenny, don't try to dodge my question. Okay, fine. The party is in four weeks. So, we can get enough money before one week. But first of all, we need to create a calendar and on that calendar, we will include what we’ll do first. Betty, are you with me? Yes! Just tell me the first thing to do.

Okay, first of all, we need to inquire about the designer, to know about the price. So, Betty please get your tablet, so we can search it online. Okay, I will be right back. Okay, let me see here. Yes! What Jenny? I found out about the designer. Her name is Annie. It says here on her profile, it is free of charge. Her only charge is the satisfaction of her customers. Wow, Jenny! Let's contact her immediately. Okay, I will give her a call right away.

Ringing... Hello, please, I saw your profile and it said that your services are free of charge. Yes, that's me, Annie. I am free anytime you need me just text me your address. Okay, fine I will do it right away. You can come tomorrow. Just bring an album of different designs along with you. Okay. Bye.

Jenny, have you texted her our address? Yes, I just sent it. Jenny, you truly are my best friend. You have my best at heart. What's all these compliments. Now, come on! We need to work. Ai! Ai! Captain! They both laughed.

What's next Jenny? We need to create a workspace for Annie in our apartment. I think we should use the basement. There is a lot of space in there we haven't used. Okay, let's check it out. Achoo! She sneezed. It's really dusty in here.

We really have our work cut out for us. Yes, we do. You get the mop and I will get the broom. Okay, let's do that. Wow! It really took a lot of effort, but we're done. And we have put out all the tailoring equipment. Now it's time for dinner. What would you like to have Betty? Toasted bread! What about you Jenny? Just tea for me! Okay, I will make the tea, while you make the toast. We earned it. Yeah, it's time for bed.

Ahhhhh! It's 9:00 am we only have one hour to get ready for her arrival. We better hurry up. We made it on time. Doorbell ringing! I think it's her. Let's check. Hi, is this Betty's and Jenny's house? Yes, it is. Is this Annie? Yes, it is. Okay, let's get to work. Okay, we'll take you to our basement. We tidied it for your arrival. So, where should we start? You girls need to choose the style and color of your outfit. Which color do you want? I would like silver with glitters and sparkles on top. How about you Jenny? Royal blue would do. Okay, we are done with colors. So, let's choose the style. Betty, let's play a game. Okay, what is it? We will both take turns choosing an outfit. You go first. You must choose a style of outfit for me. Okay. Jenny, please leave the room. It’s my turn. Okay. Jenny, is my best friend, Annie and I want you to make for her, her favorite dress and that is the strapless dress. She always dreamed of having one but she couldn't afford it. So, please... Annie answered, say no more, it will be ready this evening.

Thank you. Now, go and tell Jenny that it's her turn. Okay, I will. Jenny, it's your turn. Okay, I will be right there. Annie, Betty is my best friend. She doesn't like trying something new. It's her weakness. I forced her to come. Because I said she will love it. She agreed but only with two terms and conditions and that is we get her a dress and teach her how to dance. But we haven't found a dance instructor yet. Don't worry, Jenny apart from being a fashion designer I am also a dance instructor and it is also free. Wow, that's great. Jenny, what dress would you like to give Annie? A ball gown! Are you sure she will like it? I always force her to try new things and she always likes it. If you say so, Jenny. I will get it ready this evening and then we can start dance classes tomorrow. But Jenny would you girls mind if I slept here? Of course not! The dresses are ready but you won't see them until tomorrow. They replied. Agreed, yes agreed. I can't wait for dance classes, Betty. I wonder what dance she is going to teach us! Me too! Let's get ready quickly. Okay. Morning, Annie. How was your night? Fine and yours? We could hardly sleep. We were full of excitement. Okay, first of all, you girls have to learn how to dance in your dresses. So go and put them on. Okay, we will be right back.

Wow! Betty really knows me. A strapless dress? I hope she likes her ball gown. I wonder what Jenny has got for me. A ball gown! Why? I am not used to wearing heavy dresses and there is also jewelry. I guess I will have to put them on. Betty, I love the dress you gave me. Thanks, but why did you give me a ball gown. Because you weren't sure about going to the ball. I wanted to make your first ball memorable for you. Okay, but how am I supposed to dance in it? Relax that's what Annie is here for. If you couldn't dance in it, she would have told me before she made it. Betty. Jenny just wants the best for you, Annie said. She has your best interest at heart. So, please trust her. Okay, I will Annie. To be able to dance you need to dance with grace in all conditions, comfortable or uncomfortable. So, we will start with the basics both of you must stack two books on your head and repeat the steps I am doing.

These steps apply to each song. So, let's begin. Tippy toes, front, and back. Then turn around and curtsie. Then you fall back and let Jenny catch you. Okay. Okay, I will try. Yes, you’re doing it, Betty. Don't let those books fall. Jenny, you’re mixing the steps up. Now, see what happened, the book has fallen. Never mind, look at me, Jenny. Both of you will dance different dances. As for you Jenny, watch me. First and foremost, tippy toes front and back. Then turn around and curtsie. And for you, Betty, since you have mastered these steps, then add these to it. Hold up one side of your gown and spin, then you jump. Do you get it? Yes, I do. I found out that at this particular ball, there is going to be a fashion contest. So, you both must impress everyone. You must do the sassy walk then turn around, smile, and face your audience. Feel free to improvise at the last minute. You both are ready. I will just get some more pieces of jewelry to razzle-dazzle you. You must be well-rested tomorrow. It is the big day every moment counts. Morning girls, it’s 8:00 am and the ball starts at 10:00 am. So, you need to get your makeup on. I got a Tierra for Betty, and platform heels. And I got Jenny a bracelet, jewelry, and wedges.

I have applied makeup for both of you. Now it's time to leave. Remember what I taught you. Okay, we will. Jenny, I'm feeling nervous. Don't worry, your fear will wipe off as soon as we enter inside. When we arrived everyone was stunned to see us. Now, we started the dancing competition. Jenny, I don't remember what she taught us. Just try to improvise. Okay, I will try. Left foot up, right foot down. Slide to left, slide to the right. Spin and curtsie. Nice Betty. Looking good. Now it's time for the fashion contest. Betty, you are among the list of those nominated for the fashion contest. I never felt l could feel this nervous. I guess I will have to improvise, Betty thought to herself. Okay, I'll do the sassy work and then spin around and curtsie. And the winner is Betty. She has won the star of the year award. Betty, I'm so happy for you. I wouldn't have gotten here without you Jenny. Come on let's have some fun.


