# Letters to L ## April 23, 2016 I ran into you again. “Third time’s the charm” is what I would’ve said if we’d known each other. This way, we’re just two soulmates roaming the world without an opportunity to meet. “How are you?” How is that.. thing, going? Is what I would’ve said if I got the chance to talk to you.This way we’re doomed for unhappiness with other people, constantly yearning for each other without a way or opportunity to meet. ## May 13, 2016 Today, I saw you again. It was one of those moments where I moved to one side of the street and you moved to that same side and it wasn’t clear which one of us should move. You seemed a little annoyed when I bumped into you. I guess because I intentionally walked into you? And I think you could’ve felt that. Because you know me so well. Wow, I thought after that, our first fight huh? We’re really going through the same things as every couple, which is cute when you think about it. Love works in mysterious ways and sometimes the universe really has to interfere for two people to collide. ## June 1, 2016 I’m thinking of our future children. They’d have your hair. And really - knowing you - I know you’d be a great dad. I know we disagree sometimes, we are so different after all. But you’d do really well, it feels like we would get along, you know what I mean? I know you know what I mean. And I know you’ve been thinking about these same things as well and maybe, just like me, you’ve been reluctant to say hi. How do you even, say hi, to your soulmate? How do you just say - Hi, I am your soulmate and I think you might know that? But you might know. ## June 26, 2016 I feel like one of these days, I’ll run into you again and you’ll just start talking, we’ll just start talking. I know you have so much to say although you’ve been so very quiet with me. Almost like you’re mad at me.. Are you mad at me? Is it because I bumped into you the other day? Or is there something about me that just doesn’t say: “This person is my soulmate” to you? You know, I think all couples fight, it’s normal. But I know we’re going to get through this - just like we’re going to get through everything. We might have differing opinions but I think we always get to the same point after all. We always meet each other at that same spot again and again. Sometimes it takes a month, sometimes it takes years but we always meet eventually. ## August 1, 2016 I feel like you haven’t been fair. I don’t like how you treat me. Like making me move because of you. I left everything. I had to leave my cat because my new landlord doesn’t allow pets. I understand couples do that for each other and we all have to make sacrifices for love, I just.. I… And I don’t even know if you’re a cat person. This is exactly the kind of thing people who know each other so well miss out on. How do you like your eggs? Do you even eat eggs? It would be really awkward if you came to my place for breakfast and I didn’t know what you liked having for breakfast. Don’t you think that would be awkward? Like - who am I to you even? It’s like - I’m supposed to know you. And yet - sometimes I feel like I don’t. I mean, I don’t even know your name. I thought it was.. Lirk? But that’s not a common name and it’s only been shouted once around you and you turned around and I just assumed that was your name. I don’t even know if that’s why you turned around or was it because someone yelled and you wanted to see what was going on? In hindsight, I should’ve chosen a more common name to yell out and see if you’ll turn around.. Like John or Jack.. Not that I specifically imagined my future husband being named Lirk, of course. Do you, Katie, take Lirk to be your lawfully wedded husband? No, that’s not how I imagined it, you’re right. Should’ve said John or Jack. Really, those are the only two names I like. But it’s ok if that’s not your name. I know an Anthony that goes by John, I know a Richard that goes by Jack, he’s in witness protection. ## September 22, 2016 Today, I saw you again. One of the photos of you I took last year from my window fell off the shelf. It’s like you’re calling out to me. Sometimes people say, if you’re looking for a sign, you’ll never get one. But I think I got my sign. I know you’ve been thinking about me too. Even today, I know that hasn’t been a coincidence, I know you’re trying to reach out, I know you’re shy and it’s hard for you to open up to people. I know so much about you, I wish you’d notice that. ## November 1, 2016 I haven’t seen you in a while, I’m really hoping you didn’t move again. It would be really stressful for me to have to move again, I already changed my job twice this year. I understand that, you know, love takes time and love is a compromise. Frankly, I think you’re a weird person though we all have our quirks. You keep people at a distance, you don’t let people get close to you, you get annoyed when I run into you. Sometimes it just feels like I’m the only one making an effort here. Like you don’t even care about me. Do you even love me? I can’t stand the fact that other people think they know you better than me. How can anyone know you better than me? I’m sorry, I’m sorry for saying that. You’re a loner, I’ve never seen you with anyone else. And you’re perfect for me, I know that - I’m a loner too. It gets hard meeting new people in every new part of town we move to but I think it’s worth it. We all need to compromise and you sure have. ## November 11, 2016 “Love each other even when you’re not together. The people who love each other only when they’re together - don’t care who they’re with.” It’s not about the time we spent together - it’s about what we do when we’re together. Like, remember that time I ran into you? You were so annoyed, it was so cute. I think you’re really cute when you’re angry. I also remember going to the store one day and as soon as I got back home, sitting by my window - I saw you immediately followed me into the store thinking I was still there. It’s like - did you want to just smell me? Just get a little whiff of me? I totally get that ❤ ## December 11, 2016 My sister asked me about you coming for the holidays again this year. I didn’t know what to say. I try avoiding the topic, just so she doesn’t realize this hasn’t come up in conversation yet. We’re just not like other couples and I don’t know, I don’t think she gets that. She’s been married a long time and she forgot how hard it is to find your soulmate. I mean, now that I think of it, I’m not a huge fan of her and Jack, I don’t consider them to be soulmates. Just living with someone for 15 years doesn’t make them your soulmate. And I know what you’re gonna say - when you know you know. And I agree - with us, it was so easy. I know. And I know you know. Other people don’t necessarily get it. ## December 15, 2016 You make me feel so lonely sometimes. And I know most people in relationships feel like this sometimes. I know relationships aren’t easy, I don’t know why I thought ours would be. I haven’t seen you in a while, I’m wondering where you are. We’re probably always missing each other, we’re like cute sitcom couple, you’re the Ross to my Rachel. And I know you can smell me, I know you know I was just there ## May 13, 2017 We’re gonna tell our grandchildren about today. Today we held hands for the first time ❤ I was at the store, waiting for you to come by. When you reached for the beer fridge, I reached for the same beer, can you believe it? I know what you like - Bud light. That’s now my favorite too. Ah, young love, it’s overwhelming sometimes. But these little milestones really keep me going. ## August 4, 2017 Finally, you reached out to me today. I was right there, on the street, and I could JUST FEEL you behind me, I could FEEL you wanting to yell my name at the top of your lungs. I’m realizing how bad of an idea it would’ve been. At this point, it feels like it would ruin everything. Like every relationship, ours is vulnerable too. And while I know we’re strong deep inside, I’m still afraid sometimes. So there you go there’s your answer as to why I didn’t turn around. But I think you know, right? I know you know. You know that I can feel you, you know how much it meant to me. Especially after not seeing you for months, I was really worried you moved again without checking with me. You know that hurts me yet you still do it over and over again (who the hell moves three times a year?!). But I guess this is one of those things, one of those recurring fights we’re gonna have that every couple does. ## December 11, 2017 I’m dreading visiting my family over the holidays. They’re so ignorant. They don’t appreciate me as much as you do. They keep bringing up me being “42 years old and single” as if they know everything. They don’t see what we see, they really don’t. And they don’t understand why they haven’t met you and that you prefer spending Christmas with your family, a lot of people do. I don’t want this to turn into another recurring fight which is why I don’t insist. It’s fine, because I get you. I’m the only one that does and I think you know that. Lirk? ## August 25, 2018 Well, today’s the day. I knew all good things take time, I knew my family was wrong, I knew everybody was wrong. Now, I have my confirmation, the stars have aligned. Today, almost 3 years after we met, 5 homes later, so many wonderful memories together - today you finally talked to me. I’ll always remember it. I was just outside the store, and you looked at me. You looked deep into my eyes, first time ever we made eye contact and you asked what I was looking at, trying to capture my gaze. I guess you could tell I was a little distracted, perhaps a little enamored. And yes, it’s so cute but I guess I was staring. You were intrigued by my gaze, you could tell I was distraught, I wasn’t being myself and you - of course you knew something was wrong. What a good conversation starter. I’ll always remember those curious words, even if none are spoken between us again. “What the hell are you looking at” Love really is.. when you know you know.


