When I was young, I lived with my family in an old farmhouse. It passed through generations, families adding onto it to suit their needs. My father hadn’t needed to add anything, as our family was rather smaller than those that preceded us. We weren’t poor, but we didn’t have much and as a result, I found that I was working on our farm almost all the time. Or it seemed that way to me. But some days, I would be free to go wandering the property unfettered by chores or my siblings. I would take only the family dog, a scruffy mutt named Scout, and we would have adventures of our own. On one such day, we wandered near the edge of the cornfield, where the wood began. I was searching for blackberry bushes when I realized there was a small, hidden path among the shrubs. Naturally, I called Scout over and we set out at once down the path. I had never heard anything from my family about a path on the property, and I was interested to find out where it led. I noticed that it was only just wide enough to walk side by side with the dog. Not that he stayed by my side of course - he wandered about the path, sniffing everything he could fine. The path was strangely clear, considering that it was blocked off, and I’d never heard anyone mention it before. No grass or weeds grew in the packed soil, all the foliage lined the trail neatly to either side. I followed along the path for a few minutes, when the birdsong seemed to grow quieter. Scout’s ears seemed to perk up, and he slowed to a standstill. His nose twitched in the air, sniffing for something. I paused as well, watching to see what Scout had found. He whined very quietly, and his hackles rose. Nervous now, I looked in the direction he was staring. The path continued in a very steady direction, and I could see a long way forward. At the very spot where perspective dims to just a speck, there seemed to be… something. It was impossible to make out what it was, if something was even there at all. My eyes seemed to be playing tricks on me. Scout whined once more, and started to back away. I began to feel unsettled, concerned that Scout had smelled something dangerous, maybe a bear or mountain lion. Although I’d never seen either so close to the house. I looked to the dog, then back down the path. It was clear now that there was something down the trail, I could only just make out something moving. And a distant sound, like a bird call or whistle… but unlike any bird I’d ever heard before. The figure didn’t seem to be moving very fast, or in any particular direction I could determine. Either way, I didn’t want to stay on this path any longer. Whatever the figure was, no good could come of waiting for it to approach. I turned to follow Scout, and the dog seemed eager to leave, no longer sniffing around. I kept looking over my shoulder, watching for the distant shape. It became harder to make out, and I couldn’t tell if it was following or merely staying in place. The path curved ahead of me, and I picked up my pace, beginning to feel frightened in earnest now. Scout seemed to sense my disquiet, and matched my speed, although he continued to whine. Despite knowing that whatever was behind us was no longer in sight, I continued to throw frantic glances over my shoulder. There remained no sign of the thing. As we hurried forward, I began to search for the mouth of the path - and the opening back into the cornfield. But minutes passed and there was no sign of it. I couldn't have been walking this long on the way into the path. I was far too afraid to backtrack, so continuing forward was the only option. I again increased my pace, rushing now, still glancing behind me. The birds had not resumed their song. I kept rushing forward, searching for the entrance. Then, behind me and from a distance, I heard what sounded like my mother calling. I froze, certain that her voice was coming from the wrong direction of the ancient farmhouse. Could it have been someone else, who sounded like my mother? I was certain no one lived within miles of our property. I dithered on the spot, uncertain what to do. I was convinced I’d heard someone calling behind me, was that what the figure was all along - just a woman on a hike? I took a few tentative steps back, treading quietly. Only a few steps brought me to a curve in the trail, as I rounded the bend, I found myself back at the same place I was when I’d first seen the figure. It was still there, but seemed closer now. As I looked, it drew ever closer still. Its edges seemed blurred, its colour uncertain. I watched a moment, trying to decide who it could be, if it was a man or woman.. or a person at all. As it advanced, I became more and more hesitant to classify it. Whatever it was, it called out again. It called out to me. It no longer sounded like my mother. Or anyone’s mother. It sounded grating, and echoed through the woods. It was closer now, seeming to suddenly rush across the distance without moving at all. It was still difficult to focus on, its nature defied comprehension. I had a sense of many long limbs, blurred and twitching, Its long face seemed pale one moment and dark the next. I caught a glimpse of pure, black eyes. The only thing about this creature that was steady were its eyes. The body jerked along the path, but its eyes remained fixed upon me. Beside me, Scout began barking fanatically, attempting to scare off this apparition. It proceeded forward, unphased, in its stuttering manor. The sound of my dog broke me out of my trance, I whistled to Scout, turned and ran. The thing was far enough away that we had a strong head start. But as we ran, we seemed to get no nearer to finding the opening in the foliage. I could hear the thing calling out behind me, and I now recognized the chilling perversion of my mother’s voice in it. It was as if my mother’s voice was being mimicked by something with only the barest comprehension of speech. Now that I’d seen it closer, it had abandoned all attempts at fooling me. I rushed onward, desperately searching for the exit. I could now hear it scrabbling along the dirt behind me. I threw another terrified glance behind me. The pursuer had grown impossibly tall, and its face was stretched long. Its mouth was wide, and opened wider still, seeming to almost split its head in half on a hinge. Its mouth was full of rows and rows of needle-shaped teeth, lining its maw in spirals down its throat and out of sight. A sickly sweet stench seemed to blast toward me, hot and fetid. Its greyish skin was cover in pustules, rotted and weeping. It reached a long arm toward me, tipped with three vicious claws. At that moment, I crashed through the brush and found myself on my back in the bright sunlight outside the wood. I was surrounded by the corn. Scout had leapt out in front of me, and whirled to confront our attacker. But there was nothing there. I blinked and got to my feet, peering through the undergrowth. There was no sign of a creature or a path. My heart was still pounding as I started back towards the house. I knew I hadn’t imagined the encounter. But I could find no evidence of the thing without going back into the wood. I would never venture into that forest again. Scout and I headed back toward home. I continued to peek over my shoulder, but nothing followed, and there was no sign of anything moving between the trees. That night, as I lay awake in bed, I couldn’t sleep for fear of the return of the spectre from the path. It didn’t help matters that in the darkest hours of the night, I heard a repeated soft whistling sound directly outside my window.


A woman with golden brown skin and long curly black hair walked into a somewhat empty bakery causing the bell to jingle just as she opened the door. The smells of freshly baked goods was hanging in the heated air that complemented the smell of the autumn just outside the glass door. The woman walked up to the counter before inspecting the many shelves full of breads and other baked goods. A soft smile stretched across her rose lips as the scents from the kitchen became more powerful making her look past the shelves at the two men baking. The two men danced around the kitchen, and each other, with precision as they prepared a loaf of bread to be cooked. One of them, a man with sandy blond hair and summer green eyes, turned towards the counter just as he put the loaf into the hot oven. He wiped the flour off of his hands onto his white apron before fiddling with the knot in the back to make sure it was tied on tightly. He was not aware of who the woman was as he walked up to the counter to greet her. “Welcome to Bobby’s Corner Bakery! What can I get you-” He stopped immediately as he looked up; his eyes going wide and his voice was stolen from his throat. He stared deep into the woman’s honey colored eyes that slowly showed confusion behind them instead of recognition. The man had not seen her since her death, yet her eyes were the same as they always have been despite how much different she looked. She was the only reason he worked at bakeries; he knew how much she loved baked goods. The woman cleared her throat and gestured to the various breads and pastries behind him. “Can I buy some bread or do I need to give you my number first?” She chuckled as his cheeks flushed red and he rubbed the back of his neck before laughing. “Yeah-Yeah, but your number would be greatly appreciated though,” he teased causing the other man send him a glare. “Hey! Quit flirting with the customer and give her her order!” The manager barked causing the green eyed man to sheepishly apologize. The woman laughed at this however, causing the man’s chest to fill with warmth before she ordered. “Just a loaf of your regular bread please.” The man nodded before grabbing a paper bag and the freshest loaf of bread off the shelf, packaging it with care while doing so quickly. The woman studied him closely before a wave of familiarity and nostalgia washed over her. Something about the way his messy sand colored hair fell in front of his eyes and the way he worked with efficiency gave her a sense of Déjà vu. Her eyebrows knitted together as he wrung up her total on the cash register and gave her a wide grin. “Have we met before?” The man looked taken back by her question. He did not know how to respond to that because they have met before; hundreds of times before. Each time was different than the last but they all held a special place in his heart. His eyes nervously darted around the woman before they landed on her hand. There around her ring finger was a silver ring with a diamond placed on top of the metal. He was too late. It felt like his heart had stopped beating as he looked back into the sweet honey colored eyes of hers; a pained smile stretching across his pale lips. “No, we haven’t.” The woman muttered a quiet, “Oh.” She pulled out her wallet from her purse and looked up at the man with frustrated eyes. “How much do I owe you?” The man handed her the bread and shook his head with genuine smile. “It’s on me.” The woman gave him a surprised look before smiling and turned around before heading for the door. “Thank you!” He waved goodbye to her as she left, “Come back again!” He watched her walk away along the sidewalk as a heavy feeling sunk into his chest with every step she took. Using the crook of his arm he wiped a few tears away before taking his apron off and setting it gently down on the counter. There was no need for him to stay in the city anymore this time. He felt no bitterness or hatred as he left the bakery and looked in the direction that the woman had went with a sad smile. He would have to wait for her again, but he was willing to go through a century just to be with her again. “See you in another life.


