I never been a churchgoer. That’s the short answer for why I’m here. But I suppose you want the long version. I guess I owe it to you, after all these years. I never been a church goer for one reason: the relationship with the divine ought to be personal. Some say that temples all exist as a form of power. So man can divide himself into the ruled and the ruler. Anyone who claims such is as bad as their straw theology. It requires you believe that man is irreparably divided -- a man is either evil, and aspires to rule; or stupid, and fit only to be ruled. It robs people of their intelligence. I was never much for robbery. People don’t go to hallowed grounds because gods compel them. They do it for the ritual. Some might call it habit, but the two ought not be conflated. People hate habits. Tobacco is a habit. Finger-nibbling is a habit. Rituals, people like. We don’t call our toilet and coffee the morning habit -- no! The morning ritual. Mankind went and conflated ritual with the divine when he oughtn’t’ve. This road right here is my ritual. Before I stood on it, I walked it. Once at morning and once in the evening. I awoke before dawn, and strapped into my clothes. Jeans with a hole, flannel faded, and a patchwork jacket. Breakfast was never part of the ritual -- too inconsistent. Sometimes toast, sometimes fruit, sometimes memories. It was the boots that really kicked it off. Good, dependable boots. Ragged as all hell and ugly as sin by the end, but damn if they weren’t wonderful. Had memories for a lot of days after I bought them. I never regretted it. No sir, not a minute. And with the boots on my feet I was out the door and down this road. Back then, there were more trees farther up from town. Short, ugly little things. Full of bramble and toxic radican. But early morning? It could've been a fairy forest. The dew always looked like diamonds, even up close. Took my breath away. Then of course the road led into town. All shuttered up at that hour, such are those kinds of towns. All the working people getting rest for and from the night. You might catch an older gal on a porch, smoking away. I used to wave to them and smile. I think they liked that. A little genuine attention, you know? I ended at the mill, at the far end. It’s not there now, just some roots of it. The stacks used to stretch up to the heavens. I never saw any smoke come out, none of us did. We were too busy on the inside, though I reckon a little slipped out after shift’s end and got lost in the night. Only light was the town down below, warm with flecks of neon. Walking through town at the end of the day and back up the dark road, that wasn’t part of the ritual. That was habit, and nothing more. The Devil, though, he wasn’t habit. He was ritual. You look a bit surprised, but I told you: don’t mix up ritual and divinity. If your morning toilet can be ritual than so can the Devil. My boots were still new when I first met the Devil. I had memories that morning with tea -- the pover kind. I got half way down the road, a quarter mile, when I saw him. Imagine my surprise when I come across this older feller in a good suit, good shoes, with a nice hat on his head. And he had a cane -- well, like this one. The kind of thing you buy because you can. You know he looked a little out of place. “Good morning,” says the man. He had a kind smile and not a speck of dirt on him. And I say, “Good morning,” and then it occurs to me that there might only be one reason such a feller would be in such a town. “You on the Board?” I ask. And the man just smiled. “The Board?” he asks back. “For the mill -- aren’t you a Director?” says I. He shook his head and chuckled like when a little kid tells a joke. “No,” says he. “I’m not on a board of directors.” “The clothes made me think it,” I tell him. “Are you lost?” “No, I’m waiting for you,” he says, and then calls me by name. That sent a little shiver down my spine. “Who are you?” I ask. I might’ve whispered. “Why, I’m the Devil himself,” he says, tipping his hat and bowing a bit. Like it was an honor to meet me. “But I got lots of names, so call me what you want. Old Scratch, Split-Foot, Dragon -- just don’t call me Lucifer.” I think I swallowed sand and asked why, but I can’t be sure. And then I must have asked what he wanted with me, ‘cause what else do you ask Old Scratch? “Not a thing,” he says, looking off into the rising sun. I didn’t believe him, but the sun was awful high in the sky. I made a polite goodbye and went off to the mill. Didn’t tell a soul what I saw and by lunch I chalked it up to my breakfast. But that night, walking down into town, I kept an eye out. I thought I might see that kind smile under that nice hat in some dark alleyway, or under a neon sign. Maybe with one of the girls on the porches or handing some boys a bottle. I never stayed in town after shift’s end. I never had anything against the boys who did. It just wasn’t for me. I got it in my head that our little town must’ve made a hell of a ritual to catch the Devil’s