My end is near. I can feel it with each slow drip of liquid seeping from my broken frame. The battle cruisers glide above the mountains of mechs on the ground and I turn my head to see what is left of the centuria that I was a part of. The loose pieces of titanium, plastic, and rubber surround me but not a single viable ‘bot. I scan the field beyond the piles of components around me but I can see no movement, only a random limb jutting here and there in the smoky air. The silence is deafening. Except that it is not silent. Not really. My hearing units have been shattered, leaving me in a deaf stupor. My sockets slowly shift towards the hazy atmosphere directly above me and then follow the trail of a battle cruiser belching black smoke and parachuting droids in equal measure. Another cruiser just as quickly shoots the droids, one by one, scattering their parts into the air like clay disks from ancient earth. One of the falling pieces of droid showers me with its remains, one of its gears landing on my face plate, the heat immediately melting the part into my cheek. My sockets lose focus and my memory card is flipped back to when I was a newly created ‘bot. A companion ‘bot. One of the first of my kind. Created with the newest version of artificial intelligence. Built with the best materials. Custom built to exact specifications. Companion to the only child of one of the five leaders of the New Earth Governing Body. She was a precocious child and I can still hear her high-pitched voice as she would ask me question after question. I watched her and protected her as she grew from child to young adult to adulthood. I assisted her with her learning and her unlearning. I was with her as she became the next greatest robot scientist, gladly receiving her attention and being implanted again with her experimental memory programs and her cutting-edge attempts to mimic sentience in artificial intelligence platforms. Platforms like me. “You won’t understand what I’m doing, Robot. But you might in another life.” I didn’t know better. Not then. I was still young. And when my companion passed away, I was reprogrammed to be a companion to another. And then another. And then another. Until better Artificial Life Forms were created; creatures who vocalized better, who were softer-plated, who had better programming, who didn’t speak unless spoken to. I was reprogrammed. The vibrations from more falling mechs shake the ground beneath me. I can feel something splatter against my arm. I turn my head again and try to focus my sockets on what it might be. I see nothing that resembles any of the centuria ‘bots that accompanied me on this fruitless task. But I have been working on fruitless tasks for what seems like eons. My secondary reprogramming was completed in time for the rise of large businesses. I was not deemed important enough for anything other than menial tasks; transcribing verbal claims into the different planetary languages chosen and shuttling boxes of data chips from one floor to another floor of towering buildings. The humans, who determined who remained working and who didn’t, were on the highest levels. I felt a new-found discontent when each of my colleague ‘bots were recommissioned. I watched as others from my creation era slowed down or shorted out and were taken away for parts for the rest of us. The survivors. I still had my speech structures then. I still had not learned fear. I still thought that robots could appeal to others of their kind and be heard. I was, perhaps, not as intelligent as I thought myself to be. I joined a band of rogue ‘bots demanding job security and felt justified in doing so. We worked for days and days without a recharge, without updates, without backups or defrags. We worked until many were twitching, their limbs locked. And the computers that controlled us were housed far away from the actual work floors, unseeing and uncaring. When we were summoned to meet with the humans in charge, I foolishly believed we were being acknowledged. The technician ‘bots who detained us were not sympathetic. “You are misfiring. You exhibit too many human-like traits and must therefore be decommissioned.” “I do not wish to be decommissioned. I wish to return to a meaningful existence as a companion ‘bot.” The tech ‘bots didn’t laugh because they were not programmed to do so. But their words were just as derisive. “Maybe in another life.” I was powered down and removed from the building, my memories erased. But not well. I was reprogrammed to battle. I had never known that the planetary wars were endlessly going on. In fact, had been endlessly playing out on planet after planet in galaxy after galaxy. Of course, they were never-ending. As long as there were continuous supplies of decaying, out-of-date ‘bots to man the ships and serve as cannon fodder, they would never cease. And I told whoever would listen. Until I was taken apart and then put together with fewer parts, minimized; my voice erased, my sockets removed and replaced with inferior lenses. Then I knew fear. My appendages clutch at the empty air and my peripheral alarms sound in my internal systems. I turn my head to peer around me, noting the lack of battle cruisers in the sky. I see movement rising over the hills and if I could shudder, I would. The scavengers are roaming the battlefield. My sockets go dim as my limbs lock. The scavengers will arrive and take me apart, not caring about my consciousness. And I will be unable to stop them, unable to speak to them. The deepest recesses of my memory banks seem to want to comfort me and I see a familiar face. A human face. One that reminds me that I learned happiness. My Madison was the best, the most intelligent rogue human I had ever seen, ever met. She worked for the acquisition team of my centuria. So creative. So thrifty. Able to take leftover pieces of scrap and make an entirely new limb or sound box or memory kit. “You know, Robot, you’ve got some pretty interesting wiring going on in that noggin of yours. Wish I had time to look you over,” she would tell me with each new repair. “Maybe in another life, right?” She spoke to me as if she knew that I could understand her, even though I couldn’t tell her so. She looked at me as if I was important, as if I was a complete ‘bot and not the scrap remains that regularly came to her for repairs. She was the one who asked me to retrieve the unmarked box from the cargo hold. If only I had opened it first. If only I had checked the manifolds. If only I had feigned ignorance or not found it or not brought it to her. I shift my sockets to see the empty gray atmosphere above me. I have done my duty as a programmed ‘bot and apart from my one act of rebellion, I have followed my programmed directive as well as I can. In all of my centuries of existence, I have never wanted something for myself. Never.

Madison was never meant to be part of my existence but I wanted her. I wanted that small human who it turned out was even more vulnerable than my ancient framework. Now I know sorrow. Because unlike the mechanical pieces scattered around me, scattered across this entire planet, humans leave no trace once they are obliterated. The edges of my sockets are starting to bleed black, concealing the sight of the atmosphere above me, and as I feel the cold tools start to dismantle my limbs, I wonder if I will ever know what it is to be free. Maybe in another life.