In thirty seven long years of his life, Griffin Mersh never devoted a single thought to ants. But then again, why would anyone want to waste a single microsecond of their lives thinking about ants? Although he had an inconsequential affinity towards other creatures, which he did not acknowledge mindfully throughout his life, a puny ant still hadn’t figured into his mild indifference. In school he was taught about fish, frogs, mice, and even dinosaurs that were wiped out irreversibly millions of years ago, but ants were too insignificant and infinitesimal for anyone to take a meaningful notice. His utter disregard for the hard working critter had not stem from lack of confrontations, for he had seen their colonies emerge sporadically in his front yard. They even crawled all over his face when he took a tumble and passed out in a practice game in his senior year. He brushed them off, strategizing about getting one over the boy who pushed him. He had unwittingly crushed them under his foot as he carried boxes of his packed stuff into the trunk of his car bound for college. Unbeknown to him, their lines marched over the library floor, where he spent most of his college years and had his Shakespearean moment with the love of his life. Then on, his life moved too briskly for the ants to catch up. The day Griffin Mersh married Lily Aikins in a charming little ceremony, he received the letter that sent him over the moon. He was to fly on the next mission to the space station. The newlyweds were overjoyed, pieces of life seemed to be steadily falling in their rightful places. They moved to a suburban community in a great schooling district. The job took most of his time, while Lily sprouted a ton of new hobbies- from gardening to oil painting. She also dabbled in amateurish romantic poetry to the stupendous delight of her husband. Needless to say, his life was just on the brink of being perfect. That threshold was accomplished when he fathered two children- little Philip and Catherine, who soothed his soul with their mere presence. The children inherited the intellect of the father and creative spirit of their mother. They were the source of extreme pride for their father, for in them he found the true purpose of his life.Thus progressed the life of Mr. Griffin Mersh. It went from being louder, more eventful early on to monotonous and unexceptional over time. It did not irk the astronaut as he had always wanted to lead a normal, and ordinary life. ‘Most extraordinary thing in life is to be ordinary,’ he had read the phrase somewhere and it was etched in his heart. Even as the altered nature of his lifestyle allowed him more time and freedom to pursue the things that peaked his interest, ants still did not induce a tangible thought in his mind. There were always bigger issues in life to tackle, more interesting leisures to experience and an endless space to traverse. His flights had become routine and as dull and predictable as daily commute by a train. His work was technical, which most people would describe as boring and unstimulating, but for him, it was one of the greatest joys of his life. He had perfected his daily routine on the station which began every morning with him religiously gawking at the pure blue marvel suspended in the dark void of space from the window of his station. He never got tired of taking in the extraterrestrial view of his home, where he had left a better part of himself. For the rest of the day, he would diligently perform his duties as flight engineer, monitoring the mechanical components of the station and ensuring that repairs were timely and sufficient to sustain their course. On the fateful day just after he woke up, Griffin looked out the window out of habit and found his home in all its grandeur. As he sat there with the view shaking him out of the stupor, something unmissable caught his eye. A gargantuan shadow from the depth of the void crawled towards him. It had appeared suddenly as if it were thrust into existence by some absurd force of nature. Its size too large for him to comprehend had a catastrophic impact on the natural order of earth and moon. Before the eight crew members of his expedition had a moment to think about the phenomenon, it had revealed the true extent of its unbelievable magnitude- a million times the size of the earth. They had just two minutes to don their EVA suits, for it had shattered the communications in its entirety and even as they struggled to put the situation in words, they knew in their hearts what it meant for them and their home. Hopelessness and disbelief was palpable as they abandoned their station wordlessly, in awe of the structure, waiting for the inevitable. He hurtled away unbridled from the exploding station with his crew in utter despair, its wreckage had punctured the outer layer of his suit, which displayed in big red letters before him the time until the oxygen ran out. “Two Minutes!” It beeped. With each revolution around the axis of his own body, Griffin glimpsed the true horror as the shadow maintained its uninterruptible course- its mouth extending towards his home, towards his wife in midst of painting a landscape with red and blue oils, his eldest digging up the grass in their yard and inspecting the worms that wriggled, his daughter watching her mother with one eye and another fixed at the clear, pale blue sky. He longed for nothing more than to be with them at the moment. “One Minute!” The beeping had accelerated its tempo. In the moment of his extreme desperation, he remembered the distress signal that he had activated the moment they deserted the station. A smidgen of hope had begun to germinate in one corner of his heart. ‘Maybe *they* have received my signal. *They* will have to honor the code, and help us all out. *They* cannot just brush us off, and crush us en route. It is unthinkable, and absolutely iniquitous,’ thought he. “Thirty Seconds!” The sound was one continuous and uninterrupted, shrill tone. The other floating astronauts had disappeared from his view. The kindled hope had effectively been doused by the indifferent bearing of the shadow with no sign of humane disposition. He checked his own course in the wobbly display of his helmet- towards the core of the sun. His maneuvering apparatus was one of the first to break down under rain of exploding debris. His thumping heart had inexplicably been subdued. “Ten Seconds!” The display itself was fading away and a confused static was gradually replacing the clear tone. In those ten seconds, after thirty seven years, four months and thirteen days, he at last thought consciously of ants. By the time the clock ceased its countdown, Griffin Mersh, the outstanding astronaut, who lived a good and meaningful life, had himself become an ant.


She didn’t particularly hate the rain but she isn’t fond of them either. The girl, with her hair tied into a bun, looks outside the glass window as she sips her afternoon coffee. The sky, which was bright and blue just this morning was now painted gray. People are scurrying about trying to reach their cars, reach the subway or just the nearest cover they can find before the expected drops of water fell. She sighed. The last time she was out raining was when she had to visit her father in the hospital 4 years ago. She was walking in a torrential downpour. Her hood prevented the drops from touching her red hair but barely provided any protection from the rest of her thin frame. She rushed to the nearby bus stop for cover. She looked up. It seems the rain won’t be done for quite a while. She took out her phone from her damp pocket and wiped the screen—no messages. It was a few minutes ago that she received a call from her mother to bring her extra clothes because she might stay a few more days there. She didn’t argue nor asked question. But decided a few minutes later to ask, “How is dad doing?” She checked her phone again for no one knows how many times already—no messages. The hospital was busy as always. But today, something was a bit off, more people that usual seemed to walk—no, more like careful running—with her along the usually silent corridor she had been walking for the last 8 days. She felt uneasy and began to quicken her steps. She noticed that the door to her dad’s room was open, her mom outside drenched in sweat and tears while her brother was comforting her. She didn’t need to take a single step to know what’s happening. Her gray eyes widened, her chest felt heavy and her stomach felt uneasy. She felt like she was about the see what she had for breakfast again. Her knees felt weak, her body became unsteady as if a single blow from the cold winds outside will knock her to the ground. But somehow, she managed to take a step—no, not forward, backward. And another. She shifted her body away from the commotion and ran. She ran as fast as she could not minding bumping in a few people who seem quite confused than angry as she whizzed through them. Almost completely out of breath she reached outside. She was struggling to get air, her body bent forward with her hands tightly grasping both of thighs trying to catch her breath. She looked up, the rain had stop. Good, she thought. You see, she didn’t particularly hate the rain but she isn’t fond of them either. She took another sip of her coffee. It had gone a little bit cold. She wondered how long she had been sitting here. She looked out again. The rain was already pouring. The glass window became a track in which the droplets race, their paths though not always straight has a predetermined destination—the gray pavement that longed for the drops from the sky. She fixes her gaze on a young couple across the street. They were nestled under a solitary umbrella as they walked past the now empty streets. The girl was holding the boy’s right arm tightly while he tried to slow down his pace to let the girl catch up. He was smiling, so was she. They stopped in front of a food stall. The girl ordered what seems to be a ham and cheese panini sandwich while the boy got a chicken basil wrap. As she looked at the couple, she gave a small smile. The beauty of love—she thought. She was 16 when she first fell in love. She was a junior, he was a senior. The boy was tall, medium built, brown curly hair and the deepest set of blue eyes she has ever seen. He gave her a charm bracelet with his and her initials on it. She said it was cheesy and cliché but her smile says otherwise. She remembered when they drove to the mountains. She and him alone. They sat on the hood of his red Shelby Cobra, watching as the sun kiss the mountains. The sky was painted a beautiful orange and the distant mountains purple. She was liking every moment of it. She leaned her head on his shoulders. It was a perfect fit, she thought. A cold breeze began to pass and he could feel her shiver ever so slightly. The boy stood up and took out a blanket from the back of his car and wrapped it gently on her. He positioned himself behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, her back against his chest, her body nestled perfectly unto his. A perfectly fitting puzzle piece. It was at dinner when the girl yelled at the boy. The night before she found a note on the boy’s jacket, written in beautiful cursive from a girl whose name wasn’t familiar. “I had a fun night. Let’s do it again soon XOXO”. She was yelling. He was quiet. She was hitting his chest with all the power she has, the boy remained unfazed, his head bowed down. The people inside, seemingly oblivious to what was going outside their comfortable box continued to talk and laugh and banter and eat. She was angry. He was collected. No one knew what was happening, except for the moon who hid itself behind the clouds as if not wanting to see the events that are about to unfold. The world turned dark. No one knew what was happening, except for the two people standing outside in the moonless sky. She left. He stayed. The moon was full when she was standing in front of him, in the middle of the night, in an empty lot on a park near where she lived. She looked around trying to remember the scenery she knew she was familiar with but tonight, for her, it was different. The swings were unmoving. The slides untouched. She looked forward, to the boy trying to remember the feeling she knew she was familiar with but tonight, for her, it was different. His face stern and calculated. His eyes darker and almost lifeless. His smile, no longer present. They didn’t talk for the last 8 days. No single message, no missed calls, no letters or words. They stared at each other unsure of what to say, where to begin. She could’ve asked why but she was afraid to know. He could’ve answered why, but he didn’t know. She grasped the bracelet he had given her 4 years ago. She grasped it so hard that the inside of her hand grew red. Her breathing was shallow, her heart pumping fast. She held on the thing that hurt her the most. She knew she had to let go. She took the boy’s hand and placed the bracelet into his unsuspecting hand. It hurts—he thought. He closed his fist and placed the bracelet into his jacket. The girl was now standing alone in the middle of the empty lot. The moon illuminating her like a spotlight. She didn’t know how long she was standing there. She looked up. She could not see the moon but instead a parade of gray heavy clouds. She felt the first drop on her cheeks. This is fine—she thought. A little rain won’t hurt. A little rain might wash away all of this, like water against the windshield making things clearer. You see, she didn’t particularly hate the rain but she isn’t fond of them either. The coffee cup was now empty. She slowly placed the cup on top of the coaster and began to fix her things. She noticed an old couple was sitting next to her table. The man, maybe around mid 70’s was eating something vaguely delicious and the woman, with her fork in hand sticks it into his meal. The man was faked an angry look and the woman laughed. The girl who was watching several inches away couldn’t help it but smile. She looked at the window and saw that the rain has settled a little bit. The girl stood up, took her coat that was nestled neatly on the seat beside her and gracefully wrapped herself with it. The rain was still pouring. She stood outside of the coffee shop she frequents. She likes it here, the smell of roasted beans and freshly bake pastries. The walls had been witnessed many conversations, many memories, many silent thoughts. She clutched her umbrella tightly around the J-shaped handle with her hand and the other making its way to the long black strap the held the folded piece of cloth together. Half thinking, she stopped herself from opening it. Instead he lowered her hand and began to move forward. Her steps making little splashes and ripples as she threads the gray concrete towards the street. She felt the little droplets of rain fall on her face. They were cold but reassuring. The soft caress in her cheeks made her feel comfortable. Those little droplets reminded her of the touch of her first love, her first heartbreaks, her first struggles, her first triumphs. She looked up at the gray sky, smiling. You see, she isn’t particularly fond of the rain but she sure well knows now that she doesn’t hate it.


