The moving truck sat in the driveway, with Dad behind the wheel. Our entire life was in boxes in the back. My fingertips cling to the doorknob, not quite willing to let go, to leave behind my past. It’s silly, I know. I’m fourteen-I’m old enough to realize that I have to go, that I can’t just stay here. But my entire life up to this point was contained to those four walls, to that small yellow house on Wildflower Avenue on the outskirts of Chicago. Inside we have the most beautiful kitchen, a comfortable family room, and a bright sunroom with huge windows that let us see all the way to the city. We had a beautiful yard-a tire swing on the large apple tree, and a garden with produce. Dad honks the horn and motions for me to get in the car with Mom and Harper. I give a glance back to the house, and reluctantly pop into the front seat. Harper is playing with her plastic horses in her car seat, babbling happily. Mom gives us a smile and says, “Well! Jansen, Illinois, here we come!” I give a half-hearted grin, and Harper laughs. I pull up the browser on my phone and search up the town. Here is what I found: Jansen, Illinois Population-687 people Known for- This town is most notably recognized for the murders of Dr. Amelia Patel and Mr. Vince Harding six years ago. They were killed under mysterious circumstances. No suspects were identified, but the family of the victims suppose they will return to the area within a few years time to scope out their next victim. Residents are often wary of new neighbors. “Hey, Mom?” I say, becoming a bit nervous indeed. “Yes, Emery?” She responds, not taking her eyes off the road. “Uh, there’s a murderer in that town. Never caught. It says they don’t like new people.” “Oh, hon, the Internet is full of rumors. Jansen seems like a lovely, close-knit community of people. Now, I need to focus. Please keep an eye on Harper.” I sigh. Well, at least the house we are buying looks nice.

I am excited to finally have my own bedroom. It really stunk having to share a bedroom with Harper, because she is only three and makes a mess.

Mom said Harper can share a bathroom with her and dad, so I can have my own. But still, the whole murder thing unnerves me… We arrive at our new house later in the day. It’s ok, and is certainly larger than our Chicago home. It is blue with navy shutters and a brown roof. The backyard is so large, and I bet I can convince mom to get me a dog to keep me company. We head inside and split up as we look around. I race upstairs to my bedroom. Wow! It’s huge! I can’t wait for my furniture to get here, surely then this will feel like home! After a tossing-and-turning night of sleep on some air mattresses, it’s the first day at Jansen Middle School. We had bought supplies weeks before moving, and I was prepared physically, but my mind just couldn't wrap around a whole new school. A new school, new kids, new teachers, new social norms. I can’t do that. But the car turns the corner, and I am in front of the large, brick school. I say goodbye to Mom and head out of the car and into what I am sure is imminent doom.

Kids are staring at me as I walk to the office. It’s like I have “New Kid” written on my forehead. When I get in front of the secretary’s desk, she gives me a startled look. She quickly gathers herself. “Hi! What are you doing here?” She says. I noticed her name on her desk- Ms. Patel. “Oh, hi. I’m Emerson Peters. I’m a new seventh grade student.” I reply. “Oh, well. Hi Emerson. Uh, go to room one hundred and twenty five. Just down that hall.” She quickly returns to typing on her computer. I mumble a quick thank you and head down the hallway. People are avoiding me like I have the plague. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and put my head down as I walk. Room one twenty-three, twenty-four, ah! Room one hundred twenty five! A sign on the door says “Mrs. Ortega’s Social Studies”. I knock, and a small lady with long, dark hair comes to the door and peers out the window into the hall. The door creaks open. “Welcome!” she says. “I’m Mrs. Ortega! You are Emerson, right?” “Emery,” I say.

“Well, Emery, take a seat in that desk in the corner.” “Alright.” I head to the desk, which is separated from all the others. Kids whisper, and a tall girl with dark hair waves to me. She is wearing a shirt that says “Detroit” on it. I give her a small wave in return. After an excruciatingly long and boring social studies lesson on trade between Britain and the colonies, we are released for our next class. The tall girl is waiting outside the door.

“I’m Melody,” she says. “Emery, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “I just moved here from Chicago.” “I moved from Detroit six weeks ago.” Melody says.

“Why is everyone so ice cold here?” I ask. “Same for me when I moved here. Even the middle school is caught up in the whole murder thing. You hear about that?”

“Yeah! It’s so weird!” I respond. “Especially Ms. Patel. Wait, is she related to-” “To Dr. Patel? Yeah.” Melody says. “That was her mother. We can talk at lunch-I need to get to math class.” “Ok. I need to check my locker, my mom said my schedule should be in there.” I tell her that and head to the wing where the lockers are. I find my locker quite easily-62782-and spend a good minute getting it open. Inside is a schedule. Oh no! I thought. I should have been in Language Arts class seven minutes ago! I just realized that no one else is in the hallway. I must have spent a lot of time at my locker! I rush to the classroom, room 131, and stop at the teacher's desk. She recoils a bit before speaking.

“Oh, hello. My name is Mrs. Reynolds. I teach language arts here at Jansen Middle School. Why are you here?” “Uh, I’m supposed to be here. Reynold’s LA, 131.” I say. “I’m Emerson-er Emery.” “Well, I suppose you can have a seat at the spare desk in the back.”

I nod and sit. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I eagerly turn around, but he whispers Killer, killer, back to get more! In my ear. I turn back around and try to focus on verbs. When the period is over, I run to my locker. I call my mom.

“Emery! You shouldn’t be calling during school!” “We need to get out of here!” “Why ever so?” “Just pick me up. I… feel sick.” “I can be there in fifteen minutes. Go to the office.” “Ok. Love you.” “Bye, hon.” I rush to the main office, ignoring stares from kids I pass by.

“My mother is signing me out,” I bark at Ms. Patel. She nods, a bit frightened, and waves me to the door. I go to my mother who is in the parking lot. I cry as I open the door and through sobs I say “I don’t want to live here. The kids are bad. The teachers are bad.” My mom sees the fright and sadness in my eyes, and agrees that people have treated her oddly, too. She promises to move us back to Chicago. Three weeks later, we are in a new Chicago home. We are watching the news when a special report comes on.

“Thanks, Jim. Breaking news. The Jansen town murderer, identified as Jeremiah Garcia, is behind bars. His family is here to speak with us.” “Mom!” I say. “That’s my friend, Melody! That must be her dad!” Thank you for reading! Please comment feedback/suggestions to help me learn to be a better writer. If you enjoyed this story, likes are appreciated! Have a great day, and stay safe.


“What year is it?” asked the man. I was at a loss. I remembered the turn of the millennia, but I haven’t been paying much attention since. After giving it some thought, I mustered “2007”. The man, who I know recognized to be a police officer, said, “Close enough. Alright, get out of the vehicle sir. You’re under arrest for suspicion of driving under the influence”.

“That’s impossible!” I cried, “I don’t own a car”.

I remember getting fired at a Burger King in Kentucky. That place had the worst managers. This bitch Britney tried to write me up every time I took a smoke break, so it was pretty often. “It’s my god given right”, I f***ing told them. I’m entitled to have one every now and then, but she is entitled to complain.

I was born in Warsaw, Indiana which is in a dead tie with Warsaw, Poland for the most depressing Warsaw's out there. I figure they are similar and the tiebreaker has to do with yearly cloudiness. Anyway, my geography is not very good beyond my childhood hometown. I know that by and large I have headed South since then. However, after I left the Popeye’s in southern Illinois, it is quite honestly just foggy. There are a lot of rectangle states and then the states divided by rivers get confusing around the clusters where the rivers meet.

I don’t know how to describe the smell of the floors after we mop them, but it’s not clean. If there was some middle ground between leaving the smell and curing the smell, say prolonging the smell, that’s what that cleaner did. I would mop those floors every morning at 7:45 (having been supposed to be there at 7) and they’d be dirty by noon. Having grown up thinking why do this now if we have to do it again later? You know, start the dishwasher after dinner sort of family? One day I realized this job was never going to be ‘done’. This floor would be mopped long after I got fired, long after I died, and long after this store closed at this building. Lately, my shifts ain’t been too hard to manage. I actually open, which I have come to prefer more and more over the years. The reason being that by and large, life in this country doesn’t start until twelve o'clock. They say that most heart attacks occur before noon. Anyway, opening means now that I start at 7 which is perfect because I get up at 5 and don’t come in until almost 8. They don’t care because A) I work pretty hard all things considered and B) It is damn near impossible to get fired from these places. Well not impossible. So, I get five hours in the clock before noon and tend to get off with daylight left. Plenty of time for my extra curricular activities.

I am beyond class. Yes, I am in fact that enlightened so to speak. I may be in a class all my own though I imagine there are some others like me. My existence makes more money for other people than it makes for me. The hotel I stay at gets some sort of incentive for ‘providing me with affordable housing’. My employers do too. A little felony hardly worth mentioning back in Ohio. There are more people with felonies in Ohio than in the state you know? So, what does the man with free crap housing and free crap food use his s*** salary on? Forgetting all that trouble with stiff booze and cheap drugs. I am the tread upon. The opposite of the face of history. The gum getting scraped off of history’s boot. You won’t even read this. The algorithms won’t see it to you. P*** in the wind.

 	There

was this one time that I thought maybe I was doing something worthwhile, before that place got shut down for some OSHA violations. So, I hate to slander good American companies and I cannot remember every fine establishment that I have worked at, so I won’t even try to set these tales in a corporate place. Anyway, I did work in this restaurant and the building we occupied had a small area set for a children’s play space. There was nothing crazy, but a little jungle gym thing with a slide and basically places to climb. I would go on break and order a Big Mac meal (medium for my health) with a Coke and watch the kids play out of the corner of my eye as the sunset blinded my vision in general through the windows. It could have been the sugar rush or remembering my own youth, but I felt satisfied. My job created satisfaction or joy or fulfillment in some way.