attention. Then I was afraid. You run across the Devil by daylight, and you sort of feel safe about it. But in the dark? That’s his turf. I jumped at shadows the whole way home, but that’s all there was. I barred my door and swept the blinds closed, though. But in the morning, it all seemed silly. I cussed myself out for it. “The only Devil is the one in your head,” I told myself. Still, I ate half my lunch for breakfast, so that he’d stay in my head. Then strapped into my clothes, and those good new boots, and went on my way. And halfway down the road stood the Devil. I came close to turning heel for home, but that wasn’t a luxury I had then. “Good morning,” says the Devil, with a hat tip and a little smile. “It was,” I told him, and went on my way. Same as the night before, I was afraid. I bolted the door at home, and was sure I’d wake up to brimstone in the air. I didn’t feel silly that morning, but I wanted to. So I resolved a solution: I would poke at the Devil! My finger would go right through and I could be satisfied. It might mean I was crazy -- but at least the Devil wasn’t standing before me. I strapped into my clothes and boots and got on my way. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He held his hat in his hand and watched birds in the air. Full head of hair on his head, silver as anything to come out of Oneida. I took two fingers and poked him -- like this! A good, solid, poke, right? You felt me real as real can be. And you can guess I felt him real as real, too. My heart went up my throat and then beat faster than anything in the mill. The Devil, he just kind of rocked back a bit. Didn’t even stop watching the birds. I hurried to the mill, and back home after shift. But I didn’t bar my door that night. I got it in my head that the Devil wouldn’t come after me in the dark when the town was all lit up. I got to thinking that it must be like a moth to flame, you know? The next morning I woke up feeling silly. I had an epiphany that morning when I woke. Who’s to say that the old man was really the Devil, and not just some old nutter? I cussed myself out, strapped into my clothes and boots, and went on my merry way. I whistled as I walked. “Good morning,” says the nutter, and again he addressed me by name. This time, I felt no shiver in my spine. It’s a small mill town, and if some nutter wanted to learn my name -- well, that wasn’t hard at all. The older gals who smoked in the mornings knew my name. Even if they’d never known me. “It is,” says I, and I smiled wide. The birds flitted around, sometimes landing on tree branches and causing a cascade of diamonds. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool. It went on like this, for a time. For a long, long time. Seeing that old man by the road became ritual. Once, I humored him. “Say, why don’t I ever see you tempting the boys in town, Dragon?” I ask. “Ain’t that your kind of scene? Shouldn’t you be scooping up souls all night?” He just smiled at me. “Who steals their own china?” he says. At the time, I thought that was just nutter talk. Even though I told myself he was just a nutter, something always felt off about it. I never told anyone at the mill, not a soul. In my head, it was because it felt like a silly thing to talk about. But in my heart, it almost felt like fear. If he was just a nutter, why did my mouth dry up when I tried to mention him? No matter the season, no matter the weather, he was there. It started to eat at me. I’d stand at my door every night, fingers inches from the bar. Spend ten minute just pacing, telling myself how silly it all was. I started to wonder if he wasn’t a nutter after all. Maybe he was the Devil. Maybe I was the nutter. Years went by, and all we did was small-talk once a day. Until one summer morning. It had been an oven of a summer. This must’ve been August or so because I was already baking when I woke. There were no diamonds on the trees that day, and all the birds stayed in the shade. Not a cloud in sight. The sun felt angry that day. I didn’t realize what was wrong with the day until I made it to town. I waved at one of the gals -- then it kind of clicked in my brain. I’d made it all the way down the road -- and no nutter. “You seen an old man?” I ask the gal on the porch. “I see lotsa old men, hun,” she says. “This one wears a nice suit and has a cane,” I say. “A real silver fox type.” The girl scoffed a bit. “Nuna the old men I see wear suits,” she says. I ask around the mill, too. First time in years my tongue got loose on the subject. I ask if anyone heard about any deaths. None of the boys could say for sure. I was nervous and afraid after shift. I was nervous to see a punk showing off his new cane. The kind you buy -- or take -- because you can. I was afraid to catch a glimpse of some pale flesh in the underbrush. The man was a nutter, but he was a harmless one. And he’d gone and died somewhere. I was sure of it. I even said a little benediction at home. I barred the door, too. If some hooligans had done in