The tension from what would be their final fight grew and boiled as they shouted, until it felt like a metal rod shoved into both of their chests, keeping them planted in place, tortured, unable to walk away, and then he said some words he couldn’t take back and twisted it, and she did the same, and then they both twisted further, and finally the rod snapped in two. They turned and walked away from each other, him first, then her, the sounds of the city muffled by the haze of their anger. The only thing they could hear was their footfalls, asynchronous on the hard sidewalk, her heels clacking, his sneakers scuffing. Pick up your fucking *feet* when you walk, she thought, and she turned around to tell him that, and then she stopped and was silent. She watched his funny, loping gait as he walked away from her, and realized she had not turned to tell him that. She had turned to see if he would look back at her. For a second she stood, frozen, waiting for him to turn, trying to will it to happen telepathically. If he would just *turn* they could be together again--it felt like if she just believed it enough it would happen. Didn’t some mental connection between lovers exist? But he didn’t turn. He continued to walk in his off-kilter way, and, trying to conceal her hurt with a crisp show of grace and defiance, she pivoted on her heel and strode forward. Her sharp footsteps broke his focus on angrily walking forwards, and before he realized fully what he was doing he stopped and turned and watched her. Now *he* was caught watching her, waiting for her to turn. If he yelled it would be cheating. Any attempt to draw her attention destroyed the point entirely. He needed her to turn, and see that he had turned too, and they would know that they both loved each other, and everything could go back to the way it was. But she didn’t turn. Her sundress swished back and forth as she walked away, one foot directly in front of the other as if she was walking a tightrope, and she showed no sign of responding to his desperate mental pleas. She seemed to be accelerating. He awkwardly bent down and pretended to pick up his keys, just in case she saw him, and then spun around and walked away, faster, the suppressed pain in his chest spurring him on, his only goal now to escape. She came to the crosswalk. The walk sign was illuminated. She knew that this was the point of no return and once more, she turned and looked at him, now small in her vision, threatening to be swallowed by the city. He didn’t turn, and so she did, and then he reached his crosswalk and turned to her but she was already across and away, obscured by a bus. The distance between their backs grew and grew as they both fast-walked in a straight line away from each other, trying to forget, trying to justify why they left, trying to understand why the other hadn’t turned around, wishing they hadn’t been so weak. Both of them, in sync without knowing it, became determined to never look back again, to keep their head down and walk in a straight line until they reached some endless ocean that would swallow them. Their paces increased. In that massive, ever-expanding space behind them, something began to grow. With each step he and she took, a new doppelganger of each of them was created, directly behind them, facing the opposite direction. One by one, the doppelgangers ran backwards towards the center, where the two lovers had started their journey outwards. He and she both heard the footsteps of their hundreds of thousands of copies, sounding almost endless, behind them. They both of them wrote it off as a trick of their imagination, trying to get them to turn around again, and they continued forward with new determination even as the sound of sprinting feet behind them grew exponentially. The first of their doppelgangers met each other in the middle, exactly where the real versions of them had first turned from each other. The doppelgangers leapt into one another's arms and began to kiss. Then they were slammed into by another set of copies, who groped for one another as if they were in pitch blackness, and then another pair reached the middle and began to claw at each other's eyes with hatred. Every second a new pair of doppelgangers reached the middle and fell into love or hate or embrace or murder with the other--they began to pile up, their bodies twisted and wrapped around each other, until there were millions of them, fighting or loving or looking into each others eyes. The pile of copies grew in height and width like a tsunami. The writhing bodies ascended up the sides of buildings, breaking windows, flooding into apartments, destroying cars and buses with their weight. He and She both heard the noise of it, but they couldn’t look, they had to keep walking forward, they knew that they wouldn’t see what they wanted. Behind them the endless copies of their bodies grew until it looked as if they had somehow become a towering organism in their own right, one massive living body made from millions of tiny ones. The body of bodies loomed over the streets and plunged everything into shadow, until finally, the whole massive stack of them, almost a mile across, tipped on its side, crushing buildings, leveling entire neighborhoods. Every hope and dream and future and fight contained in that enormous pile released all of its destructive potential, and the city was engulfed in dust and fury and chaos--all the doppelgangers screamed, the millions of copies of her holding onto the millions of copies of him tightly as they fell, and thousands of city-dwellers screamed in fear and agony from below, being consumed and swept away by the massive ocean of squirming, identical couples. The noise grew to an unspeakable level, and the dust reached out for him and her, and the screeching of millions melded together, sounding as if New York was some sort of giant monster that was just waking up and realizing it couldn’t move, buried under buildings and concrete. Finally she stopped, and then he stopped, the noise somehow still growing, threatening to pop their eardrums. They were about two miles apart now. Exactly at the same time, in sync without ever knowing it, they whirled around and looked at the stretch of street behind them--and saw nothing there at all. All was quiet and still--the other person nowhere to be seen. They both stared at the empty street for as long as they could, hoping to will the other person into existence. Finally, after an eternity of staring and silence, both of them turned back the way they were going, and took another step apart.


Night in the city was a dreary sight. Fog rolled in heavy soon as the sun had set and couldn't burn it away anymore. Homeless crawled out of the corners of the city like rats to sit down with towels and re-stitched blankets, crumpled beanies, and fingerless cotton gloves near blackened with dirt. With their cardboard pillows and canned food, they asked for contribution as men and women in business suits ignored focusing instead on the neon signs ahead, their Bluetooth headphone-smartphone combos muting the post-work world. Skyscrapers towered cold and austere above, dotted with yellows and whites of apartment lights. Above, watching their movie alone or having microwaved dinners. Downtown sound was one mass conversionary bustle, loud laughs, and louder drunken ones. Groups huddled together close talking and joking to create the warmth with one another that the city would not provide, and individuals walked fast, looking steely and destination bound. Parks which would be filled with children in the morning were now campgrounds for people whose lives didn't go the way they thought it would as tired business people drank margaritas in a bar, maybe more lonely than the collective inhabiting the playground. **Start:** Freedom! Great terrible freedom. Finally out of the bleak 70 hour a week accelerated 3 year career track starter pack. Handed in the notice to the hour of my arrival. No exaggeration, even checked the cliché of a wristwatch. What once encompassed all my waking hours in audit has dropped to a reasonable 9to5 in industry. But every time something is reduced, something comes to take its place. The curse of freedom. Protestant work ethic. The burden of responsibility. Having to think. To choose a new path. Choose to do something or nothing. But there's only one right answer to satisfy my younger self, who believed that complacency was death. So what should I do then, freedom? Evening sunset after work. Sizzling leftovers rotating in the microwave. Silent except for the chewing and the rain against high rise apartment glass. Muted TV dances colors and ideas to occupy. Done, plates washed, freedom, Macintosh. NO, go back to freedom. Look into the world again as something to act in, to shape. All these connections in my head. Fertile soil. Ideas roaring loud and then halt. Feels like its crystallized. Seed yearning to grow. All that’s left is to act. Can't just sit here. Doesn't matter what I do. Just gotta get out. Well then. I've got some good money. Don't spend often. Early retirement sounds too good- freedom right around the corner. But I'll consider tonight an investment. The miming weatherman on the TV says it'll rain again. Pull on the summer jacket on a warm night- for the look. Lift the keys off the screw hammered into the plaster wall. Helmet and gloves under arm, one handed open, lock the door behind. Motorcycle roars to life in the basement garage. Kickstand up. City lamps glow yellow recede alongside the skyline. Car tires sigh. Wet streets mirror neon traffic lights. The dark churning sky periodically webs up electric blue briefly before the rumbling aftershock. Through the door, the storming world ends where the warmth of the wooden bar begins. A comfortable buzz of conversation fills the air. Live calm rock plays on the small stage to the left. Smells of warm beer and bacon-hamburger leverage hunger. Walking to the bar, a thousand colored, calligraph labeled gems present themselves as vodka, tequila, whiskey, rum, and gin. In here shoulders relax as if a weight were taken off. Order a drink at the stool. “Beer”, don't care what kind. “Surprise me.” After a few sips, look to the band. Damn, looks good waving her hips slow in that tight black skirt. Sings well too. Wonder how it'd be to do all that, just sing and make music, to shift and shape the mood of a place til its just right. So the house goes happy and talkative. Gotta be a hell of a psychologist. Pool tables at the back. Two white haired old men. One in cargo shorts and black T-shirt has large hands like a tradesman. Another with a kitten T-shirt, headband, and glasses- comparatively small but intelligent and confident- probably a business owner. An inebriated aging woman with them dances around silly and pretty so the old men smile and enjoy their retired nights a little more. Playfully whines as she misses a pool shot. Deep sigh with a half-done drink and lean against the edge of the bar. Watches people dancing on the small space of the floor open in front of the musicians. Even if I couldn't hear it I'd know what was being played. It's that kind of music that makes you want to move just that way. Taps the notes of the song against his pant leg like a piano he learnt young. But remembers what he's come here to do, and piano fingers aint it. So he starts tapping his foot to the beat instead, large and dumb and social. Takes a sip of beer, and comments on the music to the guy next to him who doesn't look like he wants to talk. I was right. At least he responded. How about the one on the other side? Listen to a couple more songs. In the corner of his