I have this one memory that I can describe as almost being in black and white. My grandmother is pulling me and my little sister along in a wagon. I’m not that old ; the wagon is plastic and not metal or wood. It’s weird that going downhill in that thing gave me more butterflies than taking an overpass onto 55 at 100 does now.

When I was a younger man, I really hit it off with this one coworker. She was like twenty and the perfect mix of kind and can take care of herself. Well anyway, we got along pretty well her and I. I could do this one magic trick with a toothpick and some tape. I’d stolen it from this television magician. So, I showed it to her, you know, made the toothpick disappear with a snap and come back out of thin air. I did this trick three times that day and screwed it up twice. The one time I got right was in front of her and she loved it. I was smitten and would have gone for it. The problem was she was in college and doing this gig part time. I would talk to her and when we got to weekend plans, I realized I had nothing to offer.

‘Ah man...my head is killing me. Is that some old Warner Bros cartoon? S**t, I’ve seen that one. “You should call your mom” I hear my dad say. Oh yeah, mom died. Nevermind that then. Hey, what day is it?’.


Tendrils writhing from fresh corpses slowly spread from the temple ground. The eyes of the victims seemingly ripped out by either His hand or by their own. Horrors of unimaginable terror must have assailed their minds as the vines burst through every wound. He appeared when the Moon eclipsed the Sun. Uncomfortably tall, the ghoulish apparition wielded blackened daggers as long as swords, almost scraping the ground as he drifted amongst abandoned streets. A hauntingly tall spirit from the dark recess of a nocturnal sky, he moved in absolute silence and never announced his assassinations. Blood caked wrappings over lanky appendages swishing in sinister silence, no malefic eyes or demonic facade could be observed under His cowl. How could I know for sure though? I could only stand to glance for a horrific moment before the pits of my stomach lurched from abject terror.

The pious men were the targets of his malice. Hunting. Seeking. Killing. Seeking again. Holy men who beckoned the grace of the Light. I used to think they were heroes, the men of good and righteousness who could do no harm, could heal any wound of body or soul, and would save us from the original sins of our Fathers… but that was before He came. For reasons I fear I am not privy to know, this shadowy figure never killed the townsfolk. It almost seemed as if He could not see us at all. Or if He did, we were not the concern of his unholy crusade. At least, not yet. No child was slain nor woman was harmed. Most common men were still untouched by the macabre specter that sauntered through the town.

When the moon reached the zenith of the eclipse, like every time before, we did what we had always done. We shepherded ourselves into our humble homes and read from the Scripture to resolve our faith. Even with the daytime darkness, we still held fast to our belief in the Light. We held no fear in our devout hearts that the darkness would linger. Hours passed yet the Moon did not move. There was a growing sense of unease amongst the townsfolk. It continued to hang itself before the Sun as if to defy the natural order of the Heavens. We felt it then, just as we still feel it these days later. An unnatural cold which chills my soul to its core. Hearth fires did nothing to lift the spiritual permafrost the Moon had imposed upon us. Bundles of fur and wool blankets provided even less comfort even when my family huddled together. Trembling hands failing desperately to remain calm. Light, forgive me, I even attempted to warm myself with liquor and ale but it foolishly left me more anxious, more terrified of what was out there. With great care I crept to the second floor of our hovel, instinctually scared that my unworthy footsteps would harken doom upon my family. I know I need not worry, as this Nocturnal Demon had passed by numerous times without a hesitant pause or murderous inquiry. I kept low and reached the northern window, where I could clearly see our most holy temple of Light. A sight I desperately needed to ensure my faith would not fail me during our extended nightmare. But when I saw the defilement for myself, I felt as if my very soul had been eviscerated by his evil blades. The shining white marble and glorious golden pillars that lifted the divine domed ceiling were infested with massive, vine-like tendrils similar to the ones growing from the corpses of his unfortunate hosts. Statues of long forgotten apostles and revered heroes were decapitated with smaller vines holding their pierced heads as if in open defiance to the Sun God himself.

Curiously, the encroaching evil stopped before the other houses near the temple, they steered clear of the townsquare and its fountains, only seeking to touch the bodies of holy men who were cut down in the streets while attempting to escape the calamity which befell them. Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of blinding light raced towards the infestation and exploded with extreme radiance. A screech unlike any sound a mortal being could ever make reverberated across the town, my own ears begging for this to end. I raced down the stairs to my petrified family, hands clasped to my head. By the Light they were ok, but all of us, myself included, could not contain the sobbing that leaked from terror widened eyes. For reasons I don't know, I found myself walking to the door with trembling steps. Whatever possessed my curiosity that day would make me the chronicler of this celestial conflict.

Another bright bolt shot upward this time, reaching high into the gloomy sky as if it sought to pierce the moon itself. It burst forth in a brilliant light illuminating the entire town. No shadow could hide from awesome radiance. The dark monster screeched again, his unholy echoes bellowing from inside the halls of the all consumed temple.

A single figure, larger than any man I’ve ever seen and clad from head to toe in gleaming, nigh impenetrable plate armor, strode across the muddied cobblestone towards our desecrated temple. In his left hand he displayed a gold and white banner with our holy symbol of the Sun embossed with golden thread. In his other hand, his polished gauntlet held forth a poleaxe of immeasurable heft. Its wooden shaft affixed with a massive ax head in the shape of the same holy sun symbol, an impaling tip, and a spiked hammer face on the other side of the ax head.

I desperately tried to recall every hymn, every legend, any far fetched tale of a gleaming golden knight who commanded Light as if it were bolts of lightning. I wondered though, with a heart still smothered in fear from our murderous moon summoned guest; is this apparent challenger a hero or another dominus of sorts? Why would our meager town be the battleground of such a momentous battle? Surely we were not worthy of two higher powers to fight over us. However, our shadowy specter was fear incarnate, so perhaps all I could do in such desperation was pray our salvation had come to save us. Our brave knight approached the foot of the temple, where ravenous black vines swarming like voracious serpents lashed out. But no vine would touch this holy warrior for it seemed as if he radiated with a sort of protective aura. Still, the vines continued to lash out with vicious hate until the Knight thrust his standard in the ground before him. Hiis declaration of dominance finally breaking the concentrated evil controlling the vines. They slowly slithered back and retreated to the inside of the temple, revealing a gruesome cache of skeletal remains still adorned with their unblemished holy ensemble.

Pointing his poleax to the temple doors, the golden knight finally broke his mysterious silence, speaking with a commanding deepness like thunder heralding a storm's arrival. “Sunkiller. You have been found wanted. Exit my desecrated domain. It is not yours to lay claim!” His gaze from under his intimidating helmet was unwavering. His eyes were singular in their focus, drilling deep into the temple as if he could see through the doors right into the sunken cowl of the midnight monster. For a few moments, nothing happened. The air was still with tension, the massive vines which had swallowed the pillars pulsed softly and grew slower and slower. Where was our murderous lord at? What shadows was he hiding in? As my mind grew into a frenzy of questions, I witnessed the dark apparition slowly saunter from the pitch black depths of the temple. There was no subterfuge to be seen from him. No stalking of shadows in hopes of ambushing the Knight, who continued to stay motionless; mighty weapon pointing continuously at the approaching specter. It stopped at the edge of withdrawn vines, radiating with his own dark aura of death and evil. It raised its long, thin appendage and pointed with a gaunt finger at the knight, speaking to him. “Too much. Unchecked. Balance is broken.” It spoke with a voice that sounded like bones grinding to dust. Each word and syllable felt like maggots squirming in my mind. Our angelic champion responded with action and cleaved the shadowy specter with magnificent might. But the specter did not die, as his cleaved torso coalesced with dark magic to reform his visage. The Knight thrust with violent fury into the chest of the fiend where a heart would lie in any mortal man, but it only passed through again. Now pressing the attack with unrestrained fury, our champion swung in deadly arcs time and time again, only to see the apparition still standing; blackened smoke refastening after every swipe. Unfortunately, the golden knight's furious focus would be his fatal flaw. I saw them materialize from darkened streets, four more gangly moon summoned monsters descending upon him. I couldn't warn him, my entire body petrified from the magnitude of what I was witnessing. As they gathered behind the unchecked rear of our frenzied crusader, a pained cry spewed from the creature who’s fury the knight had garnered. In his ruinous pause two seized his arms, nocturnal knives slicing tendons of the wrist, rendering weapon and magic useless. The other two made swift incisions to the ankle, our doomed hero had dropped to his knees. With arms stretched outward, all five shadowy beings drove their knives through his back, passing through the armor as if it were nothing more than shoddy lenin.

I saw now how a hero dies. Not in glorious battle, no last stand of unfathomable bravery, but in silent defeat. What remaining faith that flickered in my feeble heart was now extinguished.

The scavenous vines claimed our fallen hero and dragged the body back into the desecrated den of evil. I do not recall what happened next for soon after, everything went black and I awoke after Light knew how long. My home was shattered to splinters as was every other hovel in our town. I stumbled in confusion towards a reddened rag that blew weakly with the deathly wind. It was my daughter's scarf, or atleast a scrap of what remained. I attempted to pry the pulsating vines to free the scarf in hopes my family was still alive underneath. But the pain in my arm was agonizing. Looking down I saw veins pumping with pitch black blood to the beat of my fearful heart. I could do nothing for them now.

As if the corrupted consciousness of the vines could listen to my deepest fears, their coils unwound to reveal the mangled remains of my family; viscera pooling under crushed corpses. Miniature vines grew from the fractured bones like maggots bursting forth from rotten meat. So I ran. I was not in control of myself after that haunting scene. I only remember running with all due haste, ignoring the pain in my cursed arm or screaming of my lungs as I ran as hard and fast as I could away from the desolation of my home. I finally came to a stop when my legs refused to carry me any further, instinct giving way to terror and the unrelenting repetition of the unholy calamity I bore witness too.