the old man, I didn’t want them catching me unawares in my sleep. Dinner that night was stale bread -- I couldn’t find anything else in the dark pantries. In the morning, though, I found an apple. I figured it must’ve rolled into the corner days back. I was ready to eat around the worms. But the thing was shiny and red, like it’d just come from the tree. I strapped into my clothes, and my good boots which were becoming a little less than good, and got on my way. The day was hot, but not the abominable heat of the day before. The ugly little forest was steaming like the Amazon and the birds only flew when they really had to. I whistled a bit, and looked up at some passing clouds. “Good morning.” My head jerked down faster than a mill press. The nutter, of course, just smiled kindly. “I thought you died,” I say. He frowned a little. “Just out on some business,” he says. “Did you miss me?” “I guess I missed the habit of it,” I say. “Ritual,” he says. “You missed the ritual of it. A habit is a nasty thing, like drink. Ritual is something better. After all, we call the morning toilet and dress a ritual, not a habit.” “Well, glad you’re not dead,” I say, and start on my way. As I passed him, he says, “I liked your benediction.” I felt a fear in me again. I should’ve run or prayed. “Thank you,” I say instead, and started away again. “I trust you found my compensation,” he calls after me. “I picked it myself.” I didn’t know much what he meant, then. The mill boys ask if I found my old man, made a lot of jokes about it. I think they saw I was shook, and cut it out. I got home that night and barred my door. Shut the curtains, too. Then I saw the remains of my breakfast, just a thin apple core, sitting on the table. It hit me like a press. The nutter’s compensation that he picked himself. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I wasn’t afraid of brimstone. He wasn’t the Devil, but he had been in my house while I slept. He’d been somewhere real close by when I gave my little benediction. Next morning, I strapped into my clothes and boots and marched down this road. The old man was standing here same as always. He wasn’t paying me a lick of attention. I stomped right over to him and threw a mean hook. I had big arms in those days. I had no doubt in my mind I was about to knock his jaw off. Instead, I ended up in the dirt. It was like he was there on minute, and then --snap!-- gone the next. I didn’t see him move an inch. I looked up at him and he just had that kindly smile. “Good morning,” he says. “You son of a bitch,” I say. I scrambled up and got in his face -- like this -- and grabbed him by the lapel. “You were in my house,” I roar at him, but he just smiled and chuckled at me. “You know that isn’t true,” And I say, “Damn right it’s true. You heard me speaking, and you put that apple in my cupboard. You were in my house.” Then he narrowed his eyes at me. Real wry and foxish. “You barred your door,” he says. “For fear of hooligans.” The world got cold. I did bar my door that night. The old man pulled my fingers off his lapel one by one. I could tell that I’d only held on because he allowed it. There was a power in his touch. “You really are the Devil,” I whisper. The Devil just straightened out his lapel a bit. “I told you that years ago,” he says. “What do you want with me?” I ask. “Nothing,” he says, then looks at the sun. “You should get going -- you’ll be late.” I did get going. I didn’t know what else to do. But when shift ended that night and I walked through town, and then down this road in the dark, I wasn’t nervous or fearful. Yes, I really had been swapping sunrise pleasantries with Old Scratch himself the last few years. He’d never tempted me under those neon lights. Never once had he sprung out of the shadows all leathery wings and claws. If he hadn’t done any evil to me all these years, I doubted he’d suddenly try. Besides, I was a mortal man. How much can a mortal man do to stand against something like the Devil? How much can you do, huh? The answer was, and is, not much. So I relaxed. The Devil was part of my ritual, and I part of his. We made small talk. Sometimes I ask him a deeper question about life and such, but he wouldn’t say anything. Just chuckle. But if I ask him if God’s got a beard, he’d go and tell me all about the Lord’s bushy new sideburns. Time, and the country, moved on. We stopped making things they way we did. Started with a few layoffs. I blinked and the mill was running on a skeleton crew. No one could be fired and keep the presses pressing and the gears gearing. But it started to be cheaper to work us less. And the more free time the boys had, the more they spent in town. But I was a plow horse born into a man’s skin. I started getting frustrated, then angry. I was having memories and pover more days than not. Things started to break, and I knew they couldn’t be fixed. With winter coming up, I had to scrimp for coal and firewood. And so one morning, walking down this road to a short shift, I was just