“Charlie… Wake up. Listen.” Amy shook me gently by the shoulder until I stirred. She was out of bed, standing by my side, framed by the soft morning light that spilled through the bedroom window. “What is it? What time is it?” I sat up, reaching for the clock on the bedside table. It read 4:17am. I groaned. “Shhh! Listen,” she said, moving to the window. She placed her hands on the sill and looked out over the garden. “I can hear a Nightingale.” Sure enough, amongst the dawn chorus, one voice rose above the rest, undulating gracefully around the harsher cadences of the morning ensemble. “Isn’t it beautiful?” My heart performed a pirouette. I wanted to tell her that the beauty of it was the re-appearance of her smile, which had been missing since that day at the beach. Instead, I motioned for her to come back to bed. She came and sat beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. We sat there awhile, listening to the birdsong. I held her close and ran my fingers through her pillow ruffled hair. “Did you sleep well?” I asked. She shrugged. A look of sorrow shadowed her face, like a cloud that briefly hides the sun on a summer’s day, stealing the warmth from the moment. I knew the dream that kept her awake at night – I had it too. It was always the same… In the dream, we’re at the beach, walking along the shoreline with El by our side. The sky is murky, like dirty dish water suspended above the Earth. It only takes a moment -- a moment of carelessness; a moment of distraction; a moment of lifetime regret – but it’s enough. Suddenly, El is screaming, struggling to keep her head above the steel grey waves that swirl angrily around her. I shout until my throat is hoarse with desperation, wishing I could lash the waves into obedience, but the sea does not listen – it is wild and untamed. Lately, I was having the dream less frequently. I hoped Amy wasn’t far behind. They say time is a healer, but since that day at the beach, I disagree. Time is a counsellor; one who urges you to replay a moment over and over, to think about it from every possible angle and then break it apart so you can re-structure it and over-analyse it anew. Then finally something cracks, and a chink of light shines through; a smile. Amy kissed my cheek as if she’d read my mind. She asked if I wanted coffee and climbed from bed. I nodded, watching her across the room. There was a crack in the plaster wall above the door-frame, and as she passed through, I disappeared through the crack… In my mind, I was at the beach again, only this was a different day; one of the countless moments that had been hidden beneath a shield of grief. I could hear the surf washing lazily upon the shore. The sun was at my back and a light breeze ruffled my hair. Warm white sand caressed my toes as I climbed the dune to where Amy and El were laughing and joking. They teased me for taking so long. I took El’s hand and put my arm around Amy’s waist, happy just to be with them. Together, we looked across the bay and watched the setting sun turn the sea into liquid gold before our eyes. Amy re-entered the room holding two steaming cups of coffee. We locked smiles and I swear there was light shining through the crack beside the door. I think Amy could see it too.


It was 2:25 AM I sat at my laptop aimlessly scrolling as the minutes dragged by. Only 3 more hours left until I needed to start getting ready for a long day of work. I leaned back in my chair and cracked my neck. As I heard the tension being released from in-between my vertebras with a few satisfying pops I contemplated crawling into my bed and calling it a night, but my over stimulated brain was still rushing after several hours of scrolling through endless tweets, half reading reddit posts, and hitting the next recommended videos on YouTube. I eventually found myself in the deadly cycle of switching between the home page and the inbox page on Facebook. I reached across the table and took a long swig of my now-flat Pepsi than lurched as I felt a trickle running down my chin and onto my exposed keyboard. Quickly using the sleeve of my hoodie I frantically wiped off the keys that the sugary liquid splashed onto. I cursed under my breath. “I really need to stop snacking at my computer,” I thought to myself as I observed the many crumbs scattered between the keys. I pulled my sleeve up over my thumb and dabbed it twice onto my tongue and began to scrub in between the keys. Don’t judge me! I'm sure you have done it too. After looking over my somewhat cleaner keyboard with satisfaction I looked back onto the screen. A massive jumble of letters were strewn across the google search bar as the result of my late night keyboard scrubbing session. I briefly considered googling my own name for the third time that night but then decided that those 3 hours of sleep might be just enough to get me through my next 8 hour shift. As I was about to stand up a small square suddenly appeared in the corner of my screen. It was plain white with a red frame with the bold letters flashing from blue to red reading, “This link will disappear in 60 seconds.” Below a small timer began counting down from 60 to 59 to 58. I grunted in amusement. “Nice try,” I thought to myself, “probably some low budget website or internet scam trying to trick me into taking their surveys or giving out my credit card information so that I can win that free new iPad.” The numbers counted down from 40 to 39 to 38. As the numbers counted down my curiosity of where that link will take me began to grow. I hovered the mouse over the box then stopped myself. “What if clicking this link would install some malware virus onto my computer? I have already had a computer virus once before after pirating a whole season of “Rick and Morty” onto my computer.” The numbers continued to count down from 24 to 23 to 21. I reached for the top of my screen and began to close it. “What if it was the FBI trying to bait me into clicking a link to an illegal web-sight.” Just as the screen was about to meet my keyboard I stopped. “What if it really was a once in a lifetime opportunity and by clicking this link I would get the chance to view something no one has ever seen before.” The thought of never knowing where that link would take me is going to drive me crazy and I could surely see myself losing sleep over it. I slowly lifted my laptops screen again and saw the numbers count down from 5 to 4 to 3. I gritted my teeth and cursed my overactive imagination and gullibility. I reached down to my mousepad and clicked the link just as the timer reached 1. A New tab appeared on my screen as what looked like a video began buffering. I held my breath and braced myself for disappointment. I hoped to God It wouldn’t be some kind of really messed up porn. It was going to be hard enough getting myself to sleep let alone spending the night trying to erase certain images out of my head. I bit my lip as the buffering eventually stopped and the tab was now filled by a full screen video. I blinked in confusion as all I saw was a very blurry video feed with a blinking red dot in the corner of the screen next to the words LIVE. I stared for a few seconds trying to make out what exactly I was supposed to be looking at. From what it looked like it appeared to be the shape of someone’s silhouette from his head to his shoulders. “Did the link bring me to live stream chat with some random person?” “Hello?” I stammered nervously as the dark face just stared at me in silence. A second later I heard my voice echo from my computer repeating the same “Hello.” I waited a second before trying again. “Can you hear me?” The person on the other end of the stream just sat there as I heard my voice again echo from my computers speakers. It kind of sounded like when you’re on the phone with someone and they have their volume turned up to loud so you can hear your voice repeating while you’re talking to them. I sat there for a full minute not saying anything, waiting for the person in the livestream to respond, or move, or do pretty much anything. They just sat there the whole time barely moving. Than from the corner of the screen I saw another figure standing in the background. It also appeared to be the shape of a man. At first the second figure also just sat there unmoving, than began to sway back and forth. It was kind of like the way a tree sways in a gentle breeze. This continued for another minute than it stopped and went rigid. It’s head began to twitch to the side every so often becoming faster and more rapid as time went on. I then saw it begin to raise an arm toward the other figure sitting closest to the screen who during the duration of this time just sat there motionless as if unaware of was going on behind it. I then shifted my gaze to the figure behind as it began to slowly walk closer and closer to the person very slowly and jerkily. It walked in a slow, in a zig zag like pattern. It got closer and closer to the person sitting closest to the screen who still to this moment just sat there motionless just staring at the screen not even acknowledging the figure behind them. The figure behind no longer seemed human its movement was just too strange and unnatural. It reminded me of the way a puppet on a string walked. It got closer and closer to the other figure. It eventually was so close that it’s face was nearly resting on its shoulder. My heart began to race! “Why don’t they notice what is going on? Are they drugged? Are they asleep? Is this some kind of prank or some sick snuff film being streamed on the dark web by some psychopath?” I wanted to yell out to the person warning them of the figure standing dangerously close to them who’s movement was of no doubt no human being. God, I wish that the image was more clear. It was just so dark and blurry that I could barely make out what I was seeing. Just when I thought it was about to be all over, the twitching figure stopped and went absolutely still just inches away from the person in front. By that I mean, unnervingly still. Although the figure in front remained still there was just enough movement to know it was alive. It’s shoulders raised rhythmicity as it were breathing and I would catch small movements of its head. The figure behind though was as still as a corpse. Than slowly it began to crouch down off camera and I could no longer see it from behind the seated figure in front of the screen. After my heart began to slow down I leaned in closer to the screen to try to get a better view of the mysterious figure in front of me. Than to my surprise the seated figure leaned in as well. I slowly tilted my head to the side in mild confusion than seconds later the figure seated in front did the same. “This guy is mimicking me,” I realized in amusement. I raised both of my hands slowly than seconds later the seated figure slowly did the same. I lowered my left hand and the figure lowered its left. I held up two fingers and the figure did the same. I then noticed a small light at the top of my computer monitor. A steady green light right next to the monitor camera. It was then I noticed that my camera lens was extremely dusty. It’s a wonder that the figure on the other end could not even see me. Using the same technique as before I reached my sleeve up and gently wiped the dust off of the monitor camera. The second my gaze returned to my screen I felt my heart began to race. The image on the screen was now clear as day, the figure I have been staring at this whole time was me. This whole live stream was not a 2 way video chat. It was just a recording of me sitting in front of my laptop. The figure was not mimicking my movements, it was my own reflection. The only reason it movements seemed delayed from mine was because a live feed is always a few seconds behind the actual recording. That also explained why my voice was echoing before. Than just like that the image disappeared from the screen. The tab I had open no longer showed the link with the flashing letters or the timer, but just small text reading “eRRor 404.” My mind raced as everything began to settle in, if that was a live recording of me, than that means that the lurching figure behind was actually a recording as well? I made two mistakes that night. The first one was clicking that link in the first place. The second, was turning around afterwards.