I looked back and saw in the distance all five of the shadowy apparitions standing atop the road that lead to the only town I have ever known. They did not give chase nor did they seem to want my capture. But I couldn't tear my eyes away! They stood together, as if five fingers of Doom itself were rising from the depths of the abyss. After what felt like an eternity, I finally ripped my gaze from the demonic delegation and ran until I reached the end of this land. This is my tale I am burdened to tell until the end of my days. I lost everything during those unholy days where the Moon blackened the Sun and harkned the doom of all I knew. The sky spins again, as if the nightmare never happened, but I won't forget. I can never forget. Do what you will with this story my friends. Should you choose to remain ignorant to what I said or foolishly find inspiration for delusional heroics, then go. Go and join the corpses of my family and throw your life away to the vines, if they still remain. The Moon will eclipse the sun soon and they will come again. They are the beasts of darkness.

Sunkillers.


         “…no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed;               as if darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences…”

Moby Dick                                                                   Herman Melville

3:13 a.m. I smell smoke. It isn’t Marlboro smoke. It’s acrid, tart, grasping. Not like the cigarette smoke that I enjoy so much. Beautiful smoke, filling my leathered lungs with smooth, substantial, toxic vapors, tickling my chest, calming my ever-active mind. Tendrilled wisps of white fairies curling toward the ceiling or the sky, dancing erotically until they disappear, dissipate, disengage from this earthly realm. I open my eyes, horrified at what I see: thick, white smoke entering unbidden under the bedroom door. A crackle enters my consciousness, and I know it for what it is. Two thoughts cross my mind as I jump up and slip on my trousers and sandals, both thoughts warring with each other for supremacy. My house is well and truly on fire. I am probably going to die.                                                     **************

3:14 a.m. The hallway leading to the kitchen is filled with white smoke. My eyes burn, but my lungs are surprisingly unaffected. I reflect that smoking cigarettes prepared my lungs for this assault, and I laugh out loud. Take that, Linda! Maybe I’m going crazy, like my ex-wife always said I would. Maybe the smoke is causing me to hallucinate, for I swear I hear her voice, chiding me for smoking too much, drinking too much, and eating too little. My fingers trace the left wall of the hallway, searching for the kitchen entrance. Peeling paint flakes off and becomes embedded under my fingernails, sending bolts of pain through my hand and arm. I should have repainted the house long ago. When Linda left me, I just kind of gave up on house maintenance. Now I’m paying for it. I knock a picture off the wall. I know which one: a photo of Linda and me, when things were still good between us. The tinkling sound of glass breaking comingled with the sound of something crashing. It sounds like the armoire in the old master bedroom. It hasn’t been used since Linda left. I wonder if Linda still remembers those beautiful nights in our bedroom. I can’t sleep there any longer. Linda didn’t want the armoire. Said I should give it to one of my girlfriends. That hurt. I bend down to pick up the photo, folding it up and stuffing it in my back pocket. It’s effectively ruined now, but I don’t care. If I’m going to die, I want what Linda and I once had to be with me. I remember where we were in that photo. Lake Bowie. I had won a writing contest, and I was happy and feeling generous. All of this was before I became full of myself. The cabin was nice enough, but Linda spotted a scorpion. She refused to set foot in the cabin until I had cleared it out. I spent three hours checking everything for scorpions. I didn’t find any, but I did kill a few spiders and tossed out the carcass of a dead mouse. I didn’t tell her about that. We had a hell of a good weekend in that cabin. Our souls twinned and twined and twirled and twisted, only to become unraveled somewhere along the way. The door jamb leading to the kitchen interrupts my musings. My pulse, already sending blood to my body at warp speed, quickens even more. My face feels hot, like it did one long-ago week when I had a severe bout of flu. Linda took care of me then. Gentle touches, cool rags to the forehead, soothing murmurs. Linda was at her best when someone needed her. I never got that until years after the divorce. I asked her once when she thought I was at my best. Sleeping, she said. I pretended it was a joke. I turn left, seeing the kitchen in my mind. My hip rams into the kitchen island. I curse, but not much. My lungs are beginning to rebel. They feel achy and heavy, like I had run a 100-meter dash after smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds. I’m gasping for air now, and I feel dizzy. Panic can’t be far behind. The dining room table accosts me next, but not badly. I run the palm of my right hand along its contours, feeling for the end so that I could take – I think – three medium steps to the living area. Is it three? Or four? I can’t remember. My mind won’t focus, won’t see what it has always seen for the past twenty-three years. My hand finds a rubber spoon, but in my effort to grab it, I knock it off the edge of the table. I hear myself whimper in frustration, surprised that I do so. Me? Whimper? Well, yes. I need that little rubber spoon. It was Janice’s spoon when she was little. Still is hers, I suppose. She was so cute, trying to use that spoon. For a few moments, she was successful, but frustration would set in. The spoon would be abandoned for fingers. I can still see her food-smeared face as she shoved in mouthfuls of buttered macaroni and sweet potato. I would wipe her mouth, which she hated. The divorce hit her hard. We shared custody, but that ended when she went to college. Linda used to come over often during those early years after the divorce. We would have meals together, watch Janice play, and reflect on where it all went wrong. It was always a short discussion. We both know what went wrong. Linda doesn’t visit me any longer, but the spoon is my constant companion, along with my guilt. Janice, like her mom, chides me for such things. It’s cute when she does it. Not so cute when her mom does it. I fall to the floor and scrabble around, almost desperate to feel the soft rubber in my hands again. I don’t much care if I die right now, as long as I have the spoon with me. Janice. At least I didn’t screw her up. She rebelled against me, though, going for a STEM degree instead of following her path to literary glory. She has the skills. And the pedigree. But she’s great at math and chemistry. I suddenly get the irony. Chemistry. I was more interested in chemicals and chasing skirts than developing a strong relationship with her mother. Fort tents. Pizza for breakfast. Loud arguments with Linda on such matters. She accused me of not being a parent and I accused her of being a tyrant. I find the spoon and cradle it against my chest. I wish it were Janice, but the small, rough, piece of rubber will have to do. Maybe I’ll just stay here and think about Janice as the smoke suffocates me. I can feel it getting stronger. I close my eyes because they burn so much. My chest constricts. Breathing is a chore now. I wheeze, cough, spit up phlegm that tastes weird, like cream gravy seasoned with gunpowder. Linda let me have the spoon as long as I let her have the Elmo. God, that thing is so ragged! Linda washed it, sewed it up, took care of it after the divorce, but it still looks old and tired. Like Linda does now. I see her from time to time, usually in the supermarket. She looks worn out, hard, frayed. Metal fatigue. I chuckle at the thought, and then I start crying at the thought. I know in my heart that I’m responsible for that. The sparkle in her eyes are gone, replaced by something dull and muted, a sort of pale fire. Her smile is not as genuine; it’s more like she’s trying on a new and uncomfortable dress and can’t decide on how to feel about it. I don’t ever touch her when I see her. She might break, and cleaning up the pieces would be something I’m not equipped to do.                                                     **************

3:16 a.m. I crawl toward what I think is the opening that leads to the front room, and freedom. I find the opening and pull myself up. The smoke is thicker, but I can’t crawl much because of my knees. Every time a knee encounters the floor, it feels like a sledgehammer blow to them. The pain reverberates though my body, leaving me quivering and shaking. Getting old sucks. I take three steps and stumble over a bookcase that has fallen. So, it wasn’t the armoire. I feel for a way around the bookcase and the books, regretting – for the first time, mind you – my profession. The books I read, the books I write, hell, they might just be my undoing. That’s where the trouble started. I became famous. A popular author that everyone wanted a piece of. Lectures, book signings, talk shows. I still mentally kick myself when I think of sleeping with all those women in all those cities. Starstruck college girls intent on living out a fantasy. Middle-aged Literature professors wanting to screw a real-life author instead of lecturing on dead ones. The occasional bar hookup. The less occasional hooker. Linda, I know, suspected, but she never said anything, never confronted me. I think she blamed herself, thought that she was lacking in some fundamental way. My expectations of her were unrealistic. I wanted her to be a dutiful wife during the day and a dirty whore in bed at night. It all came crashing down one October night. My agent came to our house, drunk and disheveled and generally looking like hell. She yelled out that she couldn’t live without me, that our love-making was transcendental, blah, blah, blah. Linda took it like a champ, and then she took herself and Janice away. The woman has class, though. She never denied me visits with our daughter, even going so far as to allow joint custody. The pizza for breakfast thing still bothers her. I don’t get that. I stumble over books. So many books! Why the hell do I have so many copies of my own books? I lean against a wall, despite feeling the heat that’s there, the heat that increases, telling me that the fire will soon break through to this area. I put my ear to the wall I had been leaning on. I can hear the pop of flames, their tongues licking at the walls like a slavering beast, ready to devour. I think of all those women I slept with. I wonder who the beast was, them or me. I open my eyes again and see white. Nothing but white. It seems impenetrable. Like love. Like hate. More monsters to overcome, or give in to. I remain undecided on which action to take.                                                      **************

3:17 a.m. I claw at the front door, doing a poor job of unbolting locks and unsliding chains. The door isn’t hot, thankfully, but it’s white and insurmountable and implacable. Like the smoke. Like everything. I’m knocked backwards by a tremendous force, skidding on my butt across the floor until I’m stopped by the bookcase. A dim figure strides in, lifts me up, carries me outside. An oxygen mask is put over my face and a blanket is wrapped around me. It’s cold as hell out here. Firemen are spraying great quantities of water on my house. The fire doesn’t seem to abate. Smoke pours out of the shattered front door, white plumes billowing out with increasing fervor. I cough up more of the gunpowder gravy and I spit it out, and then I replace the mask. Droplets of condensation form inside the mask. My lungs feel good now, and I want a cigarette, just so they don’t get too comfortable. Linda drives up and jumps out of her car. She rushes to me and suddenly stops, not knowing what to do now that she sees that I’m alive and ok. But I know what to do. I stand and hug her. It’s the least I can do, I know. The very least.                                                        **************