eye, Tom sees whiskey go down and adams apple bobs against stubble shaved neck. He's looking forward, as if asking for conversation. "Where you from?" Tom asks loud over the sound of the music and chatter. There's a pause as the man's 'other' scan ensues, then "Seattle. I grew up around here, stayed for business" the businessman says roughly and gruffly but more receptive than the other. "Ya? Well what do you do?" "I'm a partner with the PwC office. One of the guys who runs the place." Guy said it proud, like he deserved respect and awe. Probably used to that sort of thing. Young upstarts spoil these fuckers. "Huh. How many years you been doing that?" "16" Nodding, Tom turned back round to the music. No need to rush it. The guy wants to talk about himself. Can see it in those motherfucking eyes. Sip of beer. Glad I can't truly get drunk or I'd be too honest to play this game. Music goes along its track and the dancers follow suit. Can tell the game of pool is won. The high-pitched voice of the silly pretty woman shouting victory double hand high-fiving her white haired tradesman partner. The retiree in the kitten shirt acting displeased as if he cared about the competition in the first place, but really he's just doing it so she can gloat playfully. "Ya, I work at the EY as an auditor. Been working there for about 2 years now." Tom said knowing the guy wouldn't ask. "Two years? Hah, you've got a long way to go. Stick with it kid, it gets better. Trust me." God gruffly proclaimed, "I hated those early years. Feels like watching paint dry." "You certainly wouldn’t get that impression from the new grad corporate propaganda" "We do that so we can lock em in. Recruiting would be a pain in the ass otherwise." Smiling facetiously, he bobbed whiskey. At least he's honest. "…Then they say, 'it's not that bad I guess', ha-ha" he laughed with whiskey breath hot brushing Tom's face. Tom laughed politically and brushed his fingers across his moustache as a means of feeling sensation and to fill in the imperfect silence of a half second not having anything to say. Took another drink of beer to get rid of that. "Bastards" looking the businessman keenly in the eye. Break Looked across the bar, saw a young woman in a tight black cocktail dress, wide collar which hugged the edge of the shoulders and bottom which stopped above the knees. Brown hair tied up in an artistic knot behind her head. Small, cute, and sexy shouted from the black purse over the side of her chair. She was leaning chest forward towards the bar, smiling at a suited career man mid-forty peaking salt and pepper. She was playing with him, could see it in her eyes. Salt knew her game and played his strengths. He probably had a lot of women. Plenty of young ones like her too. Business execs and young women go together like bratwurst and wine. Tom felt an attraction to her and a slight smile come onto his face as he watched her. Pepper talking confidently, and her playfully patting the back of his arm when he told something witty, or that he thought was witty at least. Tom and Partner found racquetball in common and agreed to play the next day. Business cards change hands. Pepper and Sexy left together. Disappointing. That night, in the excel spreadsheet was marked: Row; executive #23. Columns; name, phone number, company, hobbies and interests, where from, where met, and leads. Teeth brush, wash face, sleep. Visions of the wide tomorrow flood mind as consciousness is left on the pillow. Freedom has given way to something. Early morning rise, checks his spreadsheet, closes the laptop. Finds the address in a text sent last night from Seattle's favorite PwC Partner. Grabs his duffle bag with clothes, towel, glove, racket, balls, headband, and goggles. Flipped the strap over his shoulder, keys off the screw. Roaring motorcycle to the corporate style gym holding 50 levels of condominium above. First day of his new membership. Ya I go there all the time, he said. $50 a month for endless potential. Scanned his fresh plastic bar code. Walked past the counter. Scratched his neck and sees Sexy on the treadmill. Notice one another but neither acts on familiarity. Men's bathroom, naked old men with white towels in the locker room. Well-presentable gym shorts and shirt on. Well washed to look used, new so he would fit in. Fixed his hair. Neat but not overbearingly so. Back into the open, chest out shoulders back, confident and relaxed. Shake hands with the face of PwC in front of the glass-wall racquetball courts. "Meet \[so and so\] \[executive numbers 24, 25, and 26.\] And this is Hank, he's the handyman." A game of singles to warm up, then cutthroat. Tom starts with #23, Mr. PwC at the bar to see how good he is. Close game, plays hard, but, what, I shouldn't beat him on the first try should I. Oh, what a surprise, I lost. Handshake and good game, but show a little frustration. Mix it up and cutthroat with handyman Hank and #25. Fuck, the handyman hits rollers. Shower and change into fresh respectable clothes, also new. To lunch. Three dollar signs on google maps, nice. "We met at the Chamber of Commerce." Huh, take note of that. Hell, I'm going to have to fill a notebook when I get back. But just nod as if you've heard it all before. Politics. But an hour and the city gains color. Maybe the mimosa? Let the guard down a little. Pretty funny guys. Laid back. Why am I still acting like I'm playing politics? "Ya, absolutely. I'll see you all next Sunday!" Grey again- work. Weekend comes. Sits at the bar earlier this time, now more confident in overcoming freedom. It'd be better to see the people filter in than to sit at home. Beer. Surprise me. Sexy comes in with a navy hugging dress this time, hair tied up but let down when she walks in. She's probably the same age as me. Share glances as she's passing and a first-time full body 'other' scan meets approval. She smiles this time. He looks after her with a residual response smile and then shakes his head to himself. Man, look at the way she walks in those high heels. Moon rises. Conversations grow warm. Kitchen heats up. Pool balls click. Singer brings out the psychological stew. Did you miss it? There's the end of the world right there and into the new. Sexy sits at the other side of the bar. The men shift like magnets, and sooner than you'd think. She leaves with one of them again. Time, time, time. Time that no one cares about. Routine. Grey work. Racquetball’s got some color, but it's back to grey at the bar. She's there before him one of these nights. Hasn't got a guy next to her this time. "I'll fix that." Well, they talk a little. Its politics. Act so I get what I want, but be patient. Nights come and go according to the game. But one night, starting to get bored, forget to play politics. It turns out better than he'd thought. The routine of the bar takes on a new color and it's their color. Long weekend from work one of these times. "You want to do something then?" "Sure" Sam responded.


\*See Part I : Ok, where were we with this story? Last time, James the watchmaker identified the initials on the mechanical movement belonged to his father and came to examine it in person for himself. “Remarkable!” He said as he circled around Giselle. “Since the watch is still running, there must be an auxiliary power source keeping the movement wound.” My aunt believed that it was impossible, but then they soon realized that it was Giselle’s eyes. There was just something about them… They moved Giselle near a desk lamp and discovered that the light shined through her eyes to the glass viewing window of the mechanical movement. “This was it! Her eyes runs on a sort of solar energy. Those are selenium cells in her eyes, which stores energy when exposed to the sun. But, they only last for 25 years. This must be keeping the watch functional all this time. But why? Why the watch, and why is it keeping time?” Together with James, they moved Giselle around and shined the lamp closer to examine any hidden features. When they shined the lamp at the glass viewing window behind her head, words were projected onto the wall: Greenwich 0701206439 “I know what that is. We are looking at an ISBN number, and Greenwich is the local library in the town where I grew up.” Said James. “That hidden message would only be visible as long as the mechanical movement inside her head is running. Otherwise, the numbers would be scrambled forever into oblivion.” “We HAVE to go find this book!” My aunt said. The next day, they showed up at the Greenwich library and asked for this book by number. None of the librarians knew what it was. That is, until an old lady came from the back room and brought them to the special archives vault. She dusted off a book in the far corner and handed it to us: “A young man asked me to keep this for him all these years. It was an unpublished book, and he told me to keep it hidden until someone asked for it by that ISBN number, or burn it if 25 years had passed. That would have been next week.” And the title of that book? “A Crimson Lullaby – You and I and time”. The book cover had a single photo in black and white with four obscure people by the water. This could be a family vacation. There was also a beautiful young girl in the corner. Flipping through the pages of the secret book they found, my aunt recalled the first page: “My dear Claire, I hope this book will help you find your way back to me. \-Pierre.” As my aunt told me, the rest of the book was simply a series of photos with some captions. After all the years, I still have never seen the book. Perhaps James kept it, or maybe it was destroyed, I wasn’t sure, and I had no way of reaching him. Apparently, he left town a month after my aunt and her found that book, never to be seen again. Still, my aunt took photographs of two pages in the book as a memento. One of them was a girl standing in a field. Her face was obscured, and light and darkness perfectly divided the diagonal of the photograph. The girl’s face was in complete shadow, but deep in my soul I knew that this was that girl. This was Claire. The second photograph my aunt took showed the last page of the book, with only four short sentences: “There will be a time for us. Just you and I. Overlooking the ocean. Always and forever.” And that was the end, the very last page – at least according to my aunt. Even after all this time, my aunt never told me if she ever found out who Claire actually was, but over the years she developed a fondness for this beautiful story. Sometimes when we visited the beach together, we would both remember the last page of that book as we embraced the endless mystery of the vast ocean and listened in silence. The gentle sound of the waves was like a lullaby of time. Time past, and time present, all in one place. Always and forever. What about the real story of the mechanical watch hidden within Giselle? Well, years later, another small fashion boutique made a similar discovery in their store. It made international news as a valuable timepiece was hidden inside a mannequin- something that most people had heard about for the first time in their life. The watch was auctioned off together with the mannequin for five million dollars. However, unlike the watch my aunt found, that watch had stopped keeping time – probably because the Selenium cells finally decayed after 25 years. And, there was no hidden message and no secret book at a library linked to that discovery. It was just another relic of time celebrated by the rich as a piece of their collection and accompanied with their own story. I miss my aunt sometimes. She would have been 90 years old today. I hope she found her happiness in life.