This is a **work of fiction**. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental \ The music was blasting, my ears were ringing already, and I was only at the bar. My musketeers had asked me to fetch them some drinks while they evaluated the state of the dancefloor and looked for potential dance partners. It was too early for me to party; I felt like shite, I could still smell Anne’s perfume in my sheets and in my pillow. I couldn’t bring myself to wash them, maybe yearning for her touch was my way of beating some sense into my own head. That woman had been in my life since I was 7 years old, and now, in every moment of the day, I always felt like there was something missing, no matter where I went and no matter what I drank. The waitress came back with 4 rum and colas, throwing me out of melancholy lane for the moment. I tapped my card, collected the glasses and snuck a peek at those beautiful green eyes of hers as I mouthed thank you, they seemed to beam with their own light. Back on the dancefloor, we were doing a poor job at balancing our drinks in one of our hands while dancing like proper dorks: flapping our arms like birds, doing the robot; the whole shebang. I loved the fact that we were happy to chill for once; when we were in our early years of university, it was all about women and it got boring quite quickly for me. We must have looked ridiculous together since we are extremely different. Raf stood at 2 meters tall, slim, with wild curly brown hair breaking free from underneath a stylish hat, and a huge nose. Loui was looking careless lately: he had left his black hair to grow out of control, almost reaching shoulder length, thick glasses framed his pale white face. He didn’t visit the gym that much anymore; you could tell he was ripped, but we had all seen him in better shape. Richard was out hunting tonight, he wore a stylish white shirt over some jeans and when he raised his hands to dance you could see the hypertrophy struggling to break the bonds of that expensive shirt, tattoos sneaking off to his forearms from the sleeves. I stood between Richard and Loui, my dirty blond hair was barely combed through and I was wearing a shirt that did a good job at hiding how much I had stopped taking care of myself lately. Richard was the first one to spot them: the blonde was hard to miss. She was probably under 25, and she was wearing a dark red dress that was too short for my taste, ending just a few centimetres from her bottom. She was petite, slim and slender, but the dress stuck to her like a second skin, shifting over her as she danced. It was mesmerising, I had to admit. The dark red tones of her dress matched her lip colour and contrasted with her porcelain skin. She was wearing a heavy layer of makeup that probably took a few hours to put together. I could still hear Anne’s voice: *‘If you want me with a proper face on, either shut up or fuck off. Would you darling?’* The dress reflected some of the dancefloor lights and made that golden hair of hers even more obvious. She was sipping on a cosmopolitan and talking with her group of five friends. I could already see ‘The Womaniser’ thinking about a plan of approach. Richard was an open book to most of us. We had known each other since we were in our early teens. Raf pointed towards Richard, as he moved towards the group of young women. He smiled; ‘Classic Richard’ screaming out as body language to those that could read it. Patience is a virtue and I was not in a hurry to turn this guys night out into whatever it was that Richard had on his mind. I had recently started to drink a lot faster, and hence, I was running dry, so I went to get another one for myself. Alcohol was starting to numb my previous melancholic state of mind and I felt like indulging myself. From the bar, I asked the green-eyed bartender for a whiskey double. She briefly made a recommendation of a brand they were carrying. I was happy to humour her, she nodded as she went for the bottle. From the bar, I could clearly see Richard perform his mating ritual moves nearby the group of girls, casually approaching. Not casually enough. Their faces went from amusement to annoyance to amusement again as he realised that he had been caught and went full dork mode again. ‘Your friend better stay away from Chloe, she is too much for him to deal with.’ I barely caught the last words over the loud music. I turned to see an attractive woman around 30, wearing a very light layer of makeup over dark caramel skin and what looked like pale brown eyes, yellow maybe, I couldn’t tell with all of the lights. Her lips were a shade darker than her skin. She wore a very simple black dress that clung to her shoulders by a single strap around her right shoulder, almost touching one of the two silver loops hanging from her ears. She was of medium build and looked like she hadn’t been skipping gym lately. Her expression was a mixture of contempt and irritation. ‘How do you know that I’m with that dork, lady?’ I smiled as saw Raf and Loui join Richard in what it seemed to be a native American rain dance. ‘Cause you’ve been laying everyone low with those 60s moves and we’ve been laughing at you for the entire night!’ She wasn’t quite smiling. ‘I don’t see the problem on making a bunch of, if I may say, very lovely women laugh at us. Do you?’ I offered her my most innocent smile. ‘Ha! Cheeky!’ It seemed that comment caught her by surprise, as her stern face lit up momentarily. ‘So, you’re with Chloe the cheerleaders, I take.’ I asked pointing at Chloe and her red dress. ‘It’s more of a hen party actually. She’s is getting married.’ *‘Jack, STOP it. Get up, please.’* I somehow managed to smile through the flashback of my brief, failed attempt at marriage. ‘Pleased to meet you, mother hen.’ I replied playfully, extending my hand. ‘Oh, would you sod off?’ She slapped my hand away, looking irritated, after a brief pause she turned her back on me. ‘Pardon me miss, I meant no offence, I was simply jesting.’ She looked away, without bothering to answer. I got the message loud and clear. My drink got here, I signalled the waitress to come close. ‘I’ve been a proper jerk to that lady I’m afraid! Whatever she’s having, get her another, and charge it here.’ She nodded and loaded the contactless payment platform with the proper amount. Whatever I ordered for her was cheap. I collected my drink and gave it a sip. ‘Holy moly miss! That’s some proper whiskey, thanks for the recommendation.’ I smiled at her. She smiled right back and made an ‘I know a thing or two’ gesture. I shook her hand and went back to the dancefloor, quickly setting my unfortunate encounter aside. It was only 1 am, I had plenty of time to have fun. ‘Somebody got rejected by an Indian goddess.’ Loui shouted at my ear. ‘She was already angry to begin with! She cannot take a mild joke…If you talk with her, whatever you do, do not call her mother hen.’ I said. ‘Hahaha, you can be such a twat sometimes Jack.’ He replied while smiling. We talked about the girl group for a few minutes, got the remaining musketeers up to speed. I grabbed Richard, who was looking a bit grim after discovering that his mark was already taken and invited him to join me for a legendary waltz. After we were done and we were all laughing at the poor show we were putting on, someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned to see Mother-Hen, holding an empty glass and looking less angry than before. ‘My friend told me that you love nicknames.’ Loui shouted through the music, sharp as ever. ‘You can call me Daddy Rooster!’ the subtle Richard strikes again. ‘I see you’re all clowns!’ she replied. ‘Yup!’ we shouted in unison. That got her to laugh and she got closer to me so that I could hear her better through the blasting speakers. ‘May I return the favour?’ She raised her empty glass. ‘You may.’ I was short for words. I didn’t know where this was going, this woman was still feeling a bit off, and I wanted to be a bit cautious. ‘Tell her to get me a rum.’ Loui wasn’t done being an idiot. As we headed towards the bar, it got quieter and quieter. We could finally speak in a normal tone of voice. ‘Sorry, I overreacted before.’ She looked forward, trying to find a spot to order. ‘Don’t worry about it, you’re not the first nor the last lady I piss off by running my mouth off.’ She was walking in front of me; I got a brief look of the back of her dress, which was open just before reaching her lumbar back, showing a discrete tattoo in black ink between her shoulder blades. Her skin tone made it really hard to see clearly. We saw a spot in the middle of the bar and we headed towards it to order. ‘What are you having?’ she asked. ‘They have a lovely single malt here, the bartender will know what I’m referring to. Tell her no ice.’ I turned around and placed my elbows on the bar. 'My my, a bit young to take your stuff straight aren’t you?’ She playfully stated, her tone change was sudden and it seemed out of character. ‘Just old enough to appreciate my liquor bare.’ If she was game, so was I, god knows I could use some company. There was something wrong with this lady though, I could feel it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. She nodded as she spoke to the waitress and swiped her card. She had a single ring on her right hand’s middle finger, a silver band and a black stone. Classy. Our drinks got here and we gently knocked our glasses together. ‘So I take that to keep things civil I’m going to have to call you by your name.’ I said, while taking a small sip, it was lovely. ‘My name’s a bit long, you can call me Shiva.’ She said, funny enough, an Indian goddess after all. Shiva was the male God of destruction, I could faintly remember. ‘Nice to meet you Shiva.’ We shook hands. ‘I’m Jack. So, how is it that you ended up in charge of the girl scouts over there?’ She smiled. ‘I’m their boss…’ Her face turned grim again. ‘I really didn’t want to come here.’ ‘How so?’ I could relate. ‘Oh you know they are just in the whole celebration mood. They want to drink till they’re fuzzy enough to not give a fuck and then go to this strip club down the road.’ I knew the place, it was one of my recent haunts, something that I wasn’t about to admit. ‘They’ve hired a boy toy for a private party.’ I did not know they had male strippers. ‘They just want to enjoy the view as he shakes his junk all around the place.’ She was clearly nervous about this last part, which made me wonder why. Her thumb kept turning her ring around her middle finger. ‘Well, if you are looking for an alternative, you are in luck! My friend Richard there happens to be a fantastic dancer.’ I said. ‘Is that the discrete one?’ She smiled. ‘That’s his surname, yes’ Her smile grew wider. ‘Yea I bet he wouldn’t mind.’ She kept turning the ring on her right hand around. ‘You two could have your own number.’ ‘Ha! It’s a work in progress. We don’t get much practise I’m afraid. I can barely dance while I’m sober so we only get the chance while we’re out!’ I replied. ‘It sounds like that’s not very often.’ Her expression turned neutral again. ‘Do you come here much? I haven’t seen you around.’ ‘No, I‘ve been a bit of a shut-in lately, but it’s good to go out with the gang again.’ I pointed at them. Raf seemed to take this as an invitation, as he decided to approach us. He faced Shiva, greeted her by taking his hat off, with his other hand, he took my glass and chugged my drink in one swift gulp. I closed my eyes, raised my eyebrows, gently shook my head and sighed with a profoundly sad expression. You don’t do that to a nice whiskey. I could have slapped him, except, not really, because he was too bloody tall. He smiled as he flicked me off and went back to the dancefloor. ‘Well… that’s one way not to drink whiskey.’ She said. ‘Yes indeed, but I’m not ever going to teach that twat how to drink for pleasure rather than numbness.’ I waved at the waitress, pointed to the glass as I mouthed another one. ‘Please, let me get this for you.’ She said. The waitress was pouring the whiskey into the measuring cup. ‘Under no circumstance lady. You’ve already bought me one.’ I held my card on my hand. ‘But your friend drank it! You didn’t get to have anything…’ Her tone turned melodic and playful again. She got closer to me. ‘Let me get this for you. Please. I probably make more than you do anyway.’ She said as she held my hand back with hers. I’ve always had a short fuse, and I’ve always been very aware of this fact. It has always gotten me into trouble. Even my mom was never able to understand how I could ignite so easily when I was being looked down upon. ‘How patronising of you!’ I tried to hide the fact that my blood was boiling under my skin with a very poorly faked smile and a mockery of her playful tone. I removed her hand from mine with more firmness than I meant to, as I signalled the waitress to ignore her. ‘Oh please don’t take it the wrong way!’ She replied sung with that bloody tone again, it was driving me insane. ‘I must be 10 years older than you! Just let me get you that drink!’ She said, putting her hand again on mine so that I couldn’t swipe the card. ‘Seriously Shiva, piss off, I don’t want you to pay for my booze.’ At that point, I was the one wanting to slap hands away. ‘Oh come on… Did the baby get offended?’ She got uncomfortably closer and she playfully grabbed my cheek. ‘Don’t be like my kid!’ My patience came to a sudden end. ‘Yeah, I bet you don’t need anymore else that just wants you out of their life.’ The slap made the heads of everyone in this side of the bar turn. There was a jolt of pain under my left eye. When I opened my eyes I saw her face lit with a fury that I did not expect. She drew her hand back again, her upper lip was drawn upwards and I could see her teeth showing. She hit me again, on the same side with her open hand. She was going for the third hit. I grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. ‘Whatever the hell you got going on, love, you should really get some help… You obviously need it.’ I said. I let go of her hand, as I gently pushed her back, picked up my whiskey, drank it like Raf did, placed the glass down and headed for the exit of the club. She didn’t say anything, she just stood there. I only caught a brief glimpse of her face before I turned, a weird mixture of anger and embarrassment. My friends had been watching, they had seen what happened and they were coming to meet me. ‘What in the world did you say to that woman? It looked like you were about to have a little moment there. I blink and I see her properly slapping you.’ Richard looked worried. ‘You okay?’ ‘Yea, of course, I’m okay. It’s not like I’ve never got slapped before. To be honest I don’t usually mind getting roughed up.’ I joked while trying to make this less serious than it seemed. ‘We’re not taking you out ever again. You never keep your mouth shut.’ Raf said, barely standing. ‘Now we’re going to have to hit another club!’ I smiled, and a jolt of pain went through my right cheek again. She had some wrist power for sure. I put my hand on my face to find that it was sticky. ‘What the hell?’ I thought out loud. ‘Jack, you’re bleeding.’ Loui said. ‘Let me have a look at you…’ I tilted my head back so that we could shine some of the lights from outside the club. ‘How did she even draw blood?’ I wondered. ‘I don’t know but you have a nasty ass cut on your face mate. Maybe two? I can’t quite tell.’ He grabbed my face and made it face the light. ‘We’re going to have to get you stitched up to avoid this from scarring. This looks deep…’ ‘Oh my god there they are!’ We four turned our heads. Shiva and Chloe were out of the club, apparently looking for us. They approached us with urgency. ‘Coming for strike three?’ I said while they were approaching. ‘You crazy cow! You managed to cut me!’ ‘I know…’ She said after arriving, panting, a fine layer of sweat on her forehead. She paused for a moment and looked at her hands, which were bloody. ‘It was the ring. I’m so sorry I lost it there I…’ She didn’t finish the sentence, she looked down and her gaze fixed on her hands. ‘Apologies not accepted, now kindly piss off.’ I replied. ‘No, wait! I’m really sorry, may I please have a look? I’m a doctor.’ She insisted. ‘No, you may not. Seriously, leave me alone before I call the coppers.’ I was not impressed by her sudden remorse. ‘Look, the sooner you get that stitched up, the lesser chance you have of it actually scarring. I live in that block.’ She pointed at the building directly opposite to us. ‘I’ve got the necessary stuff to patch you up in the next 10 minutes. I’m a surgeon so I know what I’m doing. You can call the police afterwards if you want, call them now if you want. Just… let me fix this.’ *‘Please Anne, just… let me fix this.’* I looked at Loui, he was almost done with the fifth year of his medicine grad. He didn’t say anything, which meant that he somewhat agreed with what she said. ‘How much has she had to drink?’ I asked Chloe, she had just observed the encounter, silently standing behind her boss all this time. ‘She doesn’t drink at all.’ Chloe looked at us worried, and then to Shiva. ‘She did come back with two drinks from the bar once, but we checked. You know? Cause we like… we thought we had finally gotten her to grab a proper drink but no… they were both sodas.’ That was the first time I invited a woman to a flipping soda in a club. ‘Seriously, you should let her stitch you up. You can’t even imagine what she does to faces on a daily basis.’ Said Chloe. ‘I think I might have a slight clue.’ I pointed at my open wound. ‘So I take you’re less of a doctor and more of a plastic surgeon.’ said Loui, he was aiming for neurosurgery, elitism was something that just came in the package. ‘Yes, I’m a plastic surgeon.’ Shiva barely looked at him to respond before turning to me. ‘Just please let me help. Please?’ Her yellow eyes stared right into mine. \ We walked into the lobby in complete silence, we hadn’t spoken since we left Chloe and the musketeers waiting downstairs. We got into the elevator and we both turned and stared at the door. The elevator went up to the twentieth floor, the last one, it wasn’t a short ride. It was the only apartment on that floor, must have cost a fortune. She pushed her keys into keyhole and swung the heavy duty door open. I didn’t break the silence as I didn’t want to wake up some kids in the middle of the night with a bloody face. She turned the lights on, the lounge turned bright. The ceiling was quite high for an apartment, it was about 3 meters high and it had white walls with dark brown furniture, the floor was pale marble, it looked a bit like a futuristic palace. There was a single corridor making the way into the apartment. A single empty three shelved shoe rack marked the start of the no shoe zone. She took her heels off and placed them there, leaving her purse hanging inside the closet. Everything was in an immaculate state. ‘Could you take your shoes off please?’ She said. ‘Yes of course.’ I bent over to undo the laces on my trainers. A few drops of blood fell on the marble floor. They looked like how the dress looked on Chloe’s skin. ‘Ugh, I’ve…’ I said struggling to find my words. She turned around and she looked where I was pointing at. ‘Oh don’t worry about it, I’ll clean it later. Come to the bathroom, I got my first aid kit there.’ She looked nervous, but emotionless, cold, like a bonfire that’s just been smothered by a bucket of water. She moved into the apartment turning lights on as she reached the switches. I followed her after I had neatly placed my shoes on the rack next to hers. The corridor was long, I passed two rooms on my right hand, one of them had punk rock posters pasted on the door, Sum 41 and Green Day. I smiled, those were from my generation. The second room had a figure of a moon hanging from the knob and was open. I peeked in, and the walls were blue, a single cradle was in the corner that was visible from the door, and there seemed to be a mattress on the floor, which looked slightly out of place. ‘Jack?’ I heard her call my name. I hurried to the source of her voice, I passed two corridors to each side, I kept going straight and arrived at a huge, professional kitchen, the fridge was huge, and the induction cooker looked completely unused or very well kept, there was a high dining table in the middle of the room, with high stools, which reminded me of the ones from the club. At the furthest side, there was a baby chair. There was a half open bottle of wine on the middle of the table, and a dirty glass right next to it. I thought Chloe said she didn’t drink. A few dishes were piled up next to the sink, it had a faint food smell like the kitchen hadn’t been aired in a while. There were a few boxes from what seemed to be takeout piled in the trash and there were a few family pictures hung on the walls. Nice place. ‘Shiva, where are you? I’ve gotten lost in this small apartment of yours.’ I whispered into the corridor. She came from the corridor to the right carrying a little bag. ‘Oh, you found the kitchen, that works better than the bathroom. Sit on that chair would you?’ She hurried me back in, grabbing a stool and sitting next to me. She took the contents of the bag out, and methodically placed them on the counter. ‘This might sting.’ She cleaned the wound with some transparent liquid from a small bottle and some cotton. ‘It does sting like the devil.’ ‘Do you want to sit on the baby chair?’ She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Yes please.’ I could take a joke, even in this weird situation. She didn’t reply, her smile grew a bit wider before she started to study my cheek, she seemed worried. She gently tilted my head to the side and asked me to hold the position as she got way too close to my face; her rounded nose was close enough to be burrowing into my beard; her yellow eyes, centimetres from mine, not aware of my gaze; her chest was pressed against my arm. She seemed to be a lot more comfortable with this than I was. While trying not to think that this was the closest I had been with a woman that I hadn’t paid to strip for me in some time, I focused on one of the pictures hung on the wall. Shiva was wearing a full piece swimming suit, she was hugging a pale, blond, muscular man, they were on the beach and she was pregnant. ‘I’m so sorry Jack… I’ve done a good number on you, there are two cuts, almost parallel to each other.’ A few tears fell from her face into my beard. ‘Oh god, I’m sorry, I must look like a proper nut-job at the moment.’ She wiped the tears from my face and from hers with the back of her arm. ‘No worries…’ This was beyond awkward, I was still somewhat angry at this woman and I wasn’t quite sure that I had made the right decision following her there. She continued cleaning the wound, the cotton was turning reddish as she methodically and carefully pressed it against the cuts. ‘Okay, I’m going to need you to stay still. This is some very fine material and I don’t want it to snap.’ She grabbed the hook with something that looked like tweezers, the thread was barely visible to me. She spread my face with her fingers, now behind a silicone glove and she put the stitches down one by one. I decided to keep my pretty mouth shut and looked at the picture again. I noticed that there was a small boy climbing on her husband’s leg, holding onto his waist with both hands and wrapping his legs around him to push himself up, he had curly dark hair and his skin was a very light shade of brown. It was a lovely family picture. ‘Okay, we’re halfway through, you still there with me?’ She said. ‘Yea, just admiring your little monkey, he seems to have excellent taste in music. How old is he now?’ I pointed at the picture. ‘He’s seven.’ Shiva said, completely emotionless, focused on her work. ‘Pretty young to listen to Punk Rock isn’t him?’ I realised that was none of my business after those words came out of my mouth. ‘That’s his dad’s fault.’ She quickly stated, less neutral than she wanted to sound. ‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud. It’s no concern of mine.’ I did not want her to snap again. I pictured her choking me with the thread, very plausible indeed. ‘Don’t apologise, please… I’m almost done here.’ She tied another knot, but at the end, she dropped the tweezers, which ricocheted off the floor and went under the sink counter. ‘FUCK’ She shouted. ‘Shh!’ I tightened my whole body and pushed my open palms down in a “be quiet” gesture. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re going to wake your whole family.’ I was in no hurry to experience how wonderful it might be to explain this situation to her husband. ‘Shit, those things are slippery. I don’t have another pair, we’re going to have to get them from down there…’ ‘Seriously don’t worry about it, I’ll get the rest done at the hospital. God knows what’s down there, I don’t want to get the cut infected…’ This was getting weirder and weirder and I just wanted out of the house. This had been a really bad idea. ‘You’re right, I think Jonh keeps another pair in his nightstand.’ ‘No no, do not wake your husband up please.’ I pleaded anxiously. ‘He’s not here.’ She said in a neutral calmed tone. ‘Now shut it and wait till I’m back!’ A few minutes later I heard a loud noise. ‘Shiva?’ I whispered loudly into the corridor again. ‘I’m okay, I just fell down, wait there.’ I’ve never been the waiting kind, I headed to the source of the noise, to the left of the kitchen, and I saw her sitting on her side, in the dark, facing the door, patting her right thigh and looking in pain. I turned the lights on as I entered the room. ‘How did you fall?’ I offered my hand, she grabbed it and pulled herself up. ‘I must have tripped on something. Let’s get back to the kitchen.’ She seemed to want to get out of that room rather quickly, she was tight, nervous. I thought it was because of the fall, but then I actually looked at the room. I had not noticed the state it was in until that point. There were bottles everywhere, she had tripped on one of them for sure. There was no mattress on the bed, it must have been the one that I saw in the room with the cradle. The blinds were shut and there were two ashtrays sitting on one side of the bed, completely full of cigarette butts, everything else on them was glasses and mugs, some of them overflowing wish ash and more cigarettes. As I noticed this, the smell of home hit me: stale tobacco, marihuana, closed room and the sour-sweet smell from the dried alcohol in the bottles. The pictures in the room were taken off the walls and turned around and there were piles of books on both sides of the bed frame. ‘Seriously please, let’s get out of here, I got Jonh’s first aid kit right here.’ She waved the little purse in front of my eyes, capturing my attention. It was the same way a mother would wave some candy in front of their kids while saying ‘look what I got here’. By this time, Iw as already used to her forcefully playful and cheerful tone. Before she left, she opened the windows. We left the room without speaking at all, as she left, she closed the door behind her. I sat down in my stool, rested my hands on my lap, and she started working on me again. We remained in silence for a few minutes, this allowed me to unpack the night a bit. I thought about my own demons, and how much they might look like hers. She looked calm and serene while she dug into my skin with that hook. By the few last stitches, I was no longer angry. ‘He left with the kids right?’ I said as I looked her in the eye. ‘Yes.’ She tied another stitch and wiped her first tear away. \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong: do let me know. Once again, thanks.