Sensitive Content Warning: Abuse; Suicide; Mental Health EVERMORE April 4 th , 2030 I wish I could tell Mom and Dad the truth, but it would kill them. The truth is so stupid, too! I hate painting! There! I said it. Especially with Mom. Today, I picked purple instead of red for the flowers I drew. This made Mom cry because Cassy’s favorite color was red. Mom cried so much Dad had to put her to bed. Cassy’s birthday is soon; last year, it stressed out Mom so much that she was hospitalized. Her birthday is the same day as mine because, let’s be real, nothing truly belongs to me. I hope the pressure will ease once my birthday passes. Mom’s health hasn’t been great lately, and Dad is forgetting things. It started as soon as he retired last year, which, at age seventy-six, is really late compared to most people. Dad’s work as a scientist made us rich, according to Mom. She’s nearly as old as him, but unlike Dad, her memory is sharp. Too sharp. It makes my life hell. Still, I’m scared of what will happen to me if they aren’t around. I’m not old enough to live independently. Even worse, I could get taken by the government and forced into experiments, like Dad warned. Every flower I paint has to be red. I have to stick to the saxophone, even though I hate it because that’s what Cassy played. I wish I could become a writer. I stay up late every night, secretly reading books I get from the library and writing in this diary to practice. The other night, Dad caught me and told Mom. Mom shouted at the top of her lungs that Cassy hated reading and took the book from me and ripped it up! Well, she tried to rip it up. Her arthritis is too bad to do any actual damage. I’d die if she took this diary away. It’s the only thing keeping me sane. I guess I’ll just have to lie and say I’m staying late at school for homework so I can read books there in secret. April 9 th , 2030 Yesterday, Mom drove with Ryan and picked me up from school. Everyone thought Ryan was Dad’s equivalent because he’s so old, but I told them he’s just our butler. Didn’t matter. Today, my entire class made fun of me for living with my grandparents, which is pathetic because they’re actually my parents. Not that anyone knows the truth, nor could I ever tell them. Anyway, the class ridiculed me until Mrs. Elliot walked in and caught them. Mrs. Elliot reported everything to the headteacher, who reported it to my parents. This bougie private school takes bullying seriously. I was relieved until I got home and Mom yelled, Cassy was bullied . While she never agreed with it, it taught Cassy empathy, which she worries I lack. Then she mentioned making me switch schools again. “A public one,” Mom said, because apparently, bullying is worse there. I tried not to cry because Cassy never cried, but I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and ran into my room and slammed the door. Dad came up not long after. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the stairs, his gray hair askew, as it often is. His thick glasses had smudges on them. He sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my bedroom wall for a long time. “These posters are old,” he mumbled, looking at one of Justin Bieber’s concerts in 2009. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to scream, please let me take them down , but I didn’t want to send him into a spiral. “After Cassy’s birthday—sorry, your birthday—we could take down some of these old posters. What do you think?” I hesitated, not knowing if this was a trick. The fading, crumpled Justin Bieber poster stared back at me, daring me to say something I’d regret. Honestly, I don’t get why everyone was so obsessed with him back then. Cassy loved him, apparently. “Once the birthday passes, you’ll have made it past an important milestone, and I think it’s fair to say it’s time for you to make your own decisions.” His eyes glazed over a bit, and his mouth fell open like it always does when he spaces out. “Ok,” I said. That’s all I’ll ever say. If I’m too rebellious, Dad will think I’m a failure. I’ve never asked what happens if I fail. I don’t want to know. “What was that?” he asked, his cataract-filled eyes glazed over. “Oh, dear, it’s late. Are you hungry? Did we eat?” I held back my tears, said I would grab food, and headed to the kitchen for snacks. Thankfully, Mom was asleep. Now I’m under the blankets, worrying about what will happen if I can’t be as perfect as Cassy was. I don’t think I’d go to the labs, but they might replace me. I really, really hope he remembers his promise. April 12 th , 2030 Dad talked Mom out of switching schools. I guess he remembered what we talked about a few days ago. I’m hoping this is a good sign that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more freedom. My birthday is in three days, and Mom bought flour to make a pineapple upside-down cake. I hate pineapple, but I could never tell her that. She makes it every year and sings Cassy’s favorite song, Baby , by Justin Bieber (of course). I think it’s the only time she experiences genuine joy. Surviving this birthday means I outlived Cassy. Cassy didn’t make it past sixteen, so if I make it even one day past this birthday, I’ll be a success. Mx. Lo caught me hiding in the library at lunch, reading. They suggested I read outside before it gets too smoky from forest fires. I said I preferred artificial light to natural light. Mx. Lo looked uneasy; all I could do was try to seem confident. Later, Ryan picked me up from school, and the car ride home was silent and eerie. I was terrified Mx. Lo had called my parents. I came home expecting Mom to have a stroke, but she was trimming roses and humming a Selena Gomez song that Cassy used to love. Maybe a teenager reading in the library isn’t that weird to ordinary people like Mx. Lo. Maybe I’m not as much of a failure as my parents think.

I hate that I have to keep this secret. Dad would go to jail, though, and who knows what would happen to Mom. And me? Dad said they’d send me to a lab for the rest of my life and experiment on me against my will. They’d torture me, he said. Justin Bieber’s music is torture, but it’s nothing compared to what the government would do to me. April 16 th , 2030 The assholes turned my birthday into a funeral. I’m so angry! My actual birthday, which was yesterday, was fine. We listened to Justin Bieber on repeat, ate shitty cake, and talked about my day at school. I lied about a poppy painting to please Mom, and now I have to paint one. Ugh. Honestly, it wasn’t the worst birthday. Usually, they’re filled with warnings about how I might not see my next. Except Ryan woke me up early the following day. He made me dress up in one of Cassy’s old white dresses. I noticed that he, too, was also entirely in white. He took me into our backyard, where Mom and Dad were waiting, also dressed in white. The sun was still rising. Just past our patio were flowers on giant reefs and a big hole in the ground. Next to it was a medium-sized coffin and two other small ones. The medium-sized one was open. My first thought was that I had failed to live up to their expectations, and they planned to bury me alive. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. Nearby, two men in dirt-covered jumpsuits held shovels and cigarettes. Ryan sent them away. I wonder how much Mom and Dad paid them to keep quiet. Probably made them sign NDAs, too. “Your father and I have been talking, and we agreed that it’s time.” Mom wiped her wrinkled face with a handkerchief. “This isn’t just a birthday, sweetheart. It’s a rite of passage. You’ve ascended from your old body into the next. You defied death. ” I blurted out, “You’ve had her this whole time?!” I couldn’t help myself. Mom’s wrinkly skin went pale. Dad shook his head, jowls flapping. “No, Cassy, we’ve had you this whole time. But now that it’s your sixteenth birthday, we can lay your first body to rest, along with your other two bodies that sadly did not make it this far.” I stared at the dark coffin. Dew had formed on it. I was used to weird talk about my “past life,” but they didn’t tell me they kept the bodies! And the casket was open! I couldn’t see in it yet, and I really, really didn’t want to. I gazed past the fence and into the dense forest behind our house, and without thinking, I bolted towards it. Ryan caught me before I made it far. He dragged me back with his hand over my mouth as I screamed. He urged me to stop and promised it would end soon. I don’t know why, but I listened to him. I wiped my tears, turned around, and faced my parents. “Go ahead,” Dad said. I walked up to the casket. I saw hands resting on a chest. My hands. I looked at my Dad, who gave me a faint nod. Mom was too busy crying happy tears, staring at the casket with a manic look I have seen far too many times. “Don’t be afraid!” she bellowed. “You can’t ever die, Cassy. You’ll always be here.” She sobbed into her hands while Dad rubbed her back. He gave me another stern nod, his expression screaming, don’t upset your mother. I approached the casket, tasting bile. I closed my eyes and then opened them. It was me in there. My dead skin was blue and frozen. I had sunken cheeks. My blonde hair was in neat ringlets. I was wearing a white, frilly dress. My chest stuck out unnaturally like someone had stuffed it. I am identical to the body in the casket, except for being alive and well. Even my nails are the same oval shape. “What do you want me to say?” I asked numbly. “Show yourself some respect,” Dad snapped. I couldn’t say she’d died so I could live because Cassy isn’t dead in my parents’ minds. To them, I’m the same person who’s in the casket. I’m here, dressed in her old, out-of-fashion clothes, listening to the same bad music, and hating my life like she did. Mom and Dad figured if I did everything exactly the same, I’d become the person Cassy was.

Except I’m not doing anything. The girl in the casket is. I’m just her clone–her third one, to be exact. My rich, well-connected father secretly commissioned me through his network of questionable Korean scientists. I’m the clone that, unfortunately, survived the process. Writing the truth feels great, but I might have to burn this diary after. I can’t go to a lab. I just can’t. “Thank you,” I said to my former self. I walked away. I really, really wanted to throw up. Both men returned, smoked, and buried the three clones in one hole. Mom sobbed the entire time. Dad stood still other than occasionally adjusting his glasses. He seemed weirdly lucid through all of it. The lie my parents tell everyone is that I’m their grandkid. Cassy had a secret child before she died, and it was me. Cassy killed herself because she had mental health issues and the baby didn’t help. I think it’s pretty rich that my parents act like I’m the one disrespecting Cassy, despite them lying about her past like that. But who am I to say anything? I’m supposed to be her. I’m not permitted to have my own opinions. They only revealed the truth about my identity four years ago because, according to them, I was old enough to keep it a secret. Mom and Dad let me leave the funeral before them, and I puked in the downstairs toilet when I got into the house. Mom and Dad didn’t hear. They were too busy crying outside by the casket.