5:10 a.m. The fire is out, but smoke continues to make its presence felt. The firemen douse the embers, and even the smoke decides to give up in the face of several hundred gallons of water. I watch all of this with Linda. She holds my hand. It isn’t as soft as it used to be. She drives me to her house. Classy, like I said before. She had moved after Janice graduated high school to be nearer her work. All the way across town. A long drive, alone with a woman who should hate me, and with thoughts that I hate to think. “You can sleep in Janice’s room until you find a place,” Linda said. Her voice was strained. Not indifferent or angry or loving. As if it were being filtered through all the years of dealing with the shit I handed her. “Thanks. I’ll be out in less than a week. Promise.” Jesus! I just used the “p” word! I bet she’s wondering how I have the gall to use that word after I had broken practically every promise I ever made to her. I’d feel better if she would reach over and slap me. She doesn’t. I’m a little disappointed. Another mile goes by before she speaks again. “How did you get out?” A simple question. A complicated answer is needed, but I don’t supply her with the truth. I lie. “Just felt my way through the smoke.” “God! I saw that smoke! It never seemed to stop.” She’s not wrong. I never want to see that much white again in my life. “I didn’t think I could overcome it, but I did, somehow.” I fiddle with the rubber spoon before stuffing it in my front pocket. The house was gone, but I had a rumpled photo and a rubber spoon. Linda laughs lightly. A different kind of laugh. Like she used to laugh. “Well, you did better than Ahab. He never could beat the great white beast.” I nod, impressed by Linda’s reference. She never evinced a great interest in classic literature when we were married. I wonder if “Moby Dick” was a recent thing, or had she always liked the book and I never listened to her? You know what? I don’t want to know the answer because either one would hurt, and I’ve had enough hurt for one night. Not the physical kind, mind you. The other kind. The kind that stays but doesn’t leave a visible scar. You know what I mean. Linda makes me eat a sandwich before I take a shower and go to bed. I make myself drink three whiskey-and-sodas. She doesn’t say anything about that. Not tonight. Not after the fire. I fall into Janice’s bed and stare at her old posters. Jimi Hendrix. Jimmy Page. Jim Morrison. She always had a thing for musicians named “Jim.” I leave a lamp on. I check to make sure I can get out of the window without falling over something, and I implore Linda to do the same. She sits on the side of the bed and strokes my hand. She used to do this to Janice when Janice had a nightmare. Just sit with her and stroke her hand. Something so simple but it always worked with Janice. I’m starting to realize what a genius my ex-wife is. “Do you think we still have a chance?” I ask her this because a) I’m still not thinking straight and, b) the whiskey-and-sodas were very strong. More like I waved some soda over the whiskey glass. Yeah, it was all whiskey and no soda. Might as well confess. It’s that kind of night. Linda laughs and smiles at me, but the smile is sad and grim. Her fingers stop stroking my hand. Instead, she clasps it with both of hers. They’re hot and rough and, somehow, unemotional. I don’t feel Linda. I feel a stranger that is familiar to me. “Our ship is the Pequod . It sank. There are no survivors.” I know exactly what she means. She walks away and shuts the irritatingly white door.


Julie was not just an average girl. She was fat and was considered ugly in the eyes of her classmates. The school she was studying in was a little bit out of the ordinary. The interior of the school was full of mirrors. All the corridors had mirrors. Every room had at least one big mirror. There were mirrors that also operated as digital billboards that displayed announcements, school events, and even club activities. There were also hi-tech mirrors that offered touchscreens. Every student were already accustomed to having a large mirror in their classroom. The mirrors indeed made the school a more spacious environment. But another reason was that the Headmaster of the school had a great fancy for mirrors. You had got to take a look at the whole collection of antique mirrors of the Headmaster's office. Julie did feel a little out of place as she happened to be the only girl who was obese at school. Whenever she saw many of her schoolmates making friends or going out with the school beauties, Julie thought to herself that beauty was skin deep only and what was important came from within. Ironically, her parents did not think so for they always complained that Julie was merely a lump of meat sitting on her armchair, wasting her youth on junk food and computer games. Candy, chocolate, and junk food were simply irresistable to her. She did attempt to put on a diet for just three days and yet it was a hellish experience for her and yet she did not lose a single weight. But all that began to change when Julie entered an antique shop as she was strolling aimlessly in the shopping district just outside her school compound. She chanced upon a quaint little pocket mirror. It seemed out of place in the antique shop as it looked brand new and had the design of some popular mascot. So it should be made no more than three years ago. There were many other items that stood out of place in the antique shop. After all, shops like this would do anything just to stay afloat. But the cuteness of the pocket mirror and its cheap price captured her attention and drove her to buy it without the slightest hesitation. Back home, Julie looked at herself in the pocket mirror. Immediately she was both shocked and mesmerised by her reflection. The mirror showed her a different person. She had a pretty face. While Julie wore glasses, her reflection didn't. What's more, her reflection did not have fat cheeks. "Could this be me?" Julie said to herself, taking a careful look at her reflection. "I always know that I had an inner beauty but this is insane." She spent almost an hour doing nothing but dazing at her new look that was confined within the frames of that pocket mirror. A downpour occurred the next morning when Julie was on her way to school. Although she had an umbrella, the strong wind did make a mess out of her hair. As she was about to take out her pocket mirror and a comb to tidy her hair, she heard a crack. This occurred at the same time a group of teachers passed her by, including Ms. Christina Green, the Head of the Mathematics Department. Julie slowly and carefully took out her little mirror from that pocket and already a few shards of glass fell out to the floor. Julie did not recall a single moment when she accidentally bumped into something that would cause significant damage to her mirror. She unfolded her pocket mirror and did not see any cracks. Not even a single scratch could be found on the surface. However, it only showed Julie's old self. The casing of the pocket seemed as if it had undergone accelerated aging. Lots of the coating had come off. But when Julie went to the washroom, she was astonished, so as did the rest of the girls in the washroom. Her new self had appeared in the washroom's mirror and her slim, splendid figure was revealed. Julie brushed her hair with one hand. Her reflection followed suit, except that it was performed more smoothly and elegantly and made all the girls around her filled with wonder. When she came out of the washroom and was in the mirrored corridor, the guys who saw her reflection were immediately bewitched and began asking for Julie's contact number and autograph. And soon, Julie became the most popular girl in school in an instant. What is this feeling, Julie thought to herself. She had never been in such high spirits before. But when Julie left school and went back home to have another look in the mirror. Julie became her plump, mundane-looking, bespectacled version of herself in the mirror. Perhaps all the mirrors in her school had become enchanted. Another thing to take note of was that Julie failed to notice the reaction of Ms. Christina Green. She was pale with fright when she looked at Julie's reflection. But Julie did notice a nervous tone in Ms. Green's voice whenever she taught her class. This had been going on for a month. Julie's version in the mirror was still the beautiful version. Julie was still the most popular girl at school because of it. But Julie became more anxious than before. She resolved to work hard on improving her looks. The reason was that she was frustrated whenever she talked to the guys at school, they couldn't turn their eyes off her reflection. She wanted people to look at her, the real Julie, not her reflection in the mirror. Before she commenced her ultimate endeavor, an old janitor came to see her. The janitor claimed that her reflection looked exactly like a student she knew several years ago. Her name was Diana and she was known as the princess of the school. She had always been the center of attention wherever she went. But she died falling off the school balcony. The police concluded the case was a mere accident. The janitor took one of the school's oldest annuals and flipped over to a page that had a class photo with Diana in it. And how right she was. Diana was the exact copy of Julie's mysterious reflection. Then, Julie spotted a familiar name next to Diana. It was Christina Green. Could it be the Christina Green, the head of the Mathematics Department, Julie said to herself."Yes, indeed." said the old janitor, "I remembered that they were best friends." That explains the nervousness of Ms. Green, thought Julie."Diana also had a handsome boyfriend, " the old janitor continued, "He was also very popular among girls at school and was the Captain of the rugby team. However, he didn't show up at Diana's funeral or show any signs of remorse after that. That goes to show that his love for Diana was merely based on her pretty looks. Boys and men alike, they were indeed heartless and unreliable." Despite having heard such a tragic story, Julie still continued to pursue her ideal self. She went on a diet, did more exercise than usual, learned how to apply cosmetics, and even tried wearing contact lenses. She actively discusses with the girls at school on current lifestyles and fashion magazines. In a month, Julie was able to achieve her desired figure. And she was more than pleased with her own results when she looked at herself in the mirror at home. For she looked exactly like Diana, her ideal self, the legendary princess in the school's history, without the use of any plastic surgery. While Julie was admiring her complexion using her pocket mirror on her way to school, a sense of uneasiness had struck her. And it wasn't the first time. Some time ago, Julie saw her reflection in the mirror at school was slightly off and she couldn't find words to put it. But back then, she brushed that sense of uneasiness aside as her schoolmates at school still admired her. However, this time, the current sense of uneasiness was too heavy to ignore. Something bad was going to happen. Julie immediately ran to her school compound, towards the washroom, ignoring all the friendly smiles and greetings from her schoolmates and her teachers. Julie looked at her face in the mirror and her premonition was right. The mirror showed the fat and mundane-looking Julie like she used to be. Julie began to feel dizzy and fainted. When Julie woke up, she looked at the mirror. This time, she did not find any reflection, no reflection at all, of herself in the mirror. She looked at her arms and then her thighs. They were as thick and coarse as before she got that pocket mirror. And when she came out of the washroom, Julie noticed the wordings on the door of the washroom inverted. That's not all, every word on billboards, and posters, they were all inverted. Julie took out one of her textbooks and opened its pages. The text was inverted as well. What was scary was that she saw no one at school. Everything was silent. Where am I, Julie thought to herself. Then, Julie finally spotted a person. It was Ms. Green. Julie saw her entering a room and shut the door behind her. "Ms. Green!" Julie shouted. She ran towards the room, opened the door, and saw no one, much to her astonishment. Has Ms. Green vanished into thin air, thought Julie. Or was it my hallucination? Then, despite the school she was in seeming empty, she could see on the other side of the mirrors in the corridor, people running in a particular direction. Julie followed them. They lead her to Ms. Green's office. There appeared to be a commotion occurring on the other side of the mirror. Julie opened the door and walked in. There was no one there but everything was in a great mess. There were big words written in red: I HATE YOU! CHEATER! MURDERER! CHEATER! MURDERER! MURDERER! CHEATER! DIE!!! What was terrifying about it was that the angry words in red were not inverted. Julie looked at the mirror in the office and saw many students, teachers, and even a few policemen gathered around. And there sat at the desk was the lifeless body of Ms. Green covered in blood. What's more, in a distance within a crowd, Julie saw her reflection, or rather, her ideal image being a separate entity of her own, and noticed a rather sinister smile on her face.