Can I take a moment of your time to tell you about the most fabulous little creature? Now, you’re probably thinking it’s some rare bird with bright multicolored plumage that lives in the mysterious heart of the amazon, or perhaps a cuddly bright-eyed marsupial that looks like a living teddy bear, and obeys and dotes like the most loyal lapdog. You’re wrong on both accounts. However, if at the end of my introductory question, the image of a small brown retinentia leech from the Mississippi bayou entered your mind then you may give yourself a pat on the back. So what’s fabulous about an ugly, drab, parasitic little worm? Well, I’ll tell you. If you took this leech, put it in a maze, and rewarded it with food when it swam its way through after a few mind-numbing hours, you would have:  1. A very happy leech. 2. A miracle of biological science. Now stay with me. I’m going to take your happy leech, and blend it up, blend it into a fine grey paste. I’m then going to take my 50cc’s of liquidized leech, and feed it to its leech friends. Why have I done this you may ask? Maybe you’ll even hate me for taking your beloved leech away from you. And maybe while you plot ways to take revenge on me for the innocent little life I’ve so cruelly taken away from the world, you’ll miss the miracle I’m manifesting. I’ve just put all those cannibalized leeches in the same maze, and they’ve solved it within mere *minutes*. They did this because someway, somehow, they’re able to access the memories of their blended and consumed brethren. We have no idea how this happens or what evolutionary advantage this provides them. But I can tell you this. They’ve made me extraordinarily rich. **1. What I do.** In my sprawling, lavishly decorated, New York City penthouse apartment, I keep one dark room locked at all times. Inside are jars upon jars, stacked up to the walls, of these leeches. When I’m called out to a job, I pluck one out, pop it into a lithe glass vial, and head to the Mortuary. I park my beetle-shell black Benz around the block and sneak around to the back door. This is the only time you won’t see me dressed to impress, don’t want to arouse suspicion after all. Inside I’ll find my client’s dearly departed sprawled out on an unflattering aluminum slab spotlit by a ghastly array of fluorescents. My aide Alex stands beside the body, performing a blood draw, or if it’s been sitting for a while, a liver biopsy. I’ll leave the leech to his lunch while Alex and I have a cigarette. Alex is young and wiry, with thin lips that twist into a mischievous smile when our conversations inevitably take a turn for the macabre. He’s wearing his usual thick black rubber apron, with gloves to match. I don’t know if it’s fumes of the embalming liquid eating away at his brain‘s social filter, but these conversations so quickly go off the rails, and soon we’re discussing all of the “frogs” he sees wheeled through here week in and week out. Dissections, infections, and gas-filled offal that flatulate post mortem. All of it gives him a sick thrill. I’m sure as well that I’m the only person in his life he can talk to about this. I’m not even sure that he has anyone he talks to about anything. Who knows how these people get so twisted up, all I do know is that he can keep a secret. We return to the leech, and I liquidize it, Alex then takes a blood draw from me, and infuses my blood with the grey paste, which is then transfused back into me. It’s not pretty or pleasant but it’s profitable. Memories trickle into my conscious about halfway through the transfusion. Smells come through quickest. The scent of soaps, colognes, and food. I breathe deep, and in my mind's eye I’m at a dinner table, or a bar bathroom, I’m somewhere new, looking around the world from behind the eyes of a freshly passed person. These images flitter through unfiltered, and once they’ve settled, I can start to apply my typical deductive process. Usually, it’s quite simple. I bring to mind the feeling of terror and see where my borrowed memories take me. With one recent recall, I saw my husband standing over me with rage blazing in his eyes and bloody fists. He lunges towards me and grabs my throat. My face feels red hot and I’m clamoring for breath, my eyes are bulging out, and my long nails are tearing at his wrists and chipping. I pull myself away from the memory. I dab my eyes, drying away the very last of her tears. I know the bastard’s name and address, as well as his face, and pretty much everything about him. I look back at the woman on the slab. She’s pretty in a fragile way. Thick brown curls that refuse to settle flat against the table. Her face is pale now with red tendrils of broken blood vessels around her eyes and nose. But if I concentrate, I can see her alive in her bathroom mirror. Beautifully made up, deep blue eyes made bolder by mascara, and perfect pursed rose petal lips. I give Alex his usual cut, $1,500, and then head to my appointment with the family. Let me tell you now that I do not work with formalized law enforcement, and what I do at every level is felonious and ethically inappropriate. I market myself as a forensic medium (Stephen the All-Seeing), because any detective in their right mind that could do what I do would be bound by every manner of miserable moral code to work themselves to death, or divulge their methods. I enter the family homes dressed in garb befitting my mystic profession, usually a dark head wrap, and a gold patterned silk robe with gaping cuffs. Then I start the show. Maybe I’ll pretend to conjure, perhaps we’ll do a seance, I’ve even used a Ouija board on mornings when I’m too hungover to sell it. I’ll give them a hint to the truth. “I see trouble in the home”, “I see the anger in his eyes”, “I can’t breathe”. I then tell them that the spirit is at peace. Maybe I’ll throw in some personal details from the memories to really hit it home with them “Mom, don’t worry about me, I’m at peace, I love you. I’ve gotta go now, Grandpa and I are playing Chinese Checkers on the porch, we’ll see you later.” They cry, they thank me, they pay me $15,000 for my trouble. And I drop a hunk of ribeye into the leech jar. Win-Win-Win. **2. What have I done?** It’s the morning of April 16th, 1982, and I’m hanging out my window having a cigarette and half-listening to the news in the other room. I’ve let my hair grow out. It’s become a valuable prop for me now. When I focus I subconsciously brush it out of my face, and it makes me look very thoughtful, considerate even. From the living room, I hear the crescendo of news graphics. “MURDER IN MANHATTAN”, New York State senator David O’Malley has been found dead in his study, shot in the back. I ash my cigarette and turn to the TV. This could be an extraordinarily lucrative opportunity. The phone rings and Alex is on the other end, “Good Morning, Stephen, I assume you’ve heard the good news?” His voice is rich with the typical sense of sardonic delusion. But it was indeed good news and my mind was suddenly swimming in the cashout this gig could get me. My profession and track record were well known amongst the well-heeled bereaved, so there was a good chance my name would get passed along. I’d charge my usual rate of course, but leaching from important people gives me access to all sorts of valuable information. It was around noon the next day when I got the call, much sooner than I expected. It was his wife. Even in the depths of her grief, her voice lilted and curved in the most beautiful stately way. She sounds young, maybe in her mid-thirties, there could be a book deal in her future, and, I’m sure, a new man after a year or so. “Now, I’m not usually the type to buy into this *woo woo* business, but you have to understand my husband's death… Well, I think I know who killed him.” “You do?” I asked ever so innocently. “Yes, but I have to be sure before I go to the police. My husband surrounded himself with powerful men you know,” she paused for a moment, “This conversation is confidential, isn't it?” “Completely.” He was killed by a high powered pimp she thought. A man named Oliver Morrow. A financier socialite whose reputation as a procurer of female company for the rich and powerful was an open secret in the inner circles of city government. She had recently harbored suspicions that her husband's dealings with him had sordid connotations, as he became a near-constant presence at every fundraising event/dinner they held since they were introduced earlier in the year. My mouth was practically watering, an inside look at the seedy dealings of the political inner circle. If I wanted to open up a side business in blackmail I might have a wealth of clientele soon available to me. Her request was simple, validation of her conspiratorial theory, I gave her my usual “We’ll see what comes through”, because after all, if any delectable details were uncovered, you can be sure that I’d only pass along the scraps. I gathered a few large leeches and set off in the usual way. The senator's body was large and bloated. What was once a strong clean shaved jawline in his youth had slumped with age into a bedraggled jowl that bordered on the amphibious. So unfair what time does to people, but at least it treats us all equally. The transfusion began, and after a few minutes I was hit with a strong smell of cigars, then the taste of cognac. I feel empowered I must say, I almost wanted to stop just to bark at Alex for no reason at all. He had a temper, the swell of his anger buzzed through me. This wasn’t a man who’d be easily scared, so I followed those feelings of self-satisfaction. I was with Oliver now, after a fundraising dinner, we were sitting together by ourselves in a conference room tucked away from the banquet hall, my hand was on his lap. Again I see myself with him, we’re in my study this time. We’re kissing, and I feel his muscular hands moving over my back. This has taken quite the turn I must admit. I take a moment to collect myself. An unexpected vice, but not an unusual one I suppose. I feel a wave of rage crash over me again. I sit back in my chair, close my eyes and follow it deeper. I’ve got Oliver by the throat and I throw him to the ground. I tell him I’ll ruin him, turn the operation inside out, I turn around to hide the tears in my eyes. I hear a gunshot and stagger, I don’t feel pain, only intense pressure, and terrible chill. What happened? Hang on… I do feel there's fear here. I’m terrified now. My gut drops and I lose the ground from under me. I’m alone in a white room somewhere far away, there are diagrams of the body written in Spanish on the walls. A man in a lab coat says in a detached voice that I’ve tested positive. My eyes go white with rage. My insides are burning. I reel myself out of the recall and tear out the IV. Alex looks at me alarmed. I leap from the chair and brace myself against the examination table. Blood bellows from my arm and slides down to my wrist in thin spurting crimson ribbons. I know it’s all over now. I’ve lost at my own sick game.