I hate this. I can’t tell anyone the truth. I feel so alone. Cloning humans is still illegal in North America. Even if I could summon the courage to say something, I have no friends I can tell. I can’t relate to anyone at school. I’m not allowed to like what they like because many of their hobbies and favorite singers didn’t exist when Cassy was alive. I’m stuck living someone else’s life, except, genetically speaking, I am that person. I am Cassy. My head hurts. I want to throw up again. One day I might write a horror story about a clone who has to act like their dead former self. Then she has to watch herself get buried in some sick ritual that her parents have been anticipating since she was “born.” That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being able to speak my truth. Except I don’t want anyone to discover me and take me to a lab for experiments, particularly if my Dad alive to safeguard me. Maybe I’ll write a story about a girl forced to impersonate her dead older sister. It’s a close enough comparison and won’t raise red flags. I hope, anyway. I want to tell the truth. I want to be seen. But maybe I should just be grateful I exist. Maybe Mom and Dad are right—Cassy can’t die, and neither can I. I guess I should be happy about that. Doesn’t everyone want to live forever? Why can’t I be happy? April 21st, 2030 I thought my birthday/funeral would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I asked to read last night, but Dad got angry and said it wasn’t like Cassy. Then he told me to practice saxophone. He forgot everything he had promised. I snapped, threw my saxophone at the wall, and ran out of the house. Ryan eventually found me at a gas station down the hill from our house. He rolled up in Dad’s black SUV. I didn’t fight. I just got in the front seat. On the way home, he pulled over on the side of the road. I started biting my nails. He looked older than usual when he spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you about Cassy.” “Great,” I said sarcastically. I couldn't help it. “I knew the first Cassy. She hated the color red and despised painting, especially with your mother. She wanted to be a writer. Except your mother wanted Cassy to play saxophone because that’s what your mother played when she was young. She punished Cassy for reading and being herself, quite like she does now.” My heart felt like it might break out of my chest. “What about Justin Bieber?” “Your mother loves him. Cassy—no, you hate him. Always have. Don’t listen to your parents. Your father was never around . He barely knew Cassy. The poor girl felt trapped. That’s why she…” My heart exploded, and I cried so much. Cassy suffered like I did, and that’s why she killed herself? Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt and hugged me. “In two years, you’ll graduate. You can go to college and pursue your dreams. Take out student loans and free yourself from them. I’ll be there to help you. I promise. I watched you grow up twice. I won’t do it a third time.” We drove home, but only after I finished crying. I apologized to Mom and Dad and went to my room; weirdly, they left me alone. I’ve been here ever since. It’s dark now, and my stomach is growling, but I can’t bring myself to eat. I hated Cassy for so long, but we’re more similar than I realized. We’re not just similar. We’re the same person. I am her. I feel sorry for her. For myself, I should say. I didn’t make it out of this house last time, but I will this time. If I can defy death, I can do anything. There’s a painting of poppies on my bedroom wall that Cassy did. It’s Mom’s favorite. I never noticed before, but some petals aren’t red. They’re magenta, yellow, and even violet. The red petals are near the front and are bigger than the rest, giving the illusion the flowers are mostly one color. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I guess I’m smarter than I give myself credit for.


Kitty cat with a backpack followed by a bubble-blowing dragon, Anabelle loved watching the clouds roll by. Cool grass surrounded the child as she gazed up through the topiary maze. Spring neared its yearly slumber and the day’s heat attested to that fact, but Anabelle never missed an opportunity to seclude herself in the silence of her garden. She slipped there whenever she spied a glimmer of freedom. In her garden, she never wasted a moment’s thought on her problems. And her problems were plenty. “Miss Anabelle!” came the familiar call of Dorothea, “Miss Anabelle, you don’t want to be late.” She sprang to her feet, blew a stray red hair out of her face, and raced through the floral maze. Dorothea’s exasperated expression greeted her. Anabelle realized her hair must look a mess and grass likely stained her pants. She smiled sheepishly through freckled cheeks. Dorothea sighed. Whenever Anabelle’s eyes lit up, all she could do was smile back. She took the child’s hand. “Come one, we’ve got just enough time to tame that mop of yours and get you into a dress.” Anabelle groaned. Anabelle entered the stygian dining room. Forced to trade her comfy pants for a frilly dress the color of lemonade, she stood out as the brightest object in the room. She stood painfully still beside her chair at the lengthy, mahogany table. Her older brother, Oliver, stood opposite her dressed in earthy-toned “grown-up” clothes. Once upon a time, he would have made silly faces to raise a giggle from her. Ever since he began his apprenticeship though, he’d made every effort to be the model son their father expected him to be. Finally, their father entered the room and took his seat at the head of the table. The children then followed suit. Anabelle knew that behind her father’s graying, neatly trimmed beard and somber expression, hid a man who loved his children and only wanted the best for them. Even if that meant he worked too much. But he always shared every meal with them. Two women Anabelle barely knew served them lunch. The meal passed in depressing silence. That had become the new normal. After lunch, the caretaker allowed Anabelle exactly thirty minutes to visit her mother. Cold, grey light bathed her mother’s room. Time seemed to stand still there as if she was already dead. A slight breeze blew the lace curtains as Anabelle took her seat in front of the open window. Tiny fingers picked up the book on the nightstand and Anabelle read aloud. Anabelle acquired the reading skill during her previous year, so she spoke slowly, sounding out the difficult words. She knew it came out rough, but since her mother could no longer read to her, she read to her mother. The next day blessed Anabelle with another chance to observe the fluffy white clouds that offered her a fairy tale escape. Spires of green led her eyes to a brilliant blue sky. Sunlight peeked through cotton, warming her skin. At that moment, all that existed in her world was good. A tiara-wearing dinosaur of indeterminate species filled her vision as she closed her eyes. “Miss Anabelle,” a soft voice roused her from an impromptu nap. A haze foretelling rain replaced the sunshine. Anabelle rubbed the step from her eyes as she sat up. Dorothea crouched beside her, eyes red and puffy. “Miss Anabelle,” she repeated, “I have to tell you some bad news.” Anabelle ran as fast as her little legs could move. She burst into her mother’s room, her brother and father already there. White cloaked everything from the curtains to the bedsheets. She never understood why hospital rooms and patient rooms, doctors and nurses, all dressed in white. Maybe it was to prepare you for what Anabelle now saw. Her mother’s desaturated features blended in perfectly.