(~1600 words) It was a spell she cast; a beautiful enchantment that slithered towards you from the cracks on the trunks of the ancient oaks, and from the petals of the innocent chamomiles rooting into the rich earth. It fell from the fluffy clouds above like the finest of rains, gently, as if through a sieve which stretched above the blue sky. It came from the sun too, travelling along the beams of light, hot and bright and intense, but it was the strongest around her, radiating off of her form that was even more mightier than the sun itself. She was a new celestial body, proudly challenging the sun, the mother pf gods and men, and all the many-storied stars with her divine halo of golden locks. She stood there, gently swaying like a strand of reed in the warm breeze of the glade, as if her legs were ready to be swept into a carefree dance any moment. She stood there, soft silks of her dress hugging her thin figure, sunlight reflected and broken by fine jewellery on her long fingers. She stood there, looking at you, her black pupils focused on nothing else but yours, and not even the peculiarly colourful flowers yearning to be picked up by her soft hands or the melody of birdsong could snatch her attention away from you. The spell and all its thin threads found their way to you. Their scent was heavy with spices and herbs, but they weighed comforting on your shoulders like a thick blanket. The spell touched your skin, so feather-light at first you believed it to be the wind, but the touch was there, soft and cool in the burning sun. A true blessing. The spell wiped the beads of sweat from your forehead and tucked back a stray strand of hair. It was calm and relaxing, a touch of innocent love you’ve experienced way too long ago. The thought of closing your eyes and leaning into the touch was tempting, but her gaze held you tight, leaving no other option than to gaze back at her. An air of something ethereal lingered and stirred around her, something your mind failed to get a firm grasp on, and so she cruelly left you abandoned in the labyrinth of instinctive guesses. Her fine nose was one of a Greek goddess’ sculpted by masterful hands with generations worth of knowledge combined in the hand which held the chisel and hammer. As she swayed her muscles tensed, strong and lean like an African huntress. Her nude lips, on them the remnants of lipstick long faded, were small but full, and a mischievous smile tugged at its corners, but she had the grace to refrain herself from a childish giggle escaping her mouth. The idea to pick some flowers and weave them into a wreath to adore her beautiful face came with a sudden gust of wind, but her muscles tensed again and you did not dare to move. And besides, for a moment it seemed like a grandiose crown of flowers already rested atop her head. Tiny freckles were speckled across her nose and cheeks, as if the creator had accidentally tipped some paint over while creating this masterpiece. And still, her spell persisted, getting firmer around you by the moment. It was a faint mist hiding the glade with all its nature away from you, leaving only her to be seen and observed. It was like honey surrounding you, every move slow and a great effort to execute. A faint whisper travelled through the ether of the spell and you could only guess if it was her, the wind, or your mind playing a cruel trick on you. The whisper sheepishly asked you to stay and lured you in with promises of eternal love and peace, and so you stayed, feet slowly starting to root into the ground. The gluttony for something unconditional was greater than any sense or logic, and she was the kindred spirit who could deliver that. She was still watching you, eyes round and curious and so filled to the brim with fondness you were afraid it would overflow and stream down her rosy cheeks and into shimmering puddles which you wished to drown in. But she held herself with such poise, such an awareness that your eyes were on her. Her gaze mirrored a look of unshakeable duty and feel of purpose that you only could get a taste of in your dreams. The thread of her spell thickened, soft ropes sliding over your legs and arms, and you wished for that soft peace never to cease. And she obliged your wish, gaze following as you got drunken on her affection, her body still, but eyes very much alive, unwilling to break the stare with as much as a blink. It was a spell she cast, one which creeped up your arms and chest and started to seep through your skin, wishing to gift her inner warmth to you and to see inside your very being, to truly fall in love with the person found in the woods. And you welcomed the warmth, let it to widen your pupils, make your skin prickle, and to sharpen your senses. She stood there, in the inky sweetness, the flowers and the trees long gone, only the sun shining weakly through the spell which placed everything out of focus except her elegant figure. At last, she sent you a faint smile which passed as quick as it came and you doubted whether it really was a smile or just an illusion. She was a mirage, and you none else than a weary traveller. She held her chin high, and you could see a majestic golden crown glinting sharp against the haze of the spell. It was a spell she cast, a spell whose claws dragged across your skin, whose ropes bound you in love and weighed you down. For a fleeting moment her light dress morphed into an armour, her hands steadily wielding a sword, but you blinked, and once again it was just her, loving you, adoring you. Her head tilted, eyes glittering with the curiosity of a young scholar in ancient Alexandria, wishing to discover and understand the human psyche. The dizzying scent of her spell travelled down your nostrils and filled your lungs, and you didn’t want to exhale in fear of losing that feeling of pure bliss within. A cloud passed overhead and in the momentary dimness you spotted a rare and courageous fire burning behind her iris, one which belonged to a Valkyrie. It was a spell she cast, one which held you motionless, one which was keen on exploring your body and mind, and one which you happily let to. Acceptance, at last. She smiled once again, this time longer, and her perfect innocence assured you that all will be right. You exhaled, letting out the air of herbs and spices and the next breath you took was also hers. The air was filled with an ever faint hum of love, of pulsing blood of the heart and of what reminded you of the womb. And you still held the eyes which belonged to a sorceress. She thanked your unconditional trust with a flash of wisdom, and now she was a druidess from the misty woods of the Irish highlands. And you let her wisdom to do as she wished. The ropes of the spell dug into your skin, tightening. It was a spell she cast, one which grew hot and heavy, and you felt it crawl under your nails, filling your nostrils and flowing into your ear, burning the promise of peace into it like molten lead. You felt as it crept further under your skin, slowly, and you were unable to tear your gaze away from her figure of the sorceress. She smiled, one of faked sympathy but still very true fondness. It was a spell she cast, and it seeped deep, like beautiful, shining, silver mercury mixing with the blood rushing in your veins. It was a spell she cast, one which filled your mouth with the sweetness of poisoned honey. The flow of mercury crept further up your legs, and you noticed just how joyous those freckles of hers were. She loved you, and that was all you needed. Her full lips yet again curved into a careful smile, one stripped from all kinds of sympathy and replaced with pity. The glinting river of mercury rotted away the redness of your blood, ate it up, wanting to have all the place for itself, wanting to have you just for itself. Her golden locks swayed in the breeze, and truly she must have been an angel. Your fingertips numbed, losing their sense of touch, but at this point it didn’t matter, because this bliss was within you, filling your every cell, and now you could carry it. It was a spell she cast, a spell which surrounded you like a soft and airless cocoon. The blood in your heart was banished, its place taken by the mercury sitting heavy on the faint scarlet throne, coating it with a layer of metallic silver. Her lips parted slightly as if wishing to say something, but all you could hear was the sizzling spell of molten lead in your ear, slowly dripping into your brain, and you could fell your sanity leaking out the back of your neck, vapouring away. It was a spell she cast, one of beauty and love, one of an enchantress, one of lethal poison and eternal bliss which you refused to let go off. It was a spell she cast and the last thing you saw before the whole world went out of focus was her form elegantly swaying as if ready to be swept into a dance, eyes peering into your soul, nude lips curled into a smile.


"Every single day there is a problem with this line," Romero complained to the commuter across from him. It was not the first time Romero had seen him. It felt like they knew one another already just from the fact that they took the same subway line every day. "And they told us they would fix the MTA," the man replied in agreement. "It makes you wonder how this city is still running." They both listened as yet another announcement was broadcasted on the intercom. It provided little information on when the metro car would move forward again. "I'm Romero," Romero introduced himself, extending a hand. "Oliver, nice to meet you." They shook hands, and a conversation was started. Romero was an accountant in a firm in midtown, Oliver, a pastry chef in Brooklyn. For a while they exchanged about their problems with the MTA trains, trying their best to laugh about it. They both knew there was not much they could do but complain. They were bound to the subway with no other alternative to get to their respective works. Finally the train restarted, and they got back to their routines, watching YouTube while ignoring just about everyone else on the train. A few days later, Romero noticed Oliver again as he stepped into the subway car and went to sit at his usual spot. He waved at him and said hello, but Oliver didn't reply. Instead, Oliver looked visibly disturbed, making it a point to sit somewhere else at the next stop. Romero, who had been in a good mood up to then, felt a little wounded to be forgotten so easily. He cursed at the subway and its zombified commuters, each in their own bubbles. He pondered Oliver?s reaction throughout the day, wondering whether he might have been responsible for it in any way. For several days after that, he didn't see Oliver again. That was almost a relief. Until a Friday when he entered the subway to find Oliver and a man looking just like him sitting by side by side. They seemed to be talking actively. Romero was too amused not to interrupt them. "Hey there," the man said enthusiastically as he noticed Romero. "Romeo right?" "Close enough," Romero replied. "Oliver?" he asked back. Oliver confirmed, and Romero proceeded to explain what had happened a few days back. He then learnt that Oliver had a twin, and that it had been Oliver's twin, Benjamin, that he'd encountered back then. The three of them had a good laugh about it before parting ways. Romero went on with his days lighter and entertained. The subway was not that bad, after all. Another few days later, Romero entered the subway to find that Oliver was not sitting next to just one person that looked like him but two. Unable to contain his surprise, he started laughing fairly loudly. A few people turned around, lifting their eyes from their screens, looking at him sideways. "How many times are you going to do this trick?" Romero asked as he approached the three men. He looked at all three at the same time, unable to recognise who Oliver or Benjamin was. "We thought he'd be funny if I showed up as well," one of the men said as he got up. "I'm Lucas, last and third of the triplet. I promise I'm the last." They all laughed together and rode the subway, chatting along. That night Romero went to bed marvelling at how the subway would always manage to surprise him, one way or another.