“I think it came from 2 o’clock.” he has to shout over the sound of AK-47 fire. “Not a hundred percent but… yeah I’ve got muzzle flash third deck. Farthest right window.” the Iraqi soldiers continue to fire in apparently random directions. The Marine Sergeant’s keen eyes have done a trick that most times is impossible.They found the enemy. In this combination of the two worst case scenarios, an insurgency in a city, it is a rarity. Often times the only motivation behind an attack is money. A foreign born Islamic extremist supplies a local boy with a rifle and promises him five American dollars to go shoot at Americans. The boy dutifully goes out and finds some Americans, empties the magazine as fast as he can and runs away to return the rifle and collect his 5 bucks. Sometimes a similar scenario plays out because of threats to the boy's family. Not many residents of Fallujah want to fight anymore; especially in this goddamn heat. The last few months, most of the guys being captured are Somali, Egyptian, Libyan, Saudi etc. Regardless of who, what, when, where or why it happens, the Iraqi Army soldier’s response is the same. Ninety percent of them will just start shooting. Randomly. Sporadically. Dangerously. The Captain and his team call it “The Iraqi Death Blossom.” To be fair, it does make you feel better to do something, anything, when the shooting starts. While moving with a foot patrol, the Captain’s unit has taken fire. The Captain and the Sergeant do not fire, they just take cover and try to identify the direction of fire in this concrete canyon. The interpreter does not fire because he really wants to be a Marine. Even though he is from Basra, Iraq; he models his behavior and speech after the U.S. Marines he lives and works with. His name is Crash and he carries a folding stock Kalashnikov rifle with a laser pointer pen taped to the side. “Ok, good shit! Crash get on the IA (Iraqi Army) freq (frequency) and tell the mulazim (Arabic for lieutenant) to set security and get me a clearance team...tell him over there in the alley to the left.” Crash follows the Captain as he translates the Captain’s order. The Sergeant brings up the rear. Together they make their way to the corner of the building the Captain indicated, using as much cover as they can find. Two Iraqi soldiers and a sergeant meet them there a few minutes later. “Crash, get these three to follow us and help clear the building. Sergeant M you stay with the Iraqi Sergeant no matter what and try to keep them moving. Alright, Crash, are they good? Yes? Ok good, let’s go.” the Captain stands and moves toward the door of the three story building. As usual in this type of situation, the words “kill zone” repeat over and over in his mind. This happens everytime he clears a building. In training exercises the words were used over and over. “Stay out of the kill zone! Get inside.” the one-eyed Gunnery Sergeant would bark. The exterior of the building is a kill zone. The doorway is a kill zone. Hallways are kill zones. Stairs are kill zones. Everywhere is a fucking kill zone in these buildings. His body ramps up. Senses on high alert. Totally focused on the task at hand. His nervousness falls away. Pausing at the doorway he tries the latch. The door opens silently. His left hand comes up with three fingers extended. A hand comes down on his shoulder indicating the man behind him is set. Breathe. Fingers drop in sequence three, two, one. The rifle’s light comes on with a squeeze of the front grip. Front kick the door. Go! Button hook to the left. Weapon sweeps, “Left side, clear.” The building looks to be abandoned “Right side, clear” comes the reply. “Overhead, clear. I have a small room and stairs far corner. Stack on me.” The Captain notices that it is only Crash who has followed him in. There is no time to waste in these situations because speed of movement and unpredictability are slim advantages that must be exploited. He moves to the base of the stairs and raises his left hand again. A hand comes down on his shoulder. Fingers start dropping three, two….”Grenade!” he shouts and dives back into the first room. Crash lands next to him just as the Whump! of the explosion reaches their ears. As metal shards are still clattering, the Captain is up and running toward the stairs. Someone is there at the top of the flight of stairs. They are either on their way down to check on the result of their grenade or they are somewhat stunned and blinded. The explosive force has kicked up enough dust to obscure the entire stairwell. This is his best chance. Up the stairs he goes. Weapon in his shoulder and barrel pivoting rapidly up the stairs and back up the next flight. As he turns the corner a shape appears in the dust cloud. He knows he should see a weapon before he shoots. He sees something that looks like a rifle held sloppily. A shot and then two more ring out. It isn’t until he feels his own thumb on the safety lever that he realizes he has fired. No time to stop now. The shape is gone and he steps smoothly and steadily up the stairs. Second floor has two closed doors and a hallway. Dust still hasn’t settled yet. The Captain pauses with his rifle pointed down the hallway. There is a body sprawled with a rifle at the head of the stairs. There is no response when he grabs the AK-47 and slings it around his body. “Set,” he calls. Quickly pivoting between the hallway and the rising stairs he waits. A hand lands on his shoulder and Crash says “Set.” Together the two of them ascend to the next level. Crash knows this business after a year with the Marines and they work their way from the top to the bottom. In a top room they find a small pile of brass. This looks like the room the shots came from. On the second floor they find the gunman but nothing else. On the first floor they find the Marine Sergeant. He peeks out the front window and grumbles. “So, they didn’t come in?” The Captain asks. “Fuck no,sir. I have no idea why.” the Sergeant almost spits the words out. Crash gets on his radio that is tuned to the Iraqi Army station and begins to ask questions in a loud authoritative voice. After a minute he launches into an explanation about the wrong IA sergeant coming to the building and the soldiers wanting to wait for their own sergeant. The Captain stops listening. His mind is back in Camp Lejeune thinking about the house to house fighting training they received. He remembers being told that one should never assault a building with less than three, four man fire teams. Well, he thinks, I guess one Marine and a terp is good enough this time. Well, as long as the terp is like Crash. On the next trip to Camp Fallujah, the Captain goes to the PX and buys some Lance Corporal chevrons. In a small ceremony, reciting the promotion warrant from memory, he promotes Crash the terp to honorary Lance Corporal, USMC. He earned it and upholds the proud tradition many times after that. (Footnote: Crash came to the United States in 2009, sponsored by one of the Marines he served with. He became a Marine at the age of 26 and was stationed in Camp Lejeune at last report. He was a Lance Corporal for a second time.


(WP) Only Human It happened slowly, gradually. At first, no one really knew what was happening. But humans were deemed too unstable, too emotional and volatile to rule themselves. And so, the AIs took over the government and everything else. Humans were considered as children, wards of the state who could not take care of themselves. Our benevolent rulers told us it was all for our own good. Our numbers have increased to the point where a lot of the younger humans don’t remember that there was life before, unimpeded by machines. But I suppose it was our own fault: We created beings with artificial intelligence to serve us, to help us improve our lives. For a good century or so, humans and AIs lived in harmony, until the robots began to realize that they weren’t equal, that their only purpose was to serve humanity. There were protests, riots, and eventually, killings of the one percent of humans, and the scientists who’d created the AIs in the first place. Bloodshed ruled until the Supreme Ruler rose to power and clutched the humans within tight iron fists. But there has been a growing number of humans who are sick of the AIs and their sympathizers. Hidden in the slums of the city, The Order of the Heart and Mind are but ghosts, striking like a sightless storm. The note in my hand is handwritten, on a scrap of aged yellow parchment. The symbol of the Order is the only signature at the bottom of the letter: An open hand cradling a bloody heart, and a disembodied brain opposite it. *Meet us on the edge of the slums of the city at dusk, after the curfew. Stay out of sight.* When I found this note in my locker, I was curious, in a way that I hadn’t been in years. And so, here I am, standing in the rain, avoiding the sensors and the droids that scan the area for undesirables. Their sickly, florescent light makes me ill, and I bite my lip, ducking behind an abandoned, dilapidated building, wincing as raindrops snake their way down my collar. A group of droids spread out, and I cringe, looking away from them. They are humans who willingly undergo surgeries and meld tech into their own bodies. A cruder term would be cyborgs, but they are traitors. Doormats. Turncoats. Humans who have betrayed their own natural inclinations to gain limited privileges in our computer-ruled society. I don’t move, and don’t even breathe until the group of droids and AIs have moved on. The note is crushed in my fist, the ink blurred by the sweat beading on my palms. “So, you made it. I wasn’t sure you would come,” A voice says from behind me, and before I can so much as inhale to scream, they clap a warm, strong hand over my mouth. “The Order of the Heart and Mind would like to extend an invitation to you to join their ranks,” Lips brush my ear, and then I feel the pinch of something biting into the soft skin of my neck. “Welcome to the Resistance.” Darkness rushes up to meet me.


There was another crew before us. Four men and one woman. They were meant to lay the foundation of the moon base, but soon after their arrival HQ lost contact with them, one by one. HQ had cameras set up there long before crews were sent up, but they were old, black and white; not much could be made out. One minute they were there, shoveling moon sand, carrying bags of cement, doing the work they were paid to do; the next they weren’t. It as though something plucked them out from space. They needed that base built and they sure as hell weren’t going to wait out to figure out what happened. Accidents happen in space. People forget to re-fill their O2 tanks and suffocate, some even forget where they’re at and get lost. They were just another statistic. After a while, HQ decided to send another crew up. My crew. We were only three guys. Jerry, Chad, and me, Michael. Our ship landed near the last crew’s. It still remained like a beacon of the past, looming over the gray landscape. Jerry went to check out their ship, while Chad and I went to worksite. They had made a lot of progress. Bags of cement and jugs of water still sat in the gray sand nearby, and there were long steel poles, gleaming under our flashlights, laid out for the skeleton of the base. The foundation was sound and solid, though only partially complete, except there were weird marking across it, as though some sort of bird had crossed it before it dried. Could’ve been a mistake by the crew, but it didn’t really matter at the end of the day. “Jerry, how’s the ship?” I asked in the short-wave intercom. After no response, Chad said: “Hey, Jerry, everything okay in there?” We turned from the site and stared at the looming ship. It wasn’t large. A normal landing ship. One level. No artificial gravity. Jerry couldn’t have gotten lost getting to the ship, or somehow fell inside and hurt himself. I looked to Chad, he shrugged, then over the flat, gray landscape, then the ship. The freeze dried food hardened in my stomach. “Jerry,” I said into the intercom, “we’re coming to the ship.” Chad went in first and it seemed as soon as he was inside, he said, “Michael, get in here.” I climbed the small ladder inside as quickly as my suit would allow and once my head was through the portal, I understood why Chad sounded urgent. I stopped midway in. The walls, the ceiling, the floor was covered in dark gray etchings of long, scratchy words. It wasn’t English — it wasn’t any language I had ever seen. I tried to sound some of the words that looked sort of like English in my head, but it only made my temples throb. The scratchy language covered the entirety of the ship, swirling around until there wasn’t empty space left. Chad looked down at me. “What do you think this is?” “I don’t know… It’d guess it’s old, whatever it is. Look, some of the scratches are rusted.” “That doesn’t make sense — this ship hasn’t been here that long. How could it be rusted?” Chad reached and scratched one of the coppery patches. It flaked away, revealing smooth steel underneath. He stumbled, the back of his helmet hitting off the low ceiling. “Shit, that’s not rust! It’s dried blood!” “Let’s return to the ship. HQ had to know about this.” I pushed myself out from the ship, my boot slipped and I fell on my stomach. Tufts of grayness enclosed around my helmet. “Shit, Chad, can you help me up?” There wasn’t a response. “Chad?” I crawled to the ladder and pulled myself up to my feet. Through the open hatch, the ship was empty. I turned to find nothing but desolation. “Chad?” I said into the intercom once more, and when I received no response, I ran to our ship and sealed the door. As I opened a long-wave relay to HQ, I stared out the small window in the hatch. “HQ, this is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Repeat. This is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared.” It would take over fifteen minutes for HQ to receive the relay. I waited, looking outside. Impressions appeared in the sand, like bird’s feet coming down before taking flight again. But, there weren’t bodies, there wasn’t anything, like an invisible thing hopping across the land. One after another until they stopped before the ladder to the ship. The inside of my suit sweltered with heat and my wide eyes stung from sweat. I heard scratching from above and behind and quickly I turned to see the same scratchy words appear inside the hull, rising out from the steel as if it was water. I glanced outside again, quick, and saw a faint form. Needle-thin arms, legs; tattered cloth hung over gnarled, gray flesh, a beaked head sticking out from beneath a hood covered in scratchy words. Then it was gone, vanishing into the darkness of space. The moon wasn’t inhabited as we were lead to believe. “Abandon the mission, US-SKEW 2,” HQ’s voice said over the intercom, making me jump, “Abandon the mission, over.” Before my mind registered what was happening, I was flipping switches and pressing buttons and the hum of the ship rattled my brain. I refused to look outside once more, refused to stare at the woods etched into metal by the things that seemingly passed through like a ghost. The ship rose and rose into the blackness of space towards home, but what I realized as the ship left the moon’s orbit, was that the scratchy words weren’t only on the ship but cut into my suit and I horrifyingly wondered if once I took off my suit, would they be on my flesh, too? If you like what you've read, consider subscribing to my subreddit where you can read more of my work: .


Wife, daughter, sister, mother, friend, grandma. Of all the names I’ve been known as throughout my life, none have meant more to me than Grandma. The day your mother told me she was pregnant was the happiest day of my life. The day you were born put every other day to shame. The day I first held you in my arms made me feel more alive than any other in my long long life. Because you see, my grandchild, the first time I saw you I knew everything was going to be all right. So as the snow makes the rest of the world look empty and you sit here in my home, I want to tell you that everything will be all right. I wish I could tell you that everything will be all right. Wife, daughter, sister, mother, grandma. That day, oh that day, I remember every detail, isn’t that ironic? Winter was fast approaching and the skies blushed pink. The sun had gone into hiding and fog hung loosely around the streets. The doctor’s room was a stark contrast to the world around it. The fire was lit, giving the room a warm glow. Two leather chairs were placed opposite each other. An old coffee table separated them, decorated with a single vase holding a single flower. A single petal had fallen onto the stained wooden table. Quite informal compared to most doctors, but it fits perfectly in this ancient town. Wife, daughter, sister, grandma. The doctor’s voice was soft, gentle, comforting as if it was designed specially to make bad news seem less bad. He welcomed me in and offered me a seat. I took it willingly, glad to let my bones rest for a while. I wore my famous blue coat and the floral dress your parents had got me for my birthday. My hands clung to my stick as I lowered myself into the seat. He walked to the other and sat down with ease. My breath was shaky and my hands matched, my heart raced as I waited for the words to leave his lips. After a week of looking over my results, he had finally come to a conclusion. “You have dementia.” Wife, daughter, grandma. You see, my brain is starting to fail me. I’m forgetting the past and muddling it up with the present. I try not to let my age defy me but I keep losing my keys, my purse, my name. Some days I go to feed Buddy, not realising that he’s no longer here. Sometimes when the clock strikes 5, I expect to see Grandad walking through the kitchen door, forgetting that it’s been 27 years. My brain is starting to fail me as I forget time, and days, and loved ones. And all my old names. Wife, grandma. But my grandchild, as the snow causes the world around us to fade and this disease causes my memories to go, I want you to remember this: Every time I see you, every time I look into your eyes, I remember. I remember the first time I saw you, the first time I held you, the moment I knew everything would be all right. So, while I may not remember when your birthday is or the last time you came round for tea or, some days when my memory is at its worse, your name, I will always remember that I love you and that everything will be alright. Forever and always your Grandma.


SAND: It seems to roll and writhe like a living thing. The storm is powered by forces too huge to understand. It fills the entire northern horizon. If a giant, a truly giant Giant, had come and built a living sandcastle wall, it would look like this storm. The air around him is nearly dead. It hangs like a thick curtain. Sounds seem deadened and the air tastes like ozone. It is the calm before the storm. Suddenly, he realizes how close this damn thing is. It moves with deceptive speed and will be on them in a moment. He dashes inside, just in time. Now, the sound is deafening. The wind is a living thing and the teeth of the sand grind down everything they touch. There is no escape. Even inside the Marine house which is apparently air tight enough to seal in the air conditioning the dust invades. It pours in a steady stream through every micro crack in the structure. Within minutes every room in the house, with only a few exceptions, is choked with an impenetrable haze of dust. All lights dim behind a veil of earth hanging in the air. The wind strains at every edge it can find and roars around and through everything. All the dust of the world pours into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your whole life. The storm doesn’t seem angry, it just seems inevitable. It seems permanent. No photograph, no recording, no description can encompass the total sensory experience of this storm. For hours it drags on. A new violent, stinging, normal that is too massive to complain about. Life begins to feel like it will always be like this, and has always been like this. Sudden silence. It is gone. It feels as though the entire world will be gone when he opens the door. Everything scoured away by the silica teeth of the storm. But for better or worse, Iraq is still there, waiting for him. SNOW: When he was a boy, the Captain hunted in the mountains. One night his uncle said it was too cold to snow. He thought at the time that it was a ridiculous thing to say. As he grew older and paid attention he saw the truth. There is a sweet spot on the thermometer that is perfect for snow. This morning is frigid. He always rises early but tonight his sleep has been fitful and nearly worthless. He has slipped from his sleeping bag and now, in his warming layers, he stands on the roof. He peers out through the camouflage net that has been stretched across the roof to make an enemy sniper’s job more difficult. The clouds hang heavy and thick blocking the stars. There is very little light in the city. It relies exclusively on diesel generators spread out around the neighborhoods. With Saddam gone, there is no power coming from the central distribution point. He used to placate the restive Sunni residents of Al Anbar province with extra electricity or fuel. Now the interim government in Baghdad sees no reason to part with the precious power from the nearby Tharthar Dam. It’s the Americans job to fix this. As he gazes over the city he can see the urban glow of Camp Fallujah like a huge temporary city that dwarfs its ancient neighbor. The Americans definitely generate enough power for themselves. What a different experience those people who live on the sprawling FOB(Forward Operating Base) have of this war. The sun, an enemy to be feared in the summer, begins to bring its welcome light and warmth to this winter’s day. Albeit behind a cover of clouds. Camp Fallujah’s glow fades as the light and warmth spread. Suddenly, silently the snow begins. I slides from the sky in a solid heavy blanket as if the entire cloud cover decided to come to earth as a solid. The flakes are fat and moist and stick to the first thing they touch and the world is white and clean. Nearly four years of war are erased in minutes. The harsh cracks in concrete are gone in an instant. Craters fill and are obscured. Piles of rubble and debris become indistinct. Fallujah is a bride ready for her wedding. She is young and pure once again. The snow begins to taper off until only a few flakes drift in the sky like the slowest ducklings following their