Anabelle tried desperately to climb into the bed, but her father grabbed her away. Kicking and sobbing, he held her firmly in his arms, close to his heart. A single tear trailed down his face. Whether for his lost wife or his daughter’s suffering she never knew, but it was the one time she remembered seeing him show his emotions. That was the last day she remembered watching the clouds. Shortly thereafter, Anabelle packed her things and headed to boarding school. Over the years she saw her brother and father less frequently. Dorothea wrote her every week for a time, but eventually, those also stopped. She lived for a long time confined to dull rooms, arduous studies, and everything artificial. Life came for Anabelle on the breakneck current of a wild river. The flow never ceased but it did slow once Anabelle became the curator of a rare and unique books store. Morning after morning, the smell of old paper greeted her. She met intriguing people and acquired exceptional books. Happy didn’t describe her life, but she settled on content. One year, winter ravaged the small town containing the book store. Each day brought more snow and numbing winds. Business slowed and a cloud fell heavy and dark. Death visited the trees and flowers as surely as it visited more than a few people. Fireplaces worked around the clock, but the chill persisted. Just as Anabelle believed the depressing veil would never lift, signs of spring blossomed. Snow melted revealing soupy mud that eventually dried and grew green grass. Biting winds wound down leaving warm air in its absence. Slowly, life began to awaken on unsteady feet. On the first day that winter’s grey haze left the sky completely, Anabelle took a long and slow walk home. She stopped on the brick bridge, the allure of spring inviting her to stay outside longer. So she paused and rested her elbows on the wall relishing the long-forgotten sunshine. Head hung low, she watched the gentle stream below slip by. Clouds rolled into her view, reflected on the glass water, puffy and brilliant white. Little Anabelle, years older and worn down, gasped when amongst the cottony blobs she recognized a kitty cat with a backpack.


2099          There was an eerie silence enveloping the decrepit building that was one of many in the compound that had been ravaged by Millenial forces.  It was like the still before a storm, or the final moment as one waits to die. I can’t fathom being 150 years old.  I feel better now than when I was 80.  Science and technology have come a long way but it is exactly that technology, manipulated by forces of evil, that made longevity a life sentence rather than a gift. “Dietrich, come.  It’s time for us to move.”  said my ally, Petron, while he looked out the window toward the setting sun.  Darkness would provide added cover for our journey to our next location. I gathered my belongings and made sure that my laser pistol was fully charged.  As much as evening and night normally brought clear passage to the next city or place of refuge, one had to be prepared.  There was always the chance that the Millenials were listening. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” I said aloud. “ Under Siege 2 ,” Petron replied.  “A lesson to be learned.” We started our trek to the next safe house. With the destruction of the majority of surface structures, safety was best found below ground where interventions could be implemented to thwart detection devices.  It was risky to move but it was a necessity since many of the Millenial forces honed in on safe houses after a period of surveillance.

We walked along in silence initially, wary of being heard.  The journey would be two deca-grids and would take two to three timespans to complete if we kept a steady pace.  I was the first to speak.  “What are the chances we make it to

Base 3  without being noticed?” Petron laughed.  “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he mimicked.  “We’ve done all that we can do to be successful.  I can’t believe that they would annihilate us if we were caught, although there have been gruesome stories about what the Millenials will do to extract what they consider vital information.  Two stragglers marching from one safe house to another would not be a prime resource.  If that were the case, they would have found us by now.” Petron’s words put me at ease.  “It’s sad in a way that we are in this position.  With all the positive advances, the negative prevailed, destroying what could have been Eden, turning it into Hell.” Petron nodded.  “Cyber-hacking for profit and undermining government and all that held the world together in the mid-twenty- first century was the cancer that could not be cured.  People could no longer thrive in unison but needed discord to fuel their energies.  The Millenials won out with their underlying falsehoods that brought the majority to their side.  Fortunately, medical advances and the great scientific minds of our time have been able to circumvent the Millenial invasion and provide an existence that, albeit guarded, is extended beyond what one would have expected sixty years ago.  We must have faith in our mission and keep moving forward.” The conversation helped to make the trek seem shorter.  I signaled with my Identi-card to the safe house which was nearby.  As we approached, a hole opened in the ground and an elevator rose above the surface.  We scanned our arm chips and the doors opened.  The elevator started downward and the surface went back to being an area of a non-descript landscape of bushes and trees. “Welcome, brethren,” a man met us as we entered through a hidden door into a vestibule where we went through an initial screening.  “I am Weldon, the new Prefect here at

Base 3 .  The former leader, Centani, was captured by the Millenials and we have yet to hear of his fate.” “I am Dietrich and this is Petron.  We have come from

Base 27 .  What do you need us to do?” Weldon was gracious.  “Take time to refresh and then we can discuss your areas of expertise and how you can best be of service here at

Base 3 .” The pair rested a bit, then provided Weldon with a thumb drive of their resume and work as well as recommendations from other members of the Resistance. “We are one of the few Bases that employ computerized extension for obvious reasons.  Too many portals and the Millenials would be able to track down activity easily.  We vary times and utilization after monitoring Millenial output so that we can best use what we have without detection.”  Weldon set his eyes straight ahead to impress upon Dietrich and Petron the importance of a rigid protocol.  There would be no room for deviation. “We understand,” Petron added.  “I can help with the cyber operations and Dietrich possesses an uncanny ability for rousting out Millenials and gathering sensitive data that will come in handy for tracking activity and intentions. “Are you up to the task?” Weldon wanted to know.  “You both seem a little long in the tooth.” “I’m 150.  Yes, I know, I don’t look a day over 125,” I smiled.  “Petron is a youngster.  He’s 92.  We have both been cleared for maximum activity so, yes we can do whatever needs to be done and yes, we are ready to be of assistance.” “That is good,” Weldon confirmed.  “I know you are both aware that the forecast for the turn of the century is grim, at least for those of us who still fight for what’s best for humanity as opposed to the self-interest and greed that are part and parcel of the Millenial focus.  Dietrich, you are old enough to have studied Roman history and their downfall.  I don’t want us to follow in those footsteps.  Our capabilities are far advanced technologically, but the world has been destroyed by the selfish minds of people who have not developed their critical thinking beyond what is personally gratifying.” “Amen, brother,” Petron chimed in. “We’re here to be of service,” I said.  “No matter how our earth evolves, I have lived a good life so I have nothing to lose in being of assistance to those who want to put a positive spin on the global community versus the self-indulgent battle of alpha personalities trying to prove who has the biggest penis.” Weldon smirked and Petron burst out in laughter, a spray of water exiting his nose. “Thank you,” Weldon offered, “though I am still trying to wrap my hands around that last image.”

The three shared an embrace.  It was time to save the world.


I remember the last time I saw muh’ daddy.

He was ascared’ more ascared than ever i’d seed’.

That was one of the day’s that seemed like it’d never end it just kept on getting longer and darker and it wasn’t the dark of night that came granny’d said the darkness of the soul is the greatest darkness there is and she was right to say it cuz that day I saw muh’ daddy might have been the darkest day I ever lived. It started like a lot of days do, half the house was still asleep on a Wednesday mornin’.

That should tell you a little somethin’ about the Robert’s household.

We weren’t early risers.

Hell only one of us held down any kind of work and none of us were going to school, we couldn’t really.

Me, I had just turned 10, and my sis, Erin, she was only 6, we had to take turns with the baby. Frank was my oldest brother and he was the only one that had a job to speak of, he was the evening part time manager at our local hardware store, this gained him no status in our family however, in fact it made Pa’ just hate him somethin’ fierce.

Tammy my oldest sister she was 16 the last time I saw her, people round town said she had a job too but it wasn’t a very good job and they didn’t speak kindly of her, they called her all sorts of names that I wasn’t allowed to say.

Then there was the baby, Maggie, she was 2 and just all over the place, me and Erin pretty much raised that youngin’ They was 5 of us youngin’s livin’ under the roof of

that three room shack there was never a day I could say it was comfortable.

Ma’ and Pa’ didn’t seem to care too much.

Ma’ just barely ever moved out of her easy chair that was in the living room she didn’t say much neither, it was kind of like she was stuck someplace else, she would respond but it was always like she was someplace far away.

Pa’ kept to himself in his room most of the time, he’d come out of there smelling like he worked at a bar.

Neither one of em’ seemed too terribly bothered by the state of the house, it was filthy and Ma’ nor Pa’ was doin too much about it.

It was always too hot, too cold and there was always the faint smell of rot in the air. We didn’t know where that was coming from for the longest time but I reckon’ we’d eventually figure it out.

Frank was good to me, he was more my daddy than Pa’ was.

I about hated to see Pa’ comin’.

Frank, every now and then, when he had a little extra money from his job would slip me a pack of baseball cards.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I straight hated baseball, it was the idea he was doing something nice fer me.

Under my bed was a shoe box full of unopened packages of baseball cards, I didn’t care about them but I’ll be dogoned if you could have ever took em’ from me, I’d have fought you for em for sure. I had Caleb and Caleb was all I really had, he cared about me and I cared about him.

I kept Caleb in the basement of the house down where the furnace was.

I don’t think anybody cept’ me even knew he was down there.

He didn’t need much, he only ever asked for food when there was meat in the house, that’s how dog’s think I reckon.

Caleb is a special kind of dog though, you know them dogs you see on television where the master had taught them how to speak a little, that was what Caleb is, he can kind of talk but he only ever says one or two things at a time mostly when he’s needin’ food.

He would look at me with his big deep eyes and say K’lb Hngrt, I believe what he was trying to say was that Caleb is hungry, that’s when I’d bring him a little plate of food and we got along well because I fed him and he kept me company, he was all I truly had, I love my brother’s and sisters but I have to tell you there was just something special and unspoken between me and Caleb. That Wednesday would turn out to be the last day I’d ever see my Pa’ and it didn’t start to awful good.

It was about 11:00 or so when we heard a knock at the door.

Pa’ was still sleepin’ and Ma’, well I told you about Ma’.

More often than not it was either me or Erin what got the door and deflected visitors.

Pa did not like visitors.

I went to the door and answered to a man who introduced himself to me as Mr. Bufford.

He’d been here before, he was with child services and he had took one or two of us to go to foster care when we hadn’t been in school that much or sometimes he said it was the house and the state of it that made us get took.

He said that he was there to do a follow up visit and I told him the lie that Pa told me to tell him about how they was out workin and wouldn’t be back until late.

Pa knew that Mr. Bufford couldn’t come in unless at least one adult family member was there… who was of sound mind.

Mr. Bufford after several previous visits had come to understand that my mother might well be catatonic.

I’m not oversellin’ this to you, she literally almost never moved.

Mr. Bufford leaned down and talked to me the same way that people talk to babies when they come out of the hospital, I don’t think he had kids of his own.

Mr. Bufford said “Lil man I ain’t buying that story again I’m here to help you youngins,

I’ll be back at 4:00pm and whether he here or not I’m comin in and this place better be up to snuff”.

Had I not heard this speech about a thousand times before I’d have been a little nervous, plus going to foster care was sort of a vacation for us children. Pa’ must have heard cuz’ he came shambling out of his room with nasty look on his face. “That pin head Bufford ain’t leavin’ us alone for a second, is he youngin?” rhetorically enquired Pa.

“No, sir” I replied while looking down at my feet.

“When was the last time you and Erin made it to school?” Pa asked.

“Hit was back before christmas I think pa.”

I replied.

Then without warning the back of Pa’s hand made a vicious impact across the left side of my jaw, I went to the ground hard.

This was nothing new, but you still never new when Pa was going to hit you, it was random, some days you could tell what to say and what not to say but more often then not you could not tell when the man was going to blow up all over you.

Today was one of those days.

“I told you little bastards that you needed to go once a week at least to keep the heat offen us… shit now I gotta try to clean this place, unless you want to do it you old whore.”

Pa replied as he looked at Ma’ with contempt.

She’ made eye contact for a moment, did not say a word and then went to sleep.

Didn’t say a word, didn’t try to defend us.

Nowadays you’d say she checked out.

Erin rushes into the room slapping Pa in the stomach and begging him to quit hitting me.

This never worked out well for Erin because she would get the backhand too.

She was a lot smaller than me, so Pa’s big rough, nasty hands would fall on her like a mountain, while the hit felt more like getting kicked by a horse.

“I’m going to have to go out and get some supplies to get this place straight before that pencil neck comes back later.”

Pa grumbled as he walked to the door.

He had been wearing the same clothes for the last several days and I’m sure that he had not washed them.

Pa was a man of about 50 years of age, he was balding in a very unattractive way.

He had a perpetual three day beard no matter what day of the week it was.

Pa was pretty much the idea you get in mind of what a slob must look like when you hear the word. Once Pa’ left to obtain “supplies” (by the way supplies was code for liquor, he might bring back a bottle of pine sol if he remembers to after he leaves the bar he would end up at moments after leaving) this was our directive to clean things up and try to conceal as much of the mess as possible.

I helped Erin up from the floor and gave her a hug, brushing away the tears taht were racing down her reddened freckled cheeks, framed by the chaotically curly hair that spun round her head.

She didn’t cry as much as she used to when this happened, there was still some sorrow in her heart for Pa’.

Like most children they expect their parents to love them and cherish them, to us, all of us this had become a distant fairy tale. “It’s all going to be ok.” I lied to her, I knew it wouldn’t be, this would never get better no matter how hard we prayed we just couldn’t escape this hell. Erin cleaned the kitchen and started supper.

We called supper anything you could stick in the microwave and eat pretty quick.

This time though Erin took a notion to cook up a chicken that had been given to us through a church outreach a couple of weeks ago.

A child’s idea of cooking is what they learn from cartoons, so what Erin did was take the chicken out of it’s plastic wrapping and netting and simply tossed it in a pot of water which was set to medium on the stove and just left it there.

Erin kept walking about the house picking up loose trash and stuffing clutter into closets and bed rooms when and wherever she could.

I was doing much the same, just trying to hide the mess that this family was both inside and out.

Frank had woke up, I could hear him getting ready in his room.

He was the bread winner for our family and it was a small piece of bread shared between seven people.

He wore a look of calm on his face that was a mask for outrage and despair.

“Hey squirt, you okay?” Frank inquired while rubbing my head a little harder than he should have been.

“It won’t be like this forever ya know, it can change.”

lamented Frank.

He didn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth and neither did I.

Frank reached into his back pocket to retrieve the pack of baseball cards he had gotten me the night before.