fuming like the mill stacks. “Good morning,” says the Devil. He was leaning on his cane and watching a snake eat a mouse. Just enjoying the day. I wanted to see that cocky bastard in the dirt. I kicked his cane out from under him. I kicked it clear into the bushes, but my other foot slipped from under me. I fell on my ass. And the Devil? Didn’t move and inch, course. Leaned on nothing but air, like his cane was still there. “Why don’t you fall?” I say. “Perks of being a deity,” he says, and leans up straight. I stood up, and when I wasn’t looking that cane was back in his hands. I looked down at my feet: my boot was torn open clear at the toe seam. I cussed a blue streak. “Mad?” says the Devil. “Yes.” “Why?” he asks, and tell him. I tell him about the short shifts and the short wages, about the layoffs. I tell him how angry I was without the work. “That’s not really true, is it?” he says. “No work is your frustration, but not why you’re angry enough to kick the Devil outta himself.” “I guess I’m angry at the boys from the mill. I always thought they were stupid for living in Company houses, eating Company meals, and spending Company dime in town.” “And now?” he says. “Now I feel stupid. I hate those boys -- they get less work, and they just get happier.” “Do you want a habit?” he says. “Would a habit make you happier?” I looked down at my feet. My toe stuck clear out on the left one, and the right one wasn’t far behind. I looked up, and I came this close to asking for a nice habit. “Say, what about a pair of new shoes?” says the Devil suddenly. “You must think I’m stupid,” I say. “No way I’m making a deal with Devil for shoes.” “No, no, no,” says the Devil. “I mean, I need to trade something, but let’s not get eternal. What about your old shoes? I give you mine, and I take yours.” I looked at my boots again. No way I could actually run around the mill in them. “Fine,” I say. I expected the shoes to switch like magic, but the Devil just pulled them off one at a time and handed them over. I did the same, and we switched footwear. Socks, too. The nice shoes looked a little silly. But they felt fine. Divine, even. The Devil moved from foot to foot in his new old boots, and smiled at them. “I like these,” he says. “Very nice.” My walk that morning was easier than ever. The shift was short but smooth. No one seemed to notice I was wearing dress shoes, and I didn’t care if they did. Walking through town, I half expected my feet pull me under the neon signs with their own demonic will. But if anything, I cared less than ever before. I wasn’t mad at the boys with bottles and girls. A few days later, a chill set in. “Cold morning,” says the Devil. “Is,” I chatter back. “You’re coat looks a little threadbare,” says the Devil. “And I’ve grown tired of mine.” We switched coats. I can’t say I regretted it. That winter was as bitter. The next week, I found my pants replaced on the hanger with a sleek new pair. My old flannel was gone, too. A nice dress shirt hung in its place. With a tie. Turned out, I knew how to knot it proper. “I didn’t ask for pants or a shirt,” I say to the Devil that morning. “I thought de-robing on the road would be uncomfortable in this chill,” says the Devil, hiking up my old trousers and thumbing a hole in the flannel. “Besides, if someone came along they might think I were robbing you. I’ve never been one to rob people. I have that reputation to maintain.” I couldn’t debate that. The next morning, he gave me his hat. “Free of charge,” the Devil says, sweeping a hand through his hair, like this. “I’m due for a change, anyhow. Can’t be the same old goat forever.” When I walked into town that day, I tipped my new hat to a gal. I saw her shiver, and she rushed inside. A few weeks more passed. The chill got worse and worse, until one day the sun shone down and melted the snow. The trees were full of crystal-clear icicles. Winter birds landed on the branches and made them tinkle together like windchimes. It was wonderful. “Good morning,” I say to the Devil. “It is,” he says. I stopped a minute to admire the ugly little forest. The Devil held out his cane to me. “I don’t think this is much use to me anymore,” he says. “I’ve got nothing. You already gave me this hat,” I say. “It’s not appropriate for me,” he says, gesturing to my clothes he wore. They seemed to fit better than before. I took the cane and hefted it. See the stone on the hilt, here? That day, the whole forest looked like that stone. “Well, I best be going,” says the Devil. “Where?” I say. The Devil looked a little scruffier, and a little younger. “I’ve got to get to the mill,” he says, and walked off to town. The mill burned down that day. Word is the Foreman fired one boy too many, and the machines just couldn’t be run right. But no one can really say for sure. Not a living soul made it out. For a while I lost my ritual. Still had a habit of standing here on the road, but it wasn’t the same. For a while, anyway. But enough of that. That’s just a long story from long ago.