Calling 9-1-1 Rose: A voice asked, “Please state your emergency: Police, Fire or Ambulance?”            “This is Rosemary Wesley; There’s been a vehicle rollover, on the S-curve in the Stevenson Road, eleven miles south of Paisley. “There’s an overturned half-ton truck in the ditch. The headlights are on and the wheels are still spinning. I’m going down there to see if anyone is inside. The hill is so steep, I’ll have to use a rope.  I’ll leave my truck on the shoulder of the road with the four-way lights flashing,” I added.            “Help is on the way.” The operator replied. “Please stay on the line so you can advise the number of passengers and their condition.”            “Will do. I’ll need both hands for descending the hill, so I won’t be able to talk again until I’m there.”            Tucking the phone into my coat pocket, I reached for the coil of rope I kept in the truck bed, opened the passenger door and tied one end of the rope to the opened window frame.  I edged down the steep hill, using the rope to anchor my feet on the icy surface. The falling sleet trickled down my neck, soaking me to the skin. I’d come out of the office to find the spring rain had turned into sleet, coating the roads with a layer of ice. When I reached the bottom, I spoke to the operator again. “I’m down the hill, and approaching the vehicle now. It’s on its roof, and I’ll try to open the driver’s door.” Using my tiny flashlight, I shone the beam inside. “It looks like there’s only one person inside, a male who’s suspended upside down by his seat belt and appears to be semi-conscious.” “I copy – one male passenger with indeterminate injuries,” the 9-1-1 operator said. “Please stay at the scene until emergency crews arrive, and keep the victim awake, if possible.” “I’ll do that. I’m trying to open the door but it seems to be stuck.” The door was jammed. I yanked on the handle several times, then realized it could be locked from the inside. Leaning down, I tapped on the window, motioning him to unlock the door. He looked confused. I shouted, “Unlock the door!” He sluggishly reached across with his right hand to push the button to release the lock. I realized his left arm was must be pinned against the caved in door. I tried again, but it wouldn’t budge, so I asked him to open his window. He finally pressed the window button and held it. It opened halfway. I was able to see inside, and confirm that he was alone in the truck. There was blood on his face, and I wondered how bad he was hurt. If he hadn’t been wearing the seat belt, he’d likely have gone through the windshield, which was laying on the ground. I considered trying to help get him out through the hole, but decided to wait for the paramedics, lest I complicate his injuries. I told him my name, and asked his. “Ben Buchanan,” he rasped. He was a young man, with dark hair, wearing a dark suit jacket but no tie. I remembered the operator’s instructions to keep him talking, so I told him it was a dangerous road in bad weather, and that I lived nearby. In fact, my lane was just a few yards beyond, and I had been almost home when I’d spotted headlights in the ditch. He said he’d been on his way home from his grandfather’s funeral, and it had turned to sleet as he drove. He’d swerved to miss a fallen tree branch, and had lost control on that bad curve. I’d seen that branch, jutting out onto the roadway, and had been able to miss it. Being familiar with the road, I’d been driving especially slowly as I approached the S-curve, knowing it had been the scene of many accidents, and tonight’s icy conditions had made it treacherous. He said he couldn’t move his left arm; it was jammed against the door frame, and he thought it might be broken. I noted that the dash was crunched in, but his legs didn’t seem pinned. He said he wasn’t in any pain; he was possibly in shock, and not feeling it yet. Soon we heard multiple sirens, and as the flashing lights came into sight, I told him help had arrived, and they’d soon have him out of there. I stayed with him as all the emergency vehicles pulled up beside my old half-ton truck. Floodlights shone down on us, as the responders assessed the situation. I aimed my flashlight at the rope by which I’d descended the hillside, hoping they wouldn’t attempt that icy slope without assistance. But they had climbing gear, including a winch, and I stepped back as three men and one woman, in yellow slickers approached the wreck. Not wanting to be in their way, I told Ben that I wished him well, then carefully climbed back to my truck. I turned the heater up full blast and held my hands over the vent, trying to warm them. A Police officer came to my window, and I lowered it inviting her to sit inside, out of the sleet, to talk. She did so, asking what time I’d come upon the accident. I told her everything I knew about it. When I said my laneway was just ahead, and I needed to get home to let my dog out, and still had horses to feed, she agreed, saying she’d contact me later if she needed to. When she left, I eased my truck back onto the slick road and crawled the short distance to my lane. I was never so glad to see my cozy little farm house. After changing into warm dry clothes, and a rain slicker, hat and boots, I went out to feed the horses. They were huddled under the overhang, looking miserable. I let them in, tossed them each a biscuit of hay, closed their stall doors, and hurried back to the house. I wondered how badly hurt Ben Buchanan was, and hoped he’d be all right. It had been a rough day for him, first his grandfather’s funeral and then wrecking his truck on the way home. I hoped his injuries weren’t too serious. By the time the Police and paramedics had arrived, I’d felt like he was almost a friend. Ben The bright lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them again. When I next awoke, I saw that the walls were aqua, and a wavy patterned curtain hung beside my bed. Looking at the waves made me dizzy, so I looked away. I was in a bed with side rails. There was a cast on my left arm and my right one was attached to the bed rail. A tube ran from it to a bottle hanging from a tall pole. I realized I was in a hospital.            I closed my eyes to shut out the harsh light and when I opened them again, the quiet shush of a nurse’s soft soled shoes approached my bed. She was tall and stern looking, until she smiled. “Good morning! I’m glad you’ve decided to join us at last!” Her voice spoke kindness and concern.            “How long have I been sleeping?” I croaked. My throat was parched, and I gratefully drank from the straw in the glass of water she held for me.            “Just a few sips at first, Mr. Buchanan. You’ve been out of it for a day and a half. From what the medics said, you were lucky to have so few injuries.”            I looked at my cast, “What other injuries do I have?” “Your left arm is broken, and your left knee was jammed against the door. It’s not broken, but the bone is bruised. You’ll need crutches for a while. You have some stitches and a concussion from that bump on your head.” She stuck a thermometer in my ear, frowning as she recorded my temperature on a chart at the foot of my bed. Her fingers were cool on my wrist as she took my pulse, then pulled a machine on wheels to my bedside and slipped a blood pressure cuff on my arm. When it released, she smiled. “Your vitals are improving. You’ll likely be moved from ICU to a room of your own, after the doctor checks you.” “Can you free my right hand? I can’t even scratch my nose, with it tied down like this.” “You’ll want to scratch very gently. Your face is quite bruised. We secured your hand to prevent you from pulling the IV line out in your sleep. You’re receiving a mild pain med and fluids, to keep your body hydrated.” “I remember heading for home after my grandfather’s funeral, but nothing else.” “The roads were icy from freezing rain. You spun out on a curve and your truck rolled down a steep bank. It was on its roof, with you hanging upside down by your seatbelt. It’s good that you were wearing it – it likely saved your life. “A driver not far behind you, spotted your headlights in the ditch, and called 9-1-1. She lives just past the accident site, and she stayed with you until emergency personnel arrived,” she said, undoing the strap holding my right wrist to the metal railing. “I guess I owe her my life. I need to thank her.” “She’s called the hospital asking about you. I’ll find out her name for you.” “Thank you.” I said, as she left the room. I dozed again until the doctor bustled in. He glanced at my chart, and smiled. “I’m Dr. Nelson. I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Benjamin. We’ll move you to a ward upstairs this afternoon. I was concerned when you didn’t wake up sooner. You have a broken arm, a badly wrenched knee, a concussion and a few stitches on your forehead. Your face is bruised; you’ll have couple of shiners for a few days. Just say, ‘If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy!’” “Ow, it hurts to laugh. It feels like I’ve been run over by an Army tank, I said. “I’m due back in surgery, so I’ll look in on you tomorrow.” He was out the door before I could reply. A different nurse entered the room. She lowered the bed rail, pressed a button and the head of the bed started rising. When I was almost sitting straight up, she put an arm around my shoulders, the other under my knees, and swung me around so I was sitting on the side of the bed, without having to strain my sore ribs. “It’s time to get you upright. You’ve been lying in bed for too long. Let’s take a trip to the bathroom, and see how it feels to be mobile again.” She placed a pair of cotton hospital slippers with no-skid soles on my feet, and held me as I tried to stand. Every muscle in my body screamed at the punishment. She undid the IV pole, moved a wheelchair into place and eased me onto it. I was grateful for the effortless ride across the room to the washroom. My pillow looked like my best friend when I got back, and I was asleep as soon my head hit it. It seemed like no time at all until I was awakened again by an aide bringing dinner. It was scrambled eggs and toast, a small packet of strawberry jam, a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar on the side. I told her to keep the cream and sugar, as I drink tea and coffee black. When I’d finished eating, I slept some more. My bed was moving! I awoke to find two orderlies lifting me onto a different bed. When they saw my eyes open, the one at the foot of the bed said, “You’re moving from ICU to your own room. That means you’re no longer considered critical, and you’re on the mend.” They swung my bed around, through the door, down the hall and into an elevator. I felt the rising movement and the sudden cessation of it as the elevator stopped. The door opened, and I was moving down another hall, around a corner and into my new room. The walls were light blue, and the bedside curtain was cream, thankfully with no wavy pattern to make me dizzy. A picture window with a wide ledge below it took up most of one wall. The afternoon sun brightened the room. “Do you want the curtain pulled?” one of the orderlies asked me. “No, leave it open, please.” I replied. “What floor am I on?” “The third floor, west wing,” he said, as he attached my IV line again. “You’ll get regular meals now and be able to have visitors.” “My only visitors might be the Police. I don’t know anyone else in the area.” “Is that so? I heard there’s a pretty young lady who’s been asking about you. Maybe you’re keeping secrets from us.” He winked, as they went out the door. That gave me something to think about – I hadn’t known anyone in this area. I was just driving home from my granddad’s funeral when the accident happened. Nobody would know I was here. I wondered if anyone had found my phone. I needed to notify my neighbor that I was stranded here so he could collect my mail and forward the important things to me. The building contractor I worked for needed to be advised that I was laid up, and wouldn’t be able to make custom cabinets for him for a while. If I lost the contract for the new high-end housing development, it would be a huge financial loss. I needed access to a computer, to manage my online banking, like utility payments. My head was buzzing with all the complications an icy road had caused. I hadn’t been speeding; it was dark and I remember feeling the wheels slipping on the ice, so I was taking it easy. Little bits of it came back to me now, but not the accident itself. I didn’t dare tell anyone that I’d seen an angel standing on her head, talking to me while I’d sat in my truck. Nobody would believe me; they’d think I’d been seeing things. Maybe I’d been so near death an angel had really appeared. I’ve heard of such things when a person almost dies. Trying to think about it made my head ache worse, so I closed my eyes again. Rose When I called the hospital this afternoon, the nurse told me Mr. Buchanan was awake, and had been moved from Intensive Care to a room, and he could have visitors. I’d been worried; Waiting with him for the ambulance had made me want assurance that he was okay. I asked at the nurse’s station for his room number, and took the elevator to the third floor, followed the signs to room 315. His face was bruised black and blue and he was sleeping. I’d seen little of him that night, only what my feeble my flashlight beam had shown. I remembered seeing blood on his face. No wonder he’d been in a coma for a day and a half. Despite the livid bruising, I could tell he was young and handsome. His curly hair was a deep auburn, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. I still couldn’t see what color they were. I left him sleeping and went to the cafeteria for coffee, He was awake when I returned to his room, but he was not alone. A Police officer was with him, so I stayed out in the hall. I heard part of their conversation, the officer telling him that his truck had been hauled to the Police locked yard, and that it was a write-off. I’d guessed as much from what I’d seen that night. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I walked to the corner of the hall and back, then to the other end and back. The officer was leaving when I got there, and he smiled as we met in the hall. I suddenly felt shy about talking to Ben. He turned his head slowly and looked as I entered the room. “Hello, Mr. Buchanan, I see you are awake now.” His eyes were blue like the sky outside his window. “Uh-uh, not Mr. Buchanan, that’s my dad! I’m Ben,” he said in a raspy voice. “Okay, Ben. I’m Rosemary, or Rose to my friends. You’re more colorful now but better than the last time I saw you,” I said with a smile. “Don’t laugh, but you remind me of the angel that was standing on her head and talking to me when I was in my wrecked truck the other night.” “Sorry, but I have to laugh at that. I’m not an angel and I was not standing on my head; it’s you and the truck who were upside down. I’m glad you’re on the mend. When you see someone in a difficult situation, it makes you want to know that things turned out all right.” “‘Thank You,’ does not nearly express my gratitude. The Police told me there was little traffic that night, due to the ice storm. If you hadn’t found me, I could have hung there upside down until morning. He said you likely saved my life, so I owe you big time.” “A simple ‘Thanks’ is plenty. I’m so glad I could help.” I felt tingles go all through me as my eyes met his, like I was seeing my future, and he would play an important part in it. Ben: I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror, and knew I looked like Frankenstein’s monster. How could this lovely girl smile at me? She was truly an angel.