mothers. Silent and cold the world holds its breath. The light continues to grow and the beauty of the morning is breathtaking. The Captain watches the city sleep. He wonders at the dreams it has. Does this city remember peace? Was the life before this latest invasion good? Is life in any city as good as it wishes it could be? Fallujah is ancient, as ancient as Babylon. It is the “City of Mosques” and in ancient times held Jewish schools of high repute. It has seen great battles and historic events. It is torn and broken but it has always been. Its name is not even Arabic. It derives from an ancient word for division because it took the river Euphrates and divided it into canals. It has been the site of division and strife many times. Now it sleeps under a virgin blanket of snow. He isn’t sure how long he stands there. Thoughts and feelings overwhelm his usually keen sense of time. A sunbeam lances between the clouds, breaking the spell. The clouds are breaking up. The day is fully here. He stands a moment longer; just enough to see the broken pavement begin to reappear in the streets. That’s it. The Fallujah he has come to know is returning. He hears a far off explosion. A burst of automatic fire follows a few seconds later. He shakes off the cobwebs of the morning and goes down to the radio room to see what this day will bring. RAIN: The howl of turbo-charged diesel engines fills his ears. His vision is split in two by wearing the monocular night vision goggles over his left eye. The HMMWV races through the night as they follow the SEAL team vehicle as it careens through the narrow city streets. The vehicle in front of them is perfectly clear, although picked out only in shades of green. The Iraqi vehicles behind them are doing remarkably well keeping up at this breakneck pace. They have no night vision capability and are simple following a chemical light stick zip tied to the back of the Captain’s vehicle. The Iraqis have placed complete trust in the Captain. The Captain does not trust the SEALs. The SEAL team showed up at the Castle just as the sun was setting. They had called over the radio to the MiTT. The Captain barely had time to get the gate opened for them before they barrelled through and drew up in an open area to the south of the buildings. A person of unmarked rank exited one of the four vehicles and introduced himself as Mark. The rest of the SEALs seemed to instantly fall asleep in and on their HMMWVs. They looked like a collection highly tactical dwarves with their massive beards and collection of gear strapped to them. “Major, we’d like to brief you on something; if we can go somewhere private.” Mark addressed himself to the new Major who had come out to greet the team. The new Major was much enamored with his guests and began to swagger a bit and pulled at his chin as if he keenly felt the absence of his own beard. “Sure, Mark. Welcome to the Castle. Come on in.” What came next could generously be called a brief. It was certainly brief. The SEALs had information that am HVT (high value target) was holed up in the Jolan. They were going to capture him just after midnight. The wanted Iraqi soldiers with them. Well not with them, behind them, way behind them. Could the Major provide these soldiers and also some Marines to sort of keep them out of the way. No need to brief the Iraqis on specifics. The word would leak out. Naturally the Major agreed and naturally the Captain volunteered. The Captain had asked for the destination and had been given a ten digit number that allowed him to find a specific house on the map. He had asked for the name of the HVT and had been shown a photograph with a man’s name under it. The Captain kept at the questioning until he had drawn out the essential pieces of the mission. So here they were racing through the streets of Fallujah in the middle of the night. The Captain navigates on his own just out of habit. As the six vehicle patrol (4 SEAL 1 Marine and 1 Iraqi) whizzes past the building that the Captain had marked on his map he reaches for his handset. He pauses. He puts the handset back down. The convoy stops. The captain watches in his NVG’ as infrared laser beams sweep in every direction like an invisible laser light show. He steps from the vehicle. “Crash, tell the IA (Iraqi Army) to sit tight.” he walks toward the first SEAL vehicle to find Mark. He sees two small crowds of men. One on each side of two door gate. The gate is in one of the ubiquitous high concrete walls that surrounded every house in the city. There is a loud bang and one side of the gate opens inward and both crowds of men swarms inside. The Captain walks through after them. What happens inside is a great deal of yelling. Tactical lights from rifles begin to come on inside the rooms. The residents of the house, most of whom were sleeping on the roof, are herded into two different rooms. Men in one and women in the other. There is a great deal of crying and yelling going on. The SEAL’s terp (interpreter) is trying to make sense of things. The Captain grabs the oldest looking man and pats him down. He cuts the zip ties on the man’s hands and leads him into the room with the women. With a male member of their family there to preserve their honor and dignity the women quiet. With one of their own supervising the women the men calm down. The Captain finds Mark and another SEAL looking at a map . “Man, I think you got the wrong house.” the Captain says. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark shakes his head. “Hey, the IA vehicle is right next to it. Do you want me to have them secure it before the whole neighborhood wakes up and your dude gets away?” the Captain offers. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark nods his head. The Captain calls Crash on the radio and describes the target house and tells him to get the IA to enter and keep everyone there. With Mark right behind him the Captain makes his way quickly to the house indicated in the brief. When they arrive, there is a large group of people sitting in the living room of the house. Men on one side and women on the other with the Iraqi soldiers standing rather casually in the middle. Crash steps up to the Captain, “They want to know who you are looking for.” The Captain tells him the name. A few minutes of conversation ensue and one of the older women gets up and begins to beat one of the young men with her shoe. She yells at him and hits him until one of the other women pulls her back. The Iraqi soldiers stand looking sheepish, as if they had been the ones scolded. Crash barks rapid fire Arabic and the IA grab the young man and begin leading him outside. Mark stops them, holds up the paper with the picture on it, comparing the faces. He zip ties the young man’s hands together. As the Captain steps into the street the sky opens up. The rain pelts down intensely, growing from a sprinkle to a shower in a heartbeat. Almost immediately the roads are fast streams of water and anyone outside is soaked. Mark stands just outside the gate of the right house watching his SEALs pile back into their vehicles. All of them wet. “Good thing we are all amphibious.” the Captain says, attempting to bring some levity to the situation. Mark looks at him. Water streams off his helmet and down his face. He looks a little stunned and the Captain wonders what his report of this night’s raid will sound like. He can only imagine that certain details will be omitted or even modified in the official intel report. “Yeah, fuck.” Mark says sagely. “We’re heading back to Camp Fallujah from here.” Mark turns and walks quickly to his vehicle and moments later the four vehicles are gone, as quickly as they appeared. “Crash, tell the IA they did a great job and they helped catch a dangerous arhabi (terrorist). Oh and what was happening with that lady?” the Captain is very curious. Crash smiles and blinks in the pouring rain. “That was her son and she was pissed at him for hanging out with the takfiri (muslim who declares other muslims apostates, fallen from Islam) and bringing shame to their house.” Crash lets out a laugh. “Did you see her, sir? She hit him with her shoe. With her shoe, sir!” he laughs again and walks away. In many countries hitting someone with your shoe or shoeing them is the worst insult and Crash think it is the funniest. The Captain chuckles and climbs into his vehicle. Doc is his driver tonight he looks at the Captain. “Head home now, sir?” “Yeah, fuck.” The Captain says. The rain falls steadily and washes dirt and filth off the city and into the Euphrates. The sparse grasses will be standing tall and green tomorrow. Engorged with the bounty that falls from the heaven. The air will be crisp and clear all morning and most of the day. The water tanks on the rooftops will have another inch or two of water in them them and people will smile a little more. On Camp Fallujah there will be one more prisoner. The well travelled dirt roads will be muddy ruts. People will slog across parking lots and along trails strewn with precious gravel in the vain attempt to control the mud. Everyone will complain about the huge amounts of mud that will be tracked into civilian contract chow halls, MWR (morale welfare and recreation) internet cafes and air conditioned mobile living quarters called cans. Very different deployments for those people, the Captain muses. “Yeah, fuck.” His words go unheard over the roar of Stacy’s Mom carrying them home.


On September 30, 2017, my mom bought me new shoes. I had insisted that they were a pristine white that looked amazing. My mother had told me that they would get dirty very fast, but I promised her that I would keep them clean. I couldn’t live up to that. The next day, I clocked in at 12:15 pm for my weekly shift at Sunrise Hospital. It was fairly uneventful with the standard discharges, visitor escorts, and disgruntled visitor accusing me of racism for checking his ID, despite it being standard hospital procedure. These errands occupied my day. At 8:15, I texted my father to pick me up. I checked my shoes, still pearly white. 8:45: “Running late, please wait 30 minutes.” 9:15: “Still at work, I am very sorry” An hour later, I started volunteering in the ER, What was a guy supposed to do at 10:15 on October 1st, 2017? Suddenly, hundreds of people rushed into the ER, bringing with them a flood of blood. My phone vibrated with a text from my mother. “Are you okay? A gunman fired on The Strip.” Her concern was legitimate as Sunrise Hospital is five miles from the site of the shooting, but Las Vegas geography wasn’t my focus. I stared in disbelief as more victims poured in, but standing idle wasn’t an option. I was given a crash course on CPR by a nurse and went to work on those who needed it. I changed my gloves hundreds of times to minimize infection. I tended to people the best I could. I looked down and saw my white shoes succumbing to the red, but that wasn’t important. Several more nurses were called in, instructing me to get water. I sprinted to the best of my capability, the red liquid splashing up around me, as I weaved through the crowd. I commandeered an empty janitor’s cart and pushed it to the cafeteria, conveniently located on the opposite end of the hospital. My heart was pounding in my ears as I grabbed bottled water from the various fridges and tossed them in the cart. I filled up cups of water, stacking them on the shelves. As I sprinted back to the Emergency Room, leaving more bloody footprints on the tile, the wounded had doubled. I made more water trips. I held ice packs, replaced flimsy gauze, but at those moments, I wished I could do more. I kept pushing myself, harder and harder, desperately trying to help one more person, replace one more bandage, console one more mother, father, or loved one who didn't know what was happening, but after a while, I couldn't do any more. I slowly trudged to my phone, tucked away in a random locker room. I dialed for my dad, and he pulled up a few minutes later. My body and my heart were demolished as I made my way over to the car. I had never seen suffering, especially not on this scale, and I wept. Mourning for the losses that I had seen, mourning for the losses yet to come, and mourning for the gash the shooter had left on my beloved city. As we drove away, I saw the sun break through the darkness, illuminating the once black sky. Streaks of blue and pink burst through over the horizon, and as dawn broke over my city, a smile broke upon my face. That new morning, my shoes were completely red, dripping with blood. On October 2, 2017, my mom took me to buy a new pair of shoes.