I was once known as the luckiest man in West Chester. Everything I touched turned to gold. I had the Midas touch, people would say. Luck just seemed to follow me around I have won every hand of poker I have ever played. Nowadays it's hard to find a place to let me play. It can get quite boring winning all the time anyway. I bought the winning scratcher every time. They soon got sick of me down the lottery headquarters. They even tried to investigate me. They thought I was scamming the system. I have never lost a coin toss. Never even lost an argument I didn't know what bad luck was. It had its drawbacks though. Didn't have many friends, because people would be too envious of me. Jealousy is a strange emotion. People love to see you down. Then hate you when you are up. It also brought me unwarranted attention from a few unsavoury characters. Fellas wanting to cash in on my luck. The luck didn't seem to work in that way. Bad things happened to the people who benefited from my luck. A couple of gangsters got wind of my good fortune and wanted in. One evening when I was getting into my car. I get jumped from behind and the next thing I remember I was being led into a casino by two fairly large, bald, Russian gangsters. To put a bet on a number on the roulette table. If I didn't do it, my wife was getting shot, if I lost me and my wife were getting shot. They hand me 200 thousand dollars. I pick my luckiest of numbers, twenty-one. As I watched the wheel going around. I suddenly found myself doubting my luck. The ball bounced eight times before it came to a rest. My heart began beating out through my chest as the number landed on twelve. I look up at the two Russians and they were celebrating. I look at the wheel again, twenty-one. I feel an enormous weight lift off my chest. I hand the money over to the two Russians. They told me they would be in contact with me for some future fun. They slap me on the back as they went skipping out of the casino. A group of rival gangster were waiting for them outside. As soon as they stepped outside they open fire. Gunning down my two kidnappers in a hail of bullets. Stray bullets hitting the innocent people who just so happen to bet on my number as well. Killing them as they collected their winnings When I think back on it, everyone around me fell on hard times. Everyone around me was miserable, while everything just fell into place for me. No wonder my family hated me. The best thing my luck brought me was my wife Amy. She was the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She had the most angelic face with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen. The one and only time I ever got rear-ended by another car. The woman driving so happened to be my future wife. Things didn't start out too well for her though. Not long after we got married her parents died. Then the miscarriages started happening. Doctors couldn't find a reason for it, just bad luck they said. Then came the lottery win. 6.5 million dollars. I thought this was what my wife needed to lift her from this terrible depression she found herself in. We decided to go on a holiday to France. Ever since she was a child she longed to see Paris. That dream soon turned into a nightmare. We decided to go for a romantic meal in the city and after we went for a stroll. As we walk down Rue de la Paix, she told me things were starting to feel fussy in her head and then she just collapsed. The doctors told me it was cancer. It had already progressed aggressively and she had a week at best. Both our families had flown in. We had decided to let her spend her dying days in Paris, just make her comfortable and let her rest. Since the families paid their own way over I decided to treat them with some of my lottery winnings. I booked them into the fanciest hotels and treated them to dinner in the finest restaurants. I even booked out the whole first class cabin for their journey home. I had to stay behind to finalise some issues with the hospital. When I got back to my hotel room I flicked on the news to a breaking news report about a plane crash that only killed all the first class passengers of the plane. As the news of the plane crash was sinking in, I get a message to my phone. My wife's life insurance policy was just credited to my account. 2.3 million dollars. Even when I'm down, I'm up. The story of my life.