She stared down at her feet realising it was covered in the slimy greenish water. She gave a disgusted squeal when the slime creeped between her toes. This wasn't what she thought the Victorian Castle camp would be like. She visualised herself walking around the castle and imaging people dancing all kinds of different dances in the ballroom. Instead she's building campfires and swimming in the Victorian lake next to the castle. Camilla sighed and called Mr. Wicksen her history teacher who planned the entire trip. "So are we actually going to go into the castle", she asked him. He looked at her and thought a while before answering her question. "Yes Camilla but we must first wait for Mrs. Anderson to approve the entrance form before we can proceed". Camilla knew that if they get time to enter the castle their time would be limited and she wouldn't have enough time to see Miss Small's bedroom. Miss Small lived during the Victorian era she was considered as a well accomplished young lady. She was soft spoken, sophisticated, elegant and she was truly beautiful, men has always said it was the innocence in her eyes that captivated them. She had every feature but unfortunately in 1855 she passed away due to a heart attack when she was only 17. Her life is considered to be tragic due to the fact that she would've married the handsome and wealthy Prince Louis who she was in love with but passed away the night before their wedding. After her death he was forgotten, he went on and lived in a foreign country leaving his crown for his nephew to grasp. Rumours said that Prince Louis never looked at another lady and died alone on a cold winter evening somewhere unknown. Camilla relates in alot of ways to Miss Small and always believed that in some unknown ways they were the same she has always been obsessed with her. Miss Small's first name is also Camilla and both Camilla and Miss Small celebrate 21 August as their birthday date. "I honestly think that she'll only approve the forms once we're away, she has secrets and she's scared someone will find out the truth about the castle", said Mark who stood beside her. She turned to face him and looked at him curiously, "I have a plan, I also think that the next 3 days will be swimming and waiting. I think we should break into the castle". "Are you crazy?", he was surprised by her plan and thought it was wild and that they can get into big trouble if they get caught. "I'm just thinking that no one's in the castle at night we can climb through the basement window which is always open and we can solve the mystery the castle has kept for centuries. Plus I really want to see how it looks like inside you know I'm obsessed with the Victorian era". He agreed with the plan and said that he only agreed because he strongly believe that the castle holds secrets and if anyone were to find out these secrets it would be him. When their watches struck at midnight Camilla and Mark sneaked out of their tents as quietly as they could. The night watch who was Mr Wicksen and Thomas were both sound asleep next to the fire. The window of the basement was wide open and they both climbed through the window. The room was dark and only lighted by the moon that pierced through the window. Mark took out his phone and turned on his flashlight. The basement was a fairly large room there were stacks of papers and some furniture stored in the room all covered in a thick layer of dust. They went up the stairs which led to the drawing room. Everything in the room was exactly as it was the day it was abandoned. The next room was the ballroom which was the most favourable room in it's day accompanying more than 300 guests. The Small's hosted the best balls and everyone who was invited saw the invitation as an accomplishment rather than a dance. The room's walls were covered white paint and a portrait of Miss Small with Mr and Mrs Small hanged on the wall across the entrance doors. Miss Small had round blue eyes with dark curley hair and a fair skin tone illuminating her other facial features. Mark stood with Camilla and stared at the portrait. They walked through the castle until Camilla came in view of Miss Small's room. She turned the doorknob, this was it everything she has waited for so long she held her breath until the door was open. They stepped into the room and it looked exactly like Camilla imagined it. It looked exactly like a princess's room. The bedspread was ivory in colour and made of silk. Near the window was a stack of books original editions of Shakespeare, Austen and Dickens she was accomplished in literature. All the books was on a desk with some ink and wax an unfinished letter caught Camilla's eyes. It was Miss Small's handwriting. The letter's content was about Miss Small's feelings of the wedding and her love for him it was written to Prince Louis. Camilla read with passion the letter aloud to Mark who listened and applaud once she was finished. The letter unfortunately had only one paragraph and Camilla left is exactly the same way she found it. She looked at a wedding dress on the dressing table with a corset on top. The dress was made of lace but dust made it look more brown than white. Camilla gazed through the rest of the room admiring every single object that completes it when they heard footsteps. Both their eyes were glued to the door. The doorknob turned slowly and the door opened revealing a lady standing there holding a lighted candle in her hands. Camilla and Mark's eyes were filled with terror and their faces were as white as sheets. 'It couldn't be' was Camilla's last thought before all else perished.


They were scared of their own shadow. A line you’ve heard often when referring to someone scared of many things. But little do you know that phrase has truth in it. Shadows are dark, empty, and unknown. People fear the unknown. I grew up being able to see the shadows as they truly were. The dark twisted versions of ourselves. Our desires, our fears, our hatred. Despite what you may think, they do serve a purpose. The reason they exist is to hold those dark attributes so that that darkness doesn’t reside fully in us. But they’re always trying to escape the bodies they’re bound to. That’s where trouble occurs. It was a chilly October day when I learned what was happening; Mason Armon’s little sister had gone missing, and Mason hadn’t shown up to school. Quite rightfully, but the problem was that no one had seen him for over a day. “It’s just awful what happened.” “I hope they find her soon.” “That poor little girl.” So many whispers among people that morning and afternoon at school. No one was focused on lessons and homework, that was for sure. In a smaller town like Endwood, word travels fast among the locals, and there had been a new word that someone supposedly spotted Mason wandering the outskirts of town, but they couldn’t find him since. No one knew what had happened to him or how Emi had gone missing. But I knew what had happened. His shadow had escaped. Shades, what we Hunters call them, weren’t immediately dangerous. They begin by causing simple mischief, but slowly they evolve into more harmful acts and if not caught, will eventually destroy the life of the person they were bound to. Which meant I had to act fast. Seeing as Emi was taken somehow, I’d guessed that the Shade has been loose for about a couple of weeks, so I was running out of time. I had to go out tonight. I couldn’t let this last any longer, or else something worse could happen. I looked up at the sign above the dark red awning before me. END-RADIO stood in dark bold lettering. The radio was owned and run by Mason’s father, and Mason often came here after school to help him run things. I’d heard him managing the stream a few times on the radio when stores would play it over their speakers. Mason’s father had to have some information that could be useful in my understanding of what had happened before this and where I might be able to find him now. I’d babysat Emi lots of times the past year when Mr. and Mrs. Armon had to work and Mason had sports tournaments he had to attend, so it would luckily not be too odd for me to be asking him questions. I pulled open the door and climbed the narrow stairway up to the top floor of the building where the studio resided. The walls were the same dark red color as the awning outside and lined the walls to the END-RADIO studio door which was black stained glass with simple framing and an average metal handle. There was a faint reverberation of a drum beat from inside. I turned the handle and pushed open the door which stuck a couple of times on the carpet that was placed right inside the doorway. I could hear the muffled noise of music coming from the back left corner where the radio room stood. The rest of the main room was an open space with a few colorful couches, a coffee table set in the middle of them, a table against the back wall with coffee machines and kettles, and a long soundboard against the left wall below the window that looked into the radio room. “Mr. Armon?” I spoke out, my voice filling the small space easily. I heard a shuffling sound and then Mr. Armon appeared at the open radio room door. “Hey, Cassie,” he said, stepping out into the main room and walking towards me. I could hear the exhaustion in his hoarse voice, and his eyes had deep circles beneath them. “How’s it going, kid?” “It’s fine,” I smiled, linking my hands together. “I heard what happened though, I’m so sorry.” He glanced toward the floor and nodded slightly. “Who hasn’t heard,” he chuckled under his breath. “Nice and hard thing about living in a small town like us, everyone comes together to help you, but there’s not much privacy either.” I nodded softly. “I’m positive they’ll find her. Emi’s so smart, I know she’s fine.” Mr. Armon nodded again and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. All we can hope for.” I shifted on my feet, judging the best approach to this conversation. “I heard that no one’s been able to find Mason, is that true?” “Yeah, we have no idea where he is either,” Mr. Armon ran a hand through his hair, “last time Leah and I saw him was two days before Emi…” he paused, then continued, “he was with his friends and was going to spend the night at one of their houses after the football game. And he hasn’t shown back up at home, or texted, or called us, just nothing.” Mr. Armon’s voice was low and hoarse like he was trying not to get too emotional. “Did he spend the night with his friends?” “At least for a time, his friends said when they woke up, he was already gone, his bags and all. They can’t reach him and haven’t received any signs either.” He let out a shaky breath. “And then the next day Emi was gone too.” He turned around and I saw his arm raise to his face. I was silent for a few moments, noting all the information in my head. “Do you know any place he might’ve gone to?” “No clue, I only ever knew him to go to one of his friends when he was upset, or something wasn’t going right. I can’t think of anywhere else he might run to.” “Had he been acting weirdly at all before he was gone?” I asked, cautiously. Mr. Armon gave a small nod, still facing away from me. “He was much more irritable than he usually was, snapped at us a lot. He started to ignore us for the most part, including Emi, which was the strangest thing. You know how close those two are.” I nodded. Even being eight years apart in age, those two were as close as if they were the same age. “Emi was concerned about him, tried to make him feel better from whatever seemed to be going on, but he only blew her off every time.” There it was. The most out-of-character thing someone could do was oftentimes a sure sign of trouble when their shadow was loose. It didn’t automatically mean a Shade had escaped, but if a Hunter knew of a Shade’s disappearance and then it occurred, then it was improbable of being anything else. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armon. I’m sure they’ll both be back in no time, they’re both smart kids.” Mr. Armon nodded again, and turned back to me, his eyes beginning to redden. “I had heard a rumor that someone had spotted him by the train tracks outside town, but no one’s been able to find either of them out there.” The train tracks . Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it first? I thanked Mr. Armon for talking with me and gave one more condolence before exiting the studio and jogging down the stairs, racing to get back home. I knew what to do now. When night fell, I stood over my desk, gathering my things. I glanced out the window at the full moon, it would make searching a lot easier. I stared down at the small dark dagger laying before me. It was time. If I didn’t finish this tonight, then it could very well be too late. Who knows what might happen. I took in a sharp breath and stuffed the dagger into the side of my boot. I turned off the lights in my room and slid through my window, closing it softly behind me. I left a note for my parents in case they came looking for me, but I didn’t want them to worry about me handling this Shade. The bright moon lit my surroundings enough for me to navigate through them. I was heading to one spot. The train tracks. Since someone had claimed to have seen him there, that was likely the last place anyone else had seen him, and I knew from sharing an art class with him that his favorite place to sketch was the tracks. Even if he was taken over by the Shade its actions would still be influenced by Mason’s memories and emotions. I trekked over the crunch of leaves as I finally reached the tracks. I quietly followed them, listening and watching for any noise or sign of movement. It was eerily silent. No crickets, birds, or animals. Even the wind was completely still. Which made my presence there that much more noticeable. I waited for what felt like forever, just listening, and watching the open land before me, the moon to my back. My shadow was cast long against the old, splintered wood of the train tracks, following any minute movement I made. I scanned the darkness of the woods to the left and right where anything could be easily hiding, the moon made the glow of the area easier to see, but it was still night, nonetheless. I glanced down at the tracks again and I froze. I could see my shadow straight ahead of me, but next to it was an inky darkness, resembling a shadow, that spread out just behind mine. And then I heard the sound of a foot on old wood. I whipped around, grabbing my dagger and holding it out at Mason’s tall figure. Despite the brightness of the moon, he was shadowed and dull compared to the rest of the area. “Hunter,” the Shade hissed in a low, static-like version of Mason’s. “I’m going to make this quick,” I muttered and lunged. The dagger sliced Mason’s upper arm, but instead of blood, inky shadows leaked through the cut. The Shade hissed and raised a clawed hand. It struck down but I jumped back before it raked my face. I swung again and cut the edge of his face. “Leave him or I will tear you apart,” my low voice rang out loud in the silence. The Shade snarled and the inky darkness of Mason’s body sank into the earth. Mason’s body dropped and I caught him, dragging him to the side and laying him down against a tree. I moved away from him and searched for the Shade. The wind had now started and blew hard and cold through the trees. I finally heard a crunch behind me, and I turned and threw my dagger. It struck the tree behind and lodged into the bark. My breath caught and then I was thrown to the ground. I gasped for air and turned my head up to the Shade looming above me, his head cocked. It lunged at me, and I rolled but felt it catch my arm and I yelled in pain. I backed up against the tree and stood, dislodging my dagger and gripping it in my now-injured arm. My arm shook and I scanned the trees hastily. A hissing laughter rang out in echoes and my heavy breathing matched. It was toying with me. I realized instantly what I would have to do. I sucked in a breath. It was risky. I stepped out into the open, the moon shining down brightly, casting a shadow of myself and the trees surrounding. I listened. And I waited. The wind picked up in an instant and the Shade appeared from the shadows and threw me to the ground. My back slammed against the hard tracks and ground, and I gasped for air. I tried to find my dagger somewhere next to me. The Shade raised an arm and swung at my head, but it missed. Until I realized what it was aiming for. My throat seized up and I let out a cry of pain as the Shade began pulling at my shadow cast by the moon. I thrashed, trying to roll away, get out of its grip, anything. I cried out as it ripped harder. My vision was blurring, and my breaths were sharp and ragged. I had to finish this now . With a shaky hand, I tapped around the cold ground, and finally, my fingers felt the hard handle of my dagger and I gripped it as tight as I could in my fist. I let out a yell and swung the dagger at the Shade’s face. Everything was still for a moment. Then it fell beside me with a thud. I gasped and sat up, painting. I watched the Shade as it melted into the earth, leaving no trace of it behind. Signing in relief I stood shakily to my feet and walked over to Mason, who groaned and regained consciousness. He was confused and dazed, but he was alright. I helped him and we retraced the Shade’s steps to where he had hidden Emi. Once they were both safe, I returned home and collapsed into bed. In a few days Mason’s shadow would return, he would only really remember everything as a dream, and everything would go back to normal. The next day I stood outside the radio station. People walked past; their shadows as clear as crystal. Everything was normal again. It was a regular sunny October day. Or it would have been. If I hadn’t noticed it. A bright sunny spot where my shadow should have been.