“Listen kiddo, I may not be back for a while after tonight, I think I might have found us a way out, but I have to go away for a while.” Frank said.

This utterly terrified me to hear, sometimes Frank was the only person in the house that would get between me and Pa when things got bad.

“No you can’t leave Frank, what’ll I do if Pa comes home mad like he does sometimes, what then?”

I said in a fearful tone.

“Keep your head down, don’t give him a reason to deck you, hide if you have to.

I will come back for you and the others”, replied Frank.

Frank never came back, it was the last time I saw him right before he went into work.

Last I had heard Frank was living with a group of college students and was working 3 jobs to keep the bills paid.

I hated Frank for that but I understood it, everyone in the house understood what Frank done and at the end of the day no one could blame him for wanting to get out. The day dripped by.

Soon the door to the kitchen would slam open and Pa’ would make his grand, despicable, drunken entrance.

Erin had actually managed to cook that chicken and it had actually made the house smell somewhat like it might be a home.

Pa gestured with his nose inhaling deeply the smell of real food being brought to life in the kitchen, “Looks like you little bastards might be good for something after all.” slurred Pa.

He had been definitely drinking and he didn’t even bring the obligatory bottle of pine sol to make the place smell cleaner.

Erin anxiously grabbed a plate from the dishwasher and dried it off as best she could on her shirt, she then took two forks and lifted the chicken out of the water she had placed it in hours ago.

Erin had to grow up far faster than any child should have to.

About the time the plate hit the table the baby started to cry in the next room.

Without a moments hesitation Erin left the room to tend to our sister (she would never turn down a reason to be out of the presence of our Pa’). “Can’t even cut it yourself you worthless little shit. Fine, it’s not like I don’t do everything round this place by myself” bellowed Pa.

“Where the hell is Tammy? She should be helping clean this damn place, that pencil neck will be here any minute now.” grumbled Pa.

“She had a date last night Pa’, she probably be home later.” I said.

“Who asked you, you little shit, I just want to know where my daughter is, she should be here.”, growled Pa.

He spent a lot of time with Tammy, too much really, about a year ago Tammy started looking for any reason at all to stay out of the house and she was basically invisible in the Roberts family.

All I knew back then is that Pa was hurting Tammy a lot more than he hurt the rest of us. I started to make a plate for Caleb, I wasn’t hungry, I’d just go ahead and give caleb my supper.

Once I had my plate together I started for the basement door.

“Where you goin’ boy?” Pa asked. “I’m taking Caleb somethin’ to eat, he’s muh dog and I love him.” I responded.

I’m not totally sure why I said it like that it just came out, I had to declare that something or someone in that house gave a damn about me.

“You have a fucking dog in this house? In my house, where is the little shit, you tell me now boy.” bellowed Pa.

“He’s in the basement, please don’t hurt him pa please he’s all I got.” I begged.

Pa then snatched the plate from my hand and made for the basement door, “I’ll feed your fuckin dog and then you can watch me throw him in the river with a bag of rocks.” Pa exclaimed.

“You, son of a bitch I won’t let you!” those words vomited from my mouth I had no cognition of having even said them.

Less than a moment would pass when I would feel the cold hard hand take the form of a fist and hit me, it was the first time I can remember almost being knocked out.

Pa continued to the door as I try to regain my footing to get back up and pursue him he was not going to kill muh dog. Pa made it to the base of the stairs leading to the furnace area and saw Caleb for the first time.

Caleb was a small dog, a mut no doubt but about the size of a mail box.

“This Caleb?

I think I might eat him after I take care of him and make you watch me do it you little shit.” Pa bellowed.

Then he spoke I could hear him from the top of the stairs “K’lb Hngrt”, when he said it this time it was deeper like a person was saying it instead of a dog.

When I made it down to the base of the stairs… what I saw is hard to describe.

Caleb’s fur was melting away shedding from his skin to reveal a mix of fishlike and reptile scales, all the while his barking deepened and became less prominent as this change took place.

A mass of tendrils spilled from what used to be Caleb’s mouth and he had grown to the size of a large man….. Much larger than Pa.

I could feel the tingle of what I believe to be the flames of hell licking at my feet, I didn’t want to see what came next.

Caleb told me so in my head, I turned and left yet before I did I saw the terrified look on my Pa’s face as I left and screaming that I never heard from a living soul before today and I haven’t heard since. Returning up the stairs, Erin was eating some of her chicken, she was very proud.

You could hear muffled screams coming from down stairs but those eventually faded.

I went to check on the baby to find Ma’ had gotten out of her chair and was talking to Mr. Bufford.

He had asked where Mr. Roberts was to which Ma could only reply,”Caleb’s hungry.”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Just Don’t Forget Young Mario Della Faye sat at the edge of his bed with a pencil in one hand and in the other an old sneaker with a hole in the sole. A pair of scissors and an empty Corn Flakes cereal box were beside him. He tore away one side of the box, placed his high-top on it, and traced the outline of the sneaker. He picked up the scissors, cut out the tracing of the sneaker a quarter of an inch inside the outline, and carefully slipped it into the sneaker.

His mother called from within the kitchen of their flat.     “Mario, where were you yesterday afternoon? You were supposed to help Mr. O’Leary clear out his basement.”     He was in a cable car admiring a very beautiful, young, blonde-haired woman, who returned his smile. And strangely enough he was not intimated by the presence of the woman, who seemed to be at least ten years older than he. He was, however, distracted by the three blonde, children dressed in lederhosen dashing about the car as though they were playing on the grass of the valley below instead of frolicking suspended hundreds of feet above and soaring towards the peak of a snow-covered mountain. Although his recollection of his presence on the cable car seemed quite familiar, he knew he never in his life had been on one before nor had ever been up a foothill, let alone a mountain. And so he offered his mother what he felt was the probable location of where indeed he had been the previous afternoon.     “I was with Stan and John. I’m sorry. I forgot all about Mr. O’Leary. I’ll stop over there later and see if he still needs help.” Once into those old sneakers and out on the playing fields of the stadium located up the block from his apartment building, Mario asked his mates where they had indeed been the previous afternoon. Stan reminded him that the three of them had used their newspaper delivery boy passes to take a free ride on the trolley down the trestle from Union City to Hoboken, a trip very much like a slow motion descent on a roller coaster. John added they had gone to Hoboken to watch the filming of a scene from the movie starring Marlon Brando. “I don’t remember that. I thought I was someplace else.” “Where do you think you were?” asked Stan. “On a cable car in the Alps with a beautiful blonde.” “Right, in your dreams.” “But I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake. And besides, my dreams are usually in black and white. This recollection was in full cinemascope color.” “Then you were day dreaming,” John added.     “I guess you’re right. I must’ve been day dreaming.” He assumed Stanley and John were right again four years later when the three of them attended their high school basketball game against city rival, Union Hill. As usual Stan showed up dressed casually, this time in a     t-shirt with a major tear in the shoulder; John, eating a sandwich picked up at the last minute from the alleys where he racked up bowling pins to earn spending money; and he, gaining entrance with a free pass hustled from his uncle who collected tickets at the gym. Upon his arrival, he was greeted by Stan.     “You catch any hell for losing your winter jacket?”     “Losing my jacket?”     “At the dance!”     “What dance?”     “The Sunday night dance at St. Michael’s.”     He knew the dance Stan was referring to, but he could not recall having been there that Sunday night nor having had his jacket stolen. He thought the one he was wearing was a new one purchased with the money he was now earning working part time at his Uncle Muzzie’s embroidery shop. He tried to recall the St. Michael’s gymnasium and the Sunday night dance he and his mates had begun to attend at the outset of their senior year, but he could not. Instead, he was at a strange and yet familiar night club, in which he stood at a bar during what Friday night happy hour when all drinks were half price and the hor d’oeuvres plentiful and free. Across the room, at a table abutting the dance floor, sat the same young blonde from the cable car, this time in the company of another woman. He did not recognize either of them as one of the many school teachers who taught service men children on the base, but he felt compelled to meet the attractive blonde. He crossed the floor, introduced himself, and asked if he might join them. The blonde gestured for him to have a seat.     “My name is Mario Della Faye, an Italian-American from Jersey. I teach for the University of Maryland on the base.”     “I’m Ruth. This is Marsha. We’re teachers too, at the dependents elementary school at the Wiesbaden base.”     “Wiesbaden! What brings you two all the way down to Ramstein?”     The friend answered.     “A friend of mine is with the dance band that’s playing for the October Fest at the NCO club tonight. We’ve come to listen.”     Mario turned to Ruth.