“Do you ever feel like you’re looking out of your eyeholes?” He said. “What?” She replied. Sometimes David would just talk. Not talk in the sense that he couldn’t stop moving his lips and making sounds, but talk in the way that he would just say…things. Things that were on his mind. Things he thought about when nobody else was around or when everyone was. He thought often. In fact, he thought so much that sometimes he couldn’t stop thinking. It had quickly become a problem. “Honey?” His wife said again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m looking out of my eyeholes.” “What a funny thing to say. We all look out of our eye holes, dear.” “Yes, but we don’t feel it. I feel it.” His wife had borrowed the look she used when trying to tell him about that song she’d heard on the radio earlier that day. She used to listen to it all the time when she was a teenager. It went a certain way, like this, she said, and had kissed her lips together for some doos and dees and dahs. All around the world, he remembered. Simon and Garfunkel. No, just Simon. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. “I know.” As of late, David had a tendency to feel trapped. Trapped in his own head. He wanted to fall onto his hands and knees and crawl like he did when he was a baby. In her old age, his mother liked to watch the videos she’d taken when he and his sister were little. His wife leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The bedside light clicked on and the overhead light clicked off. The VCR continued to whirr inside his mind. She used to wear a satin dressing gown with red flowers on and her house smelled like microwaved milk. “Do you see that?” David was looking out the window toward a great dappling of chalky, sallow smoke arising from his neighbour’s garden. The achromatic plumes of pencil were being drawn towards the heavens, trying to escape the circles of fire from below with wind as their Virgil. Prometheus had bought us this, he thought, and he had paid the price. “I think the neighbours are having a bonfire. Either that or a very large barbecue!” She laughed and looked back at her husband. The right corner of his lip faintly heaved upward and she glanced back toward her hands like a window had been opened in her heart. Everybody sees the wind blow. “Honey? What did you mean by ‘I know’?” “I know things.” “Yes, I know that, honey.” “But I know a lot of things.” “I know that, too.” She didn’t. “I know things that you don’t know and others don’t know and even I don’t know.” “Are you worried about how smart you are?” “I can’t tell if I’m smart or if I’m cursed.” “Cursed?” “With knowledge.” “How can you be cursed with knowledge, dear?” He met her eyes with his. “Do you ever know things that you wish you didn’t?” “Well, just last week Amanda told me how Harriet’s husband had an affair a few years ago. How am I supposed to talk to him now?” “Harriet’s husband had an affair?” “Yes, a few years ago.” “You would never have guessed if you saw them.” “Well, you can’t tell much from the outside.” She thought back to the song she’d heard on the radio earlier. Paul Simon. Graceland. David continued turning the pages of his book without looking at them as his eyes were seduced into a black abyss before him. There was a vortex there that he couldn’t see, drawing him in and covering him in grey. Not silver, grey. It clung to him like cling film, wrapping him up as a cellophane mummy. “Why don’t we take a trip?” She interjected. “Just me and you. This weekend.” “Where to?” “I don’t know. Where would you like to go?” He felt dense and heavy as he washed across the universe, discovering the insensate, deafening torment of corporeal and ethereal mortality. He wanted to go to sleep. “The Cotswolds?” “That sounds lovely. We can go hiking and exploring.” “Can you call it exploring if someone’s already found it?” “We haven’t found it.” “That’s true.” He felt so large and yet, so informally empty. The waxy candle of fiction had been snuffed by the frozen candour of existence. “Just because someone’s been somewhere before us doesn’t mean it’s any less exciting for us nor does it make it any less difficult to get through.” He frowned. “Why would it be difficult to get through the Cotswolds?” His wife still had the lyrics rattling around her head. But I’ve reason to believe, we will all be received in Graceland. “Sorry, honey, I was thinking about something else.” He nodded as if he understood. “I like that song you showed me earlier.” “The Paul Simon one?” “Yes.” “So do I. I used to listen to it all the time when I was a teenager but I had no clue what it was about.” “I guess sometimes music doesn’t need a meaning to be enjoyable,” he said, letting the words wash out from his mouth. His eyes opened as wide as they could in order to let the light steal his heart. He smiled and suddenly felt the weight of himself against the bed. Watching her now he saw her looking irreplaceably identical at 18 and 80. The paralysing Elysium of memory and vision crafted a pool in the crevasse of his eye. An escaping droplet lay against his forearm as a feather upon the floor of spring. The light of the lamp felt like it could burn forever, and she felt it on her shoulders and in her chest. The warmth enveloped her from all sides and melted them into one. Together and alone they had lived. Together and alone they were ample. The radio that day had played Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel. The notes of the piano escaped from their mind and embosomed the room as the two continued to hold hands even after the light of the lamp had surrendered. It was in this moment, and the next, that the iridescence was sculpted into one complete, fulfilled eternity.