What For? “I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me cry.” -Charlie Chaplin 1963. Freshman year in high school. Spanish class. I never met him, but I will remember him forever. A foreign language seemed like a good idea. Besides that, my mother insisted on it. Spanish sounded easier than Latin, so I was dazzling my friends with “cómo estás” before day’s end. It was the very first day. Señora Guzman said that all students would be known by the Spanish version of their name. It was easy to come up with the Spanish counterpart for John, Peter, Mary, Patricia and other traditional names. The one challenge was Duncan. The only known translation for Duncan was Duncan. He stood out, primarily because he was a junior in a class dominated by freshman. Why was he there, a junior in a first year Spanish class? A friend of mine knew. Señora Guzman was a notoriously generous grader, and the class required minimum effort for the credit. I’m an old man now so I have trouble remembering some things. And then there are those things I can’t forget. Duncan sat in the back of the room, barely engaged as could be expected of one there only for the purpose of grabbing an easy credit needed to stay on pace for graduation. If I were placed in that classroom today, I could pick out his desk. I can still picture him sitting there, leaning back slightly in his chair, with an expression that could only be described as amusing mixture of smiling, smirking, laughing and grinning all at the same time. The remarkable, memorable thing is that expression was always there. Always there. What I can’t remember is the assigned Spanish name that Señora Guzman created for him. I’ve tried so hard, so often, but I just can’t remember. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. I know it was a funny name. Perhaps it was because he was a junior and seemed out of place. Or maybe it was Señora Guzman’s initial humorous translation of “Duncan” to “Duncan”. Most likely it was just that jovial, happy personality. The nickname would have been something like “smiley”, or “funny boy”, maybe even a “goofy” in there. He liked the name. We all liked the name. I just wish I could remember it. The whole class got a kick out of it whenever he was called on in another unsuccessful effort by Señora Guzman to elicit a meaningful contribution to that day’s assignment. His fractured attempts to say something, anything, in Spanish brought a nice dose of comic relief to the hour. Duncan was such a good sport. He understood that everyone liked him so the good natured teasing never bothered him. In fact, he liked the attention, and I think he understood his special ability to put his smile on the faces of all those around him. I remember being impressed with the fact he would stay up late enough to watch the Steve Allen show which started after my bedtime. I didn’t think high school kids stayed up that late, but I guess two years is a big difference in age at that stage of the game. It may also have been an indicator that he wasn’t totally locked into the world of academia. I can only remember seeing Duncan smiling and laughing at that desk in the back of the room. I can’t remember ever seeing him enter or leave the classroom, in the school hallways, outside of school anywhere at anytime. He was and will always be the smiling, laughing kid at the back of Señora Guzman’s Spanish class. November 1965, early morning announcements over the PA. I can still hear the words. They were burned in my brain forever. “We have sad news this morning. Former Central student Duncan Miller was killed in action in Vietnam. He was eighteen years old. Please all pause for a moment of silence to honor the memory of Duncan Miller.” What? Oh my God. No. My brain locked up. Duncan? It can’t be. The funny kid from my Spanish class dead? In Vietnam, thousands of miles from home? Eighteen? I was stunned. It wasn’t possible. I immediately pictured him smiling and laughing at the back of that classroom. I felt so bad for him. It was so unfair. I never met Duncan. I never spoke to him. But it consumed my thoughts the rest of the day. At fifteen, I had a tough time crossing that bridge to where it was real, a goofy kid in my Spanish class dead…in Vietnam. What for? I was apolitical at the time and didn’t know much about the war. But I did know where Vietnam was, and it was hard to understand how a kid from my Spanish class could end up being killed thousands of miles from home. It seemed so wrong. My English class was reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” at the time. It was just plain wrong to kill a mockingbird, and even without knowing the motivations behind the war, I just knew in my heart that it was wrong to get eighteen year old Duncan Miller killed thousands of miles from home. I had been to two funerals in my life- both of my grandfathers. Those were sad events, of course, but there was a certain order to it. I still don’t understand the why of it, but I felt I should go to Duncan’s wake. I guess I liked the guy. It would be hard not to like a guy who smiled all the time, and he definitely added something to that whole year of Spanish class. My Dad once told me it’s important to attend a person’s funeral. He said death is the most important thing that happens in a person’s life, and it should be noted. Besides, it might add a small bit of comfort to those left behind. My Dad drove me to the funeral home and waited in his car. I remember the stone cold silence. I thought my breathing was too loud. It was nothing like my grandfathers’ funerals. His poor parents, sitting on a sofa off to the side, his mother wiping away tears, his father without expression, just there. I stood at his casket. None of it seemed real. I was thankful that it was a closed casket. I hoped that was the family’s choice and not because of what happened to him so many miles from where I was standing. And I wouldn’t have wanted to see him without that smile. I left the funeral home in a daze, struggling to understand how such a thing could happen. I lingered at the edge of the funeral home parking lot. I didn’t want my father to see me cry. I took Spanish all four years, always in that same classroom. Many days I would look at that desk at the back of the room, Duncan’s desk. No smiling, laughing, character. I sometimes wondered if the person sitting there knew. It affected me. Maybe it could have been any life cut so short, from war or whatever the cause. I didn’t really know him, but he was the first young person to die with whom I felt some sort of connection. It was the hard slap of the reality of death coupled with the unfairness that Duncan would miss out on life. I guess the fact it happened so far from home for such a questionable cause made it so much worse. The same feeling that drew me to the wake drove me to want to know more about him. A friend of mine knew the family well, and he told me what he could. Duncan was a mischief maker in grade school, consistently marked down for behavior. It was perhaps a bit disruptive in a classroom, but never mean spirited or harmful. He was always goofing around, teasing, laughing, enjoying the moment even when there was nothing apparent to enjoy. The highlight of his elementary school career was releasing a mouse in Mrs. Schroeder’s 5 th grade class. Despite the trauma of the moment, Mrs. Schroeder would laugh about it when retelling the harrowing adventure to future generations of students. It was hard not to like the kid with the jet black curly hair and a constant smile. School work didn’t agree with him. Being funny and making kids laugh did. Was it for the attention or to add a little levity to the situation? What difference does it make? He was fun to have around. He was the handful that every teacher enjoyed having in class. He was a noteworthy figure at the playground, a confident, personable kid who got along with everyone. Duncan was a good baseball player, usually at the keystone position of shortstop. It was only at pickup games at playground fields as he couldn’t cope with the structure of organized teams and leagues. His Dad worked at one of the suburb’s foundry’s. It was hard work with long hours. He would come home every night covered in soot, and Duncan would worry about the stuff that made it to his Dad’s lungs. His Mom mostly stayed at home to raise Duncan and his two brothers and sister, but she occasionally worked as a substitute “lunch lady” at the kids’ school. Unlike some children who might have been embarrassed to have their Mom around fussing over them, Duncan never minded getting a hug from his Mom in front of his peers as he left the lunch room. They owned their home in a solid middle class neighborhood with lots of kids around and playgrounds within a mile in three different directions. It was good place to grow up. Duncan got a paper route at the age of twelve. He knew that if he wanted a car, he would have to pay for it. He had a big route, seventy-five customers, worked hard and saved his money. He was a responsible kid, taking care to spare the paper from the elements in inclement weather. His customers appreciated him, and he got the best tips at Christmas. The only downside was many of the older kids smoked, so he picked up the habit at an early age. Within three months of getting his license, he got that car, a 1958 Plymouth convertible, a little beat-up, the radio didn’t work and the roof leaked. With its big fins, he and his friends dubbed it the Batmobile. He loved that car and would “cruise the avenue” with the top down even when the weather argued against it. He was a solid C- student, a bright kid who would only do the bare minimum to get by. The friend told me there was no doubt Duncan could have been a starter on the high school baseball team, maybe the same for basketball. But he wasn’t interested and chose to work. He didn’t finish high school, and not a lot of career options were open to him. With his parents’ consent, he was able to enlist in the Army at the age of seventeen. He was still seventeen when he landed in Vietnam where somebody gave that seventeen year old kid a rifle and told him to go out and shoot people. Two months after his 18 th birthday he was dead, killed in action in a place no one in our hometown had ever heard of. Growing up in that industrial suburb, fielding grounders at sandlot baseball, being the class funnyman, getting hugs from his Mom, delivering thousands of newspapers, keeping that beast of a car washed and waxed, “cruising the ave”, it all went out all in a flash in a far away place when he was just eighteen. What for? The more I learned about the war, the harder it was for me to understand, and the worse I felt. What the hell was Duncan doing in Vietnam? This wasn’t about the war, policy, communism, democracy, the draft, rice patties, helicopters, or napalm. This was about the smiling, laughing kid in my Spanish class. In just over a year, he had gone from entertaining a high school class to being ripped apart and dying alone, far from home. It was difficult to comprehend. It was so unfair. It was so wrong.  I watched the news with its nightly scorecard of casualties. I guess we were supposed to cheer the lopsided score at the end of that day’s conflict. A hundred here, several hundred there. The numbers only mattered because every one of them was somebody’s Duncan. For years the headline news was always about Vietnam and the number of U.S. servicemen killed that day, followed by a twisted version of, “But you should see what happened to the other guy.” No names, no description of how it happened beyond something like “an ambush”. No description of the suffering endured by the fallen as they lay dying or horribly wounded, or the pain that had just been inflicted on those left behind. It was easy to do the math on the cumulative totals. 4,307 minus one would be 4,306; 24,680 minus one would be 24,679 and finally 58,220 minus one would be 58,219. I would think of the number as one less than what it was, what it would have been without that smiling, laughing kid from my Spanish class added to the list. It affected me. I thought of him often. It was a sense of sadness, but it also served as a reminder to appreciate life. I had one, Duncan didn’t. I had many more birthdays, Duncan didn’t. I married, Duncan didn’t. I had children, Duncan didn’t. It was so unfair, and what for? One summer a high school classmate had a mini reunion at his parents home. I saw a guy I hadn’t seen for years, a defensive end on my football team. As I greeted him I reached out to shake his hand. He didn’t have one. He left it behind in Vietnam. Jesus Christ, what for?  I lucked out in the draft lottery with a “good” birthday. Everyone in the fraternity house threw in a dollar, and the first guy picked got the money. It happened to be the most anti-war guy in the house. I thought of Duncan as the unfairness continued. I was safe. Duncan wasn’t. I went to check out a Law School. I couldn’t get near the place because of the tear gas. Students were protesting after the slaughter at Kent State. It would all lead to the end of the war, but it wouldn’t restore arms, legs or eyesight, and it would do nothing for Duncan and 52,219 other poor souls. Fifty-two years after I heard that terrible announcement over the PA, I was driving home from work one evening when I heard on the radio that the Vietnam Moving Wall was at a park just ten miles from my home. I immediately called my wife and told her I would be home late. It was an impressive structure, stretching along an entire side of the park. I felt like more people should have been there. Information found inside a small tent directed me to the place where I would find his name. I stared at the name and then rubbed my fingers across the letters. I remembered him sitting at the back of that classroom, smiling and laughing, and wished I could have remembered his Spanish nickname. I could hear those words over the PA, “We have sad news this morning…” It was so sad, so wrong, and what for? I walked to the edge of the parking lot and lingered there for awhile. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.