*To: Abigail Bryant* Hey Abby, I'm really sorry, that I haven't been writing to you. The guys here are keeping me busy, and not leaving me any time to even breathe. I got to tell you though, I'm digging the haircut for sure. Makes me look way more badass. you would definitely make a joke about how shiny the top is. I can't believe its already been four years since I last have seen you. I hope you know that ill be home in the next six months. From what I hear, they are going to be sending a group of us over the next few months. How's mom doing? I hope she isn't driving you crazy about your driving. I told her in the last letter, that when I get home, we will make sure you learn how to make those turns. Remember that one time I pulled into an empty parking lot, and did donuts on the ice? I'm pretty sure your mom was considering her options after that. oh hey, did you ever get those ice skates from grandma? she had those sent to you for your birthday. She really did enjoy spending that summer with you. There are a few things I want to get done when I get home. Yes... I did make a list, so be prepared to be amazed. I was thinking about maybe doing a home purchase. what do you think? I was thinking that old ranch off Lenny street. It will need some work, but I figured that would be something good the two of us could do together. I just have to make sure that you don't drive our trunk through the house. In all seriousness though, I want to make sure to spend as much time with you as possible. nothing beats that father-daughter relationship. Speaking of relationships, I watched that video you sent me, of your prom. you looked so beautiful, and I wish I could be there to give the young man THE talk while cleaning my gun of course. The dress you picked out was incredible, and that boyfriend of yours is so well mannered in the way he greeted you and mom. That was really sweet of him holding your hand to the car. Of course, your mother was balling her eyes out, watching you get taken to prom. Just wait till you get married. which by the way won't be till you are well into your 30's. I hope you had fun, and wish I could see the look on your face as you stare into his eyes. I am so very proud of you, and the young woman you are becoming. just please promise me, that when I fly home, you won't greet me with that stupid face you make. you know the one that you do when making those videos. I was thinking we could go to your favorite burger place if they are still around. alright Abby, its time to start wrapping up the letter. If I could, I would write to you every day. I'm told that writing, can sometimes ease the pain, but I can't write these letters without filling up a bucket of tears. It's now been four years since I last have seen you and your mom. Four years since that night. the night that took my girls away. I should have trusted my judgment, and not let you drive that road. I remember That night being so cold, and the roads were icy. you made that turn, and just like that, you were both gone. I know that we'll see each other again, and as I said, I'll be home soon. The doctors are now telling me that cancer spread into both sides of the brain, and they give me six months max to live. I am so heartbroken but trust me, we can pick up where we left when we get there. Soon We can build our perfect home.


"You must pick one and only one." I stared hesitantly at the two swords embedded in solid rock, one glowed with a heavenly pure white light, as its intricate design had an inlay of gold. And the other, seemed to pull light and color from its surroundings, it's cold blade seemed to pulse with a deathly intelligence. "So, has anyone successfully picked a sword?" I ask, eyeing the shadowy figure that hovered just beyond the rock. "Yes." "Ah, ok then." That was probably all the insight I'd get on this subject. "Can't you at least tell me about each one?" The shadowy form shifted giving the impression that it was annoying. "One sword is death incarnate, merely touching its blade will drain the life from every living thing in this forest, including yours." I shifted on my feet uncomfortably and inched closer to the bright shiny one. "And the other?" "The other is life incarnate, touching it will bring new life to the world and grant its wielder the power of a god." I now hovered my hand over the golden sword and I could feel it warming my hand softly. But what if the shade was lying, merely trying to get me to pull this sword and it turns out to be the evil one killing everyone and anything. I tore my eyes away from the golden sword, "Are you lying to me?" "No." "Oh." I reluctantly pulled my hand away from the sword and rubbed my face. I definitely didn't want to die, and I really liked the sound of me having godly powers but, the shade said it was lying to me. "And what if I don't choose?" The shade seemed to ponder for a second. "You will be allowed to leave, but you will never have this choice again." I walked up to the stone and scrutinized each blade carefully as I felt the shade watching me. Each blade resembled an English longsword though with its own carvings and etches. "So the death blade only kills? It doesn't do anything else?" "It is said to have the power to kill everything it touches, be it mortal, undead, or immortal." I took a deep breath, "Well I've made my decision." The shadow regarded me coldly. "Your fate is in your hands." I reached over to the golden sword and touched its handle. Nothing happened as I wrapped my hand around the grip and began to pull. My breath caught as the longsword slid cleanly out of its rocky sheath. *Shing* I stared widely at the glowing white blade, it was surprisingly light and warm to the touch. "You have chosen the blade of life, and have been imbued with its power." "I don't feel any different." As I uttered the words the sword pulsed and began to burn my hand, I cried out but couldn't let go. I pulled desperately as my vision began to become blurry and my mind was assaulted by millions, no trillions of voices, some in languages I knew and heard, and others that I knew couldn't be uttered by human mouths. My body continued to be burned from the inside as I screamed. My eyesight split into two different views: One of the sword burning my hand and another of a woman cradling a child in her arms. My vision multiplied again, and again and again. Until there was too much input and I closed my eyes. Only to be met with more views. My screaming had turned from a terrified human to the roar of wind tearing through a quiet farmstead. The burning intensified but I could no longer discern where my body was nor the sword. I tried to move my nonexistent arms but was only met with extreme resistance as if dragging them through thick syrup. I opened my eyes again and saw everything. Every face, every word, every thought, every lie. I could hear everything. A babies first word, a child promise, a sickening cry, and dying heart. And I knew everything. Secrets, lies, hopes, dreams, deepest desires. Everything. Everything. And nothing. I felt the pain of a dead child, the sadness of death, the hopelessness of suicide, the hatred of murder. All of it at once, from every direction, thoughts, feelings, words, all of it. "There's too much...make it stop..." The pain kept coming, I saw a parent hug their child as their planet was destroyed. I saw a person regret everything as they took their steps off a building. I saw a tortured persons last thought and heard their screams. I saw genocide millions of times and heard trillions cry out. "Please..." And then it hit me. I was responsible for all of this pain and suffering. I had the power to stop it all, but I sat and relished in my newfound power. Every second someone, somewhere, died. And I did nothing. I blinked. \### The shade floated in the vast darkness. In the mere seconds, the mortal had wielded the sword, they had erased everything. Of course, they lasted longer than the thousands of previous mortals who had tried their hand at immortality and omnipotence. It was refreshing to have a break between life and death. The shade floated for a bit in limbo, the sad thing was: None of it mattered. There would always be death and anguish, life was merely a means to an end. The few seconds of omnipotence he had gifted that mortal had hopefully shown him the truth in it all and had put their mind at ease. Time to start again. \### Stacey never noticed the two swords protruding from the rock before, and she had hiked this path a million times. "You must pick one and only one.


*It's been years since I've done much writing, and I'm sharing these breakfasts to remind myself how to put words on paper, or on screen. If it's deemed inappropriate for this subReddit, no hard feelings and I'll fade back to lurking.* *End of boring intro; onward to the boring story:*   The waitress, Kirstin, is nowhere to be seen. One of the cooks, Harvey, is up front pouring coffee. I sigh, and may have said "Damn it." This is a pretty good diner without Kirstin, but it's better when she's here. There are four other customers: The Fixture is present, of course, because he lives on that corner stool. He's talking to a middle-aged black woman with what I think is a blue knitting needle in her hair, and her facial expression says, *I wish this guy would shut up.* At a table near the window, two very scrubbed-looking young white men in suits are eating breakfast, each with a Bible beside his plate. I'd rather have a cinnamon roll. • I pick a stool strategically distant from everyone else, and Harvey approaches, nods at me, and says, **"You want coffee?"** "With cream," I answer, and he plops a cup in front of me, fills it, brings cream. "Need a minute?" he says. I look over his head, where the daily-special sign is on an upper shelf, but it's blank. Harvey sees where I'm looking without looking himself, and says, "Sorry, no special today." I tell him what I want for breakfast. He jots it down and says, "We'll make it *seem* special." • ManBun is back, still or again wearing the same Grateful Dead t-shirt as last time I saw him, and he says **"Good morning"** to me as he walks past with his girlfriend or wife. Of course, I say the same. Dunno why he said good morning to me. Is that what people do? We've never spoken to each other before, but now that's lost forever. He's white and his companion is black, and they're both young and pretty and pierced, obviously counterculture. They sit at the diner's last table, way in the back. Harvey is taking their order, and ManBun's LadyFriend says, "Are you working alone today?" "No, Slim's in the kitchen, but it's just the two of us. Business is so slow, though, I could probably work the restaurant all by myself in a pinch." "Well, don't let your boss hear you say that," she says, "or one of you will probably get fired." "Nah," he says, "Bob wouldn't fire anyone unless we flipped him the finger. But if business doesn't pick up, he'd maybe cut us all back from four days a week to three." • My breakfast has arrived, and it's special — perfection on a plate, as always. While I'm eating, the Bible Bros discuss Leviticus, throwing verses at each other, and deciding what each reference really means, like after so many eons these two have ascertained the Bible's *true* meaning in a diner over eggs. They're especially fervent about what's an acceptable sacrificial animal, because Leviticus says God won't accept injured or maimed animal sacrifices, or any animal with warts or festering sores. Knitting Needle, the black woman who'd been listening to The Fixture, has finished her breakfast, and she's masked up and standing at the cash register, paying. This puts her maybe five footsteps from the Bible Bros, just as they're going into detail about *why* God can't accept a diseased sheep as a sacrifice. This lady looks at them, and I know exactly what she's thinking. Same thought flashes through my head sometimes at the diner — do I butt in and tell some stranger what I think, or shut up and mind my own business? She chooses the former. **"God created the sheep,"** she says, "and created its disease, but He won't accept it as an offering?" They look at her with smiles, and start eagerly explaining, but she's not having it. "No, no, no, no, no, no …" she says, rapid fire. "But you guys have a great morning." She takes her change from Harvey, and she's out the door. "And can I add something?" says The Fixture from his stool. "Nothing against God, but we're in a restaurant and you guys are talking about animals with diseases and festering sores. Could you at least, like, switch to the New Testament while people are eating?" They apologize, and seem sincere about it. For the rest of my morning at the diner, their conversation is noticeably quieter. Thank you for your service, Knitting Needle and The Fixture. • A twenty-something white guy comes in alone, and Harvey hollers at him, **"J-Man! Good to see you, bud."** The names vary, but this is not an uncommon occurrence at the diner. It's like they sang about on *Cheers*, "Sometimes you want to go / Where everybody knows your name / And they're always glad you came…". That lyric never made sense to me, though. The bar on that show looked like a nice enough (albeit phony) place, but I'd never want to go to any bar — or diner — where everybody knows my name. I want to be anonymous. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here for an omelet. • Some stranger walks in, 30s, white, with a curling mustache like sideways question-marks on each side of his nose. He sits along my section of the counter, not far from everybody-knows-J-Man, and soon those two are talking about Fools They Have Known. It's the most interesting conversation of the morning, but it happens too quickly for me to keep more than the briefest notes. J-Man starts it by saying something about his idiot brother-in-law, who thinks the coronavirus is a hoax or a communist plot. Handlebar-Mustache replies by telling about his cousin, who thinks *everything* is a hoax or a commie plot, dating back to JFK's assassination and perhaps earlier. **"You think that's stupid?"** says J-Man, and now it's Game On. One-upmanship. Which of these guys knows the stupidest person? J-Man tells us about a guy at his office who goes home every day at lunch, not to eat, but to shower off the accumulated radiation from looking at a computer monitor. "That's pretty damn stupid," says Handlebar, and he retorts with his sister, says she seems to worship Donald Trump more and more, the more stupid things he says and does. She's ordered hydroxychloroquine in the mail to save her from COVID-19, and she's aggravated that it's been weeks and it hasn't arrived yet. "It's never going to arrive," says J-Man. "Yeah," says Handlebar. "There's a sucker born every minute." Then he brings up *his* sister, who says Black Lives Matter is more racist than the KKK. "Can't top that," says J-Man. "Your sister wins the prize. Top Fuckin' Moron for Today." • In comes an old, white, bald man getting around with a walker. He's moving so slow you could have read this chapter top-to-bottom before he's pushed his walker to the table he wants to sit at, and before he's struggled with the difficult mechanics of sitting down. No disrespect intended, though — quite the opposite. He's in here all the time, and it's not easy for him. Me, and probably you? If we want the diner experience, we just walk in and take a seat. But for Bald-Walker, walking to his seat is serious work. I imagine getting dressed to come here is a challenge, yet he's here, and often, and he's probably been coming here since before he was walking with a walker. Gotta respect someone willing to put that much effort into breakfast at the diner. Harvey takes his order, pours him some coffee, and Bald-Walker says, **"Hey, is the other guy working this morning?"** "You mean Slim?" Harvey answers, only he says Slim's real name, which I've heard twenty times but always forget. "Yeah," says Bald-Walker. "Will you tell him I said thanks? He sorta saved my butt a few weeks ago." • Here's a white couple in their 40s, dressed a bit nicely so I'll presume they're both on their way to jobs where you need to look presentable. He's in a suit; she's in a muted but still colorful blouse. Mrs Dressed Nicely quietly says something to her husband, and it's a brief moment of near-total silence in the diner, so I can hear clearly: **"Are you sure about this place?"** He cocks his head, meaning, *Huh?*, and she goes on, "It seems sort of … dirty." *Dirty?* The place doesn't sparkle, but it's tidy, and the kitchen looks clean, at least from the seating area. Someone who's accustomed to breakfast at Perkins or Denny's or IHOP might think this diner is dirty, though. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint. The staff is in street clothes, not a uniform. A couple of cabinet doors behind the counter are held shut with duct tape. The tables are old and a little rickety, like me. Mr Dressed Nicely wants hot sauce, and says it to Harvey exactly like that: "Hot sauce." No hostility, but it's a command, not a request. Harvey grabs a bottle of tabasco, passes in front of my stool on his way to deliver it, and under his breath mumbles, "Here's your hot sauce, you son of a bitch." I am chuckling so much as I jot that in the margins of my magazine, a couple of hours later I had a hard time deciphering what I'd written. Harvey knew, like I knew, like Mr and Mrs Dressed Nicely already knew, that even if everything is sweet perfection for their entire breakfast, they're never coming back. So to hell with 'em.   *I'm a grumpy old man who lives alone and has few friends — basically a hermit. Once a week I have breakfast at my favorite diner. Most weeks it's my only in-person interaction with other humans, which is not my strong suit.* *Yeah, I'm aware of the coronavirus, so I go to the diner at dawn, before it gets busy. I wash my hands before and after, cough into my elbow, spray Lysol on my food, pay at my plate, tell the waitress to keep the change, and hold my breath while leaving until I'm outside. It's a little more dangerous than staying at home, but life would suck without breakfast at the diner, so get off my lawn.* *And remember, decent people leave a generous tip.


The year is 2020, but you knew that already, didn’t you? You know, in fact, you will never forget this year, embedding it in your mind with the utterance: “Not now 2020, we can’t take any more shit this year.” If only you knew how absurd that statement was. You think, and have thought for many years, that your actions don’t have consequences. Large corporations ruin the atmosphere by ignoring regulations and only focusing on profits? Mother Earth will clean that up. Either that or the poor, underprivileged populations around the world will bear the brunt of the pain that comes from these actions. Even better for you. Oh, is that not good enough for you? Maybe then you should create institutions that are designed to oppress those deemed “lesser-than,” and that will make you feel better about your small, insignificant lives. Wait a minute. You already did that, and what makes it worse is that you think that nothing can stop you. If only you knew that those people who you ridicule for bowing to a different “god” than you actually were right all along. If only you knew that your actions had consequences. One of your “scientists,” if that even is the right term, once said that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Haven’t you heard that in school? Maybe your pea-brains are too small to comprehend what Newton said. Let me tell you a little story, and maybe then you will finally realize what he really meant. We come from a planet called TARO-1, and I won’t be cliche and say that She was the most beautiful planet you’ve ever seen, but She was our home. She was as good of a home as you will find in this vast universe, and for a long time we were good stewards, deserving of all of the gifts that she gave us. These gifts were of a beauty that only She held, for no one on the planet could ever get close to replicating all that which made her perfect. These gifts that I speak of are not physical gifts, but natural ones, ones that your species are so quick to take for granted. She gave us air to breathe, land to walk on, oceans to swim in, and lives to live. You would’ve liked her, I think, for She was very much like your own Mother Earth. I will not bore you with the details of our lives or our society, for we don’t have a lot of time left, but rest easy knowing that we were more similar to you than you might think. We even share some similarities with those amongst you that are religious, although our long history allowed us to be much more enlightened than you. Our god was Karma, and although your society has some knowledge of it, you will never truly understand the role of Karma in our lives. You humans have your gods, fate, destiny, luck, and all of these concepts that you believe are different from each other. The best way to describe the all-powerful in this universe is to liken it to your concept of Yin and Yang. There is always a balance in this universe, and in your Yin and Yang representation this balance is between good and evil. While your ideas of systems such as this one, or the Christian idea of the Holy Trinity are all typical societal ways to explain the happenings in the universe, they are quite far off of the truth. The only balance that matters in this life is between a species and its creator. When I say creator, it might make more sense to you if I call it our “planet,” although in reality She is so much more than just a planet. Perhaps this lack of understanding can explain why you treat Mother Earth so much worse than we treated our creator, because from the beginning we understood how important She was to us. I will chalk this down to your youth. This balance must be preserved for a species to maintain prosperity, although not all are able to achieve this like we were. Since you won’t be around for much longer in this universe, I suppose it will be worthwhile to explain yet another concept relating to gods, so that you will be able to understand why your existence must end. The concept that I speak of is “sin,” which you also have on your planet. In essence, committing a sin is to break the contract between yourselves and your creator. There are a lot of ways to do this, many of which you will be familiar with since you have already experienced most of them. Betrayal of one’s commitment to other members of their species is one such sin. Another is the desecration of your creator and all that She provides for you. Who decides these sins you ask? God, or Karma as she is named throughout the universe, is the protector of this balance between a species and its creator, tasked with providing judgements to all that choose to commit sins. This is God. Not some fake deity that you pray to for forgiveness for all of your silly mistakes, but instead someone who holds actual power over your lives and all that you do. Karma is the embodiment of that idea which you teach in your schools, that everything has consequences. For us, after many hundreds of thousands of years living in peace on our planet, we chose to elect a leader who was consumed with greed. This poison of a person led many of our society down the wrong path: hoarding resources that our creator so kindly provided for us, imprisoning those members of society that were deemed to be inferior (despite our harmonious living for all of our prior history), and stealing from our creator. Slowly, we ran out of resources to live off of, and so we began searching for more. We dug, deeper and deeper, into the soul of our creator, searching for wealth that would make our leaders even more powerful. With this newfound power our leaders were able to overcome all resistance, and rule with absolute authority over 99% of the population who wasn’t able to bridge the wealth gap between themselves and those greedy bastards that held the power. Our creator, in all of her wisdom, sent disease after disease after us, attempting to weed out those that would harm her or her creations. In the end, though, it wasn’t enough. The greed beat back wave after wave of pestilence, eventually exhausting the will of our planet. She sent for Karma, as is the way these things work, to pass judgement upon our species as a whole. We were her first love, and her pride and joy, but in the end we were left defenseless against the consequences of our actions. Karma came seeking a price for our sins, and the only price large enough was our lives. Thus is the way these things go, and in a matter of seconds our species was enslaved by Karma. It forced us to wander the universe, telling our story to those that are next, in the hopes that they will at least understand their failures before being forced to do the same. When we first encountered you we didn’t know what to think, for there were so many of you that were focused on doing the right thing. But then we looked deeper, and laughed in despair as you blamed the deaths of your icons and the diseases plaguing your world on bad luck. For it isn’t luck that has brought the wrath of Mother Earth upon you, but your own actions. I can’t help but feel sad for the new, more promising generations on your world, because they have inherited the sins of your people. Many of you don’t know what it is like to lose your family, friends, or livelihood because of your sins, because there is no institution on your world with the power of God. You don’t know what its like to become trapped, wandering the universe unable to right the wrongs of countless generations, watching trillions make the same mistakes that you yourself made not long ago. You don’t know what it’s like. Not yet. But you will soon.


A woman is in the corner of the room, with tears coming down her cheeks. She has tried out for cheerleader since she was in elementary school. Never made it in middle school, high school or college. She also tried out for the dance group in high school and college. The same result. Since she was 18 years old, she has tried out to be a Kansas City Chiefs Cheerleader She is now almost 30 years old. She can't dance, She isn't good at gymnastics either. She has also taken the dance classes to become a better dancer. She has the money to pay for them, but still, What about someone else who was a good dancer and wanted to take the class? She been in dance show but it was always something that was comic in nature. This was to hid her poor dancing. She does know how to dress and put make up on. That I will say. She always dresses with the latest fashions. She's also very attractive. The line dancing well, she somewhat good at that. She's figured this out. She goes in the wrong direction while dancing, she often uses the wrong foot, right foot, instead of left foot. Is either is too early or too late with her dance movements which is very evident. If this were a comedy show, it would be funny but it isn't. She is put in the back of the room where she can watch the others and there are times when she is in sync with the rest of the group but she really has to focus on the dancing. I can always tell where her mind is somewhere else. She is basically a klutz. Sorry if I've offended anyone for using this word but she is. As expected, the tears are now sobs. A few of the other women had some tears,and tried to hide it but not Siobathan. Her nerdy boyfriend Mark Richards who is a Special FBI agent showed up to take her home. He's a computer wiz. They been a couple since they were 21 years old and engaged for several years. He doesn't seem in the least bit surprised. Of course he's careful not to tell her this. A friend of mine who lives in the same apartment complex told me that she cried all evening after her boyfriend told her the truth. She can't accept the fact that she's not a dancer. Siobathan McGregor is the daughter of Liam McGregor who is a broker fund manager of the McGregor Group in Kansas City, Missouri. Someone hacked into his computer system several years ago and Mark Richards was there and fixed his computer. Siobathan was there and this is how she met him. Mark also found the culprit who was a former business partner who did this as revenge when a business deal didn't work out. Liam liked Mark Richards and made sure that he was kept at the Kansas City FBI office. Usually FBI agents move around every couple of years. Her mother Sandy was a ballet dancer for the Kansas City Ballet back in the late 1970's. Liam McGregor went to a ballet performance (something he didn't normally do) but he saw her dancing and then had to meet her. Sandy refused to tell her daughter that she was terrible at dancing. Sandy's parents were very critical and often found fault with her. She vowed never to do this with her daughter. She would have her daughter dance for company and say what a wonderful dancer her daughter was. People would politely clap but not say much. Liam McGregor would just roll his eyes and say nothing. Sandy knew he did this but ignored him which was fine. They got into a fight over something that Helen Green had said about Siobathan's dancing skills. It got rather heated to the point that they were yelling at each other. It was at that point that they decided not to argue about it again and then never did. They agreed to disagree. Liam was thankful that their daughter was at a summer camp when they had the argument and never knew anything about it. Siobathan was very sensitive and probably would have never forgotten what her parents had said about her. He had to agree with retired ballet dancer and Teacher Helen Green that his daughter had no talent for ballet or dancing for that matter. Sandy never forgave the teacher for saying this to her but told her husband that Siobathan was a dancer but ballet wasn't her cup of tea. Helen Green was never invited to their home. Sandy had to admit that her daughter would never be a ballet dancer. Some people just aren't cut out of it and that's okay, she would tell Siobathan. Siobathan didn't care much for ballet but liked modern dance. I will never forget at one of the fund raiser, that Sandy was doing a dance number from Chicago called Big Spender. She wasn't that bad as she sat in a chair and looked sexy. She lip synced the words. Everyone loved it. But that wasn't really dancing. I might add that she's done this number for ever audition to be cheerleader from high school up. Another time she danced and it was actually comical. It wasn't supposed to be but it was. Shortly after the tryouts, Mark and Siobathan got married. I had hoped that once they got married, maybe we wouldn't be seeing Siobathan again. No such luck. She was back again in March. But this time she didn't complete the tryouts. She was dancing and then fell to the floor in pain, holding her stomach. 911 was called. Everyone was in shock when a doctor who was the team doctor and happened to be in the building when Siobathan fell told her that she was having a baby. He said it in a matter of fact way. She couldn't believe it nor could anyone else. She was quickly taken into another room by stretcher. In 30 minutes a baby boy was born. This was the last time that Siobathan showed up for a tryout. She finally had to admit that she wasn't a dancer or cheerleader material. She admitted this when she was interviewed for the TV program, "I didn't know that I was pregnant. Twenty years later We now have male cheerleaders and Robert Richards showed up. He had the talent that he inherited from his grandmother. It skipped his mom. His parents were delighted when he made the squad.


(This is a repost because I don't know how to follow rules) I dream of being in her arms. I don’t know who she is, but I love her more than I can describe. I dream of the softness of her torso, the curves of her body -- the love reflecting from the flora-filled deep green ponds of her eyes. So deep that I see nothing but the eyes and the skin of her arms as they wrap around me in their embryonic embrace. Night after night I see her, feel her. I dream of the safety I feel in her arms. The tenderness; the feeling of someone caring for you more than you care for yourself. I also dream of the intensity of it all, sometimes waking in the cold of night to the cold of sweat puddles on my sheets. I dream of those giant juniper eyes staring down at me -- never blinking. Always the eyes, never anything else. When I gaze into them, I see only the rippled reflection of myself in the water -- what I could be. I see different iterations of myself in the future and the timelines that lead to them. I see far-flung adventures, successful careers, homelessness, bad investments, crime, great friendships created and destroyed, birth, love, family holidays -- a life and lives I could never dream of. And her eyes. Always her eyes. In every image she was there -- staring back at me looking in, mocking me. Not with any expression in her face, for she had none (save for the eyes, always the eyes), but by her mere existence. I try to look past her, look to my future and my life, but she remains. The eyes, always the eyes. Night after night I see her, feel her. When I am awake, it seems like there is something missing, something I’m forgetting or not paying attention to. People say I have shifty eyes. I get inquisitive looks from women on the street, in stores, at work. None of them are her, though. I want to explain, make someone understand, share my life with them. I understand now that no one but her will ever understand. When I am awake, all I can think about is her -- and her eyes, always the eyes. Green is my favorite color, specifically the juniper shade. I think I’ve always liked it. Or hated it. Coworkers and friends have asked why -- I tell them it just speaks to me. When I am awake, I stay in my apartment when I’m not at work, lest she see me in the waking world; I fear what her eyes would bring mine in this reality. Truthfully, I wish she would come knocking soon -- I expect she will in the future but the nights are so very cold here. Night after night I see her, feel her. And when I finally meet her when I am awake, I shall not be afraid. I have seen in her eyes what I could, should, and would be. I have seen in her eyes what I truly fear. Myself.


Detective Matthews sat across from me at an old table in the dingy hotel room we'd been calling home for the last two weeks. A tasteless, faded painting of a farmhouse, three half-finished cups of coffee, and an overflowing ashtray provided the place with a depressing ambience that suited our grim task. We were here because Matthews had noticed a pattern in the killer's victims - most of them had ties to this part of the city. Either they were raised here, they worked here, or maybe they just visited the diner on the corner every week or two. It was our hope that by stationing plain-clothes law enforcement officials discretely throughout the area, we would be able to catch the Mutilator stalking a would-be victim. This was our best lead in a long time. Many of the victims' connections to this place were so tangential that it was a miracle anyone saw the pattern. Even with the FBI's help, we had next to nothing on this sick psychopath. In three dark years of brutal killings, all we knew was that he targeted government employees and law enforcement, always men, always with good careers and impressive accomplishments. This wasn't your average serial killer - there was no indication that he used his victims to assuage some depraved sexual urge. No calling card, no common element to the crime scenes beyond the horrible mutilations that earned him his moniker. The FBI's psych guys thought we were dealing with an anarchist or someone who was wronged by the government, either in perception or reality, in some terrible way. Someone who had dedicated his entire existence to destroying what people like me and my partner were trying to preserve. Our shift was over for the day, and we had 6 hours to get what rest we could before resuming the hunt. Uninterested in sleep, I turned on the television to watch the news. My heart skipped a beat when the reporter announced that another victim of the Mutilator had been discovered. The body's condition was more grotesque than I had ever seen previously. The man's head was smashed into a pulp, his lower jaw entirely absent, burns and deep lacerations covering the majority of his body. Hearing the reporter announce that the victim, identified by the contents of his wallet, was Detective John Patterson was the most surreal moment of my life. If I had any thought that I'd misheard, my doubts were dispelled when a picture of me, proudly smiling in my uniform showed on the screen and my career accomplishments were enumerated. Matthews still sat across from me, silent, where I left him after I caught him by surprise and slit his throat not half an hour earlier. I heard frantic knocking and shouting at the door. My colleagues, doubtless come to check on my partner and ensure his safety, would be breaking their way in at any moment. No matter, I had already ensured that I could slip through the door connecting this room to the next and make my exit unnoticed. Matthews was too close to figuring out who I was, closer than anyone in three years. I cannot respect a servant of the government, but as an adversary he had proved worthy. No one will come that close again. Note: this was originally a response to a writing prompt that I wrote yesterday, but I posted it too late for it to receive any attention.