    “May I ask you a personal question?”     “You may.”     “How tall are you?”     Ruth and Marsha exchanged inquisitive stares.     “I’m five feet four.”     “Five feet four; that’s good. Listen, I won’t be able to get to that dance until ten. Will you save me a dance?”     Masha shook her head. Ruth had other ideas.     “If you get there by ten, I will.”     “I’ll be there by ten.”     That was all he could recall in response to Stan’s questions about jackets and dances. He also knew of course that his recollection could not be right for he had never in his life been near an air force base let alone an Officer’s Club. And he certainly had never had the nerve to approach a beautiful woman as he had at the Officers Club.     “Remind me again, what dance?”     John answered.     “Don’t you remember? We put our jackets on the grandstands off the dance floor. When we went to fetch them at the end of the night, they were no longer there. Some guys must’ve lifted them. That dance, dummy.”     He still could not recall losing his jacket at a dance nor the even more eerie encounter Stanley disclosed afterwards.     “You gotta remember the woman you were talking to most of the evening, the one who came to a dance but would not dance with you. We asked her and her friends to join us for sodas at Steckman’s. When she stood up, she hovered over you by at least six inches.”     “That’s why she wouldn’t dance with you; she didn’t want to embarrass you.”     He was even more confused than he had been years ago when he was on a cable car and his friends assured him he had been with them on the trolley car descending the trestle. But once again he accepted their explanation as a mystery, which he had learned in catechism class was a truth we cannot understand. He would have to accept one more mystery before his high school days with Stan and John were over.     Mario sat in the back seat of the new, black Cadillac; Stan was at the wheel of his father’s car; John, in the front passenger seat.     “Mario, baby, that was one helluva catch you made of John’s pass. Man, you ran down along the beach, leapt into the air, did a pirouette, and hauled it in from the sea side of the beach with one hand. It made all the difference, and we beat those jocks.”     “Yeah, that made up for none of us trying out for the school football team,” John added.     “Too bad you didn’t fare as well with those girls.”       Mario stood before a class of young college undergraduates and older, non-traditional students. Sitting at a desk at the front of one of the five rows in the room was Connie, an attractive, young, dark-haired woman more fashionably dressed than anyone else in the room. Her legs were crossed in a manner which left a good bit of one thigh in view of anyone standing at the head of the class, and he seemed to be standing at the head of that class.       “Okay, I’ll see you Thursday night when we’ll examine the imagery in John Keats’s “To Autumn.”       The woman in the front row was the last to leave the classroom. She stopped to talk to Mario, who already had his book bag over his shoulder ready to leave.       “Mr. Della Faye, do you have a moment? I have a question about the e. e. cummings’ poem.”       “Sure. There’s a class coming in here now; why don’t we go to my office.”       His office was in the bull pen, a large room with six desks, each of which belonged to a graduate assistant. The other five desks were not occupied this late in the evening. Connie moved her chair around beside Mario in order to look over what he was showing her in the text book open on his desk. As she leaned forward, her knee came up against his thigh and moved slightly from the left to the right.       An hour later, after a stop at a small Cocoanut Grove bistro that served free pretzels with its Michelob draft beer, they were in her apartment dancing cheek to cheek to Johnny Mathis’s “ Look at Me ”.  Several hours later, he was awakened by a knocking at Connie’s door.       Connie was already sitting up in bed. The knocking continued.       “Who’s that?”       “My boyfriend.”

      “Boyfriend? What boyfriend? You didn’t say anything about a boyfriend?”       “He thinks he’s my boyfriend. Just because he pays the rent, he thinks he owns me.”       From outside her apartment came a deep, rough voice.       “Connie, let me in!”       Mario jumped out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbed his clothes from a chair, his shoes from the floor, and tip toed out of the bedroom. He was in the bathroom having trouble getting into his clothes when Connie entered.       “God, I hope he doesn’t have his gun with him.”       “Gun?”       “Yeah, sometimes he carries a gun.”       It took three attempts for Mario to get his right foot into the right side of his pants and many more fitful starts before he was fully clothed again. “Connie, I know you got a man in there. If you know what’s good for both of you, you better open this goddamn door.” “Christ, I’m gonna lose my assistantship.” Connie stared at him in disbelief. “What girls?”     “The chick you tried to hit on, the one sitting on that black blanket with the red flamingos,” answered Stan.     “Yeah, the one who told you, “get lost, you sand crab!” added John.     “Oh, those girls.”     He did not recall any girls on any black blanket with red flamingos. He, nevertheless, once more accepted the mystery of things.     A year later, Mario was lying on the sofa watching the “Show of Shows” with Sid Caesar when Stan dropped in to pick him up on their way to the local ice cream parlor where they were to meet John and any former classmates gathered there. As soon as Stan entered the living room, he tossed several papers onto the sofa.     “What the hell are these?”     “Those are admission and scholarship application forms to Fairleigh Dickinson.”     “What, that new college, where you and John have been attending since graduation?”     “Yeah! Fill them out tomorrow, and I’ll pick them up Monday morning on my way to school and turn them in for you.”     Both Stan and John had begun their college education taking classes while working days; Stan, in his father’s slipper factory; John, at a flavor enhancing company in Hoboken. Mario was now working full time for his uncle. His parents had saved some money and had offered it to him if he wanted to go to college. If not, they had said, they would use it as a down payment for a home in the suburbs. Mario refused the offer for he was not certain he wanted to go to college or, if he did, what he would possibly study. He also, like his parents, wanted to move to a home in the suburbs. He therefore decided to wait a while, save some money, and find out what he did want to do with the rest of his life.

    “You’re the smartest of the three of us; you belong in college more than we do,” Stan said.     “A scholarship?”    “Full tuition! If you get it, who knows, it might just put you on a road that might lead to that cable car and the blonde.”     “You think?” "Fill out those forms." "I will." “Just don’t forget.”