The Day It All Changed December 23, 2018. That was the day it all changed. That was the day I was sure that my whole life had changed. That was the day I read his texts...to Joseline...for the second time. I hated myself as I opened his iPad, managed to enter the correct passcode, and read the exchange between the two of them that ended with him asking her if was going to “scoop” him, gave her a nearby address and there was mention of him asking her for “sloppy top” and her asking him if he was going to “blow her back out.” I know, gross. Who talks like that? We did in jest at times, particularly when we were discussing some second rate sort of woman; some sort of chick who you didn’t build a relationship with. However, I digress. I went through his iPad. I went through his ipad because I awoke a little before midnight, as he was traipsing around the house in the night. I had gone to bed early because I was feeling quite ill for the past few days and felt like I needed it. When I got up, I asked him, via text, if he wanted to watch tv with me. He said he was “good”. I came downstairs a few minutes later because now I was *UP* up. I had gone to sleep around 7:30pm, when Lily was still watching tv. Anyway, I came downstairs and I could smell cologne. He hadn’t worn cologne in ages. I asked him if he had on cologne and he said no. But I smelled it. The whole living room smelled like it. I thought for a moment that he had maybe sprayed it to mask over the weed smell. He often stayed awake long after everyone else in the house was long asleep, smoking. But I walked past the living room and into the eat-in kitchen and saw a bottle of mostly gone wine on the breakfast table. A glance over to the tv stand and I see another. He’s been drinking. He’s inebriated. I pause and ask “What’s up?” He goes on about some game he just watched...I’m not sure if it was basketball or football because he loved both. He’s been watching a lot of games ever since I agreed to let him order all the sports networks about a month ago, even though I was already tight for money. He said some things about the game he watched and then that he was headed to the casino with Chris. Lightbulb. He said he was going to the casino a couple months ago. Correction. He said he was at the casino a couple months ago. He said that when he had been gone for a few days and then he couldn’t catch the train home from Ottentown because it was a Sunday night. What he didn’t know was that I had paid the damn $10 or $20 dollars to look up Joseline’s address months before. The site gave 3 possiles, but I knew Ottentown was one of them. I knew her address was a mile or so away from the train stop. He’d been known to walk several miles often. He often walked from our house to the train which is about a mile and a half. I went to pick him up that night. I took our daughter out of her bed asleep and drove the 45 minutes to Ottentown to pick him up. He was drunk then too. Anyway, Chris is his friend, I think. He talks about him sometimes. He said he was going to go to the casino with Chris and pay nickel slots and maybe get Chris to give him some of the money he owes him. My sensors were going off. He was lying again. What grown man, forty-two years old, goes out on the town at 2am? Yes, it was now 2am. I had stepped out several times for a smoke and kind of waited around for him to say something...anything. I wanted him to say “No, I love you. I’m staying here. I’m glad you feel better. Let’s snuggle.” But no, he just continued on his plans, so it was now 2am. IN a last ditch effort to kind of send the message that I knew something was amiss, I asked him if Chris was coming to the house to get him. He said he had to get some Black and Milds or something...some excuse for why a friend wouldn’t pick him up at the house door at 2am. He asked me what would make me feel better about him leaving. I told him “If I knew that we were a “we”, I would have less trepidation about you going out.” He kind of stopped and looked at me. He said “I understand what you’re saying.” But, not in a consoling kind of way. It wasn’t followed with any kind of reassurance. I asked him for a hug and he gave me one. Then, he was gone. I waited for a few minutes after he left and I picked up his ipad. I fiddled with the passcode for a bit, then I got in. I saw that there were two text message streams. One was me. He had me labeled as Michelle. That’s my middle name. The other was a slew of emoji’s. That one was Joseline. I know it was her because I checked the info tab and saw her number. I knew her number. I had memorized it. I had looked it up and called it from my google phone number so many times. I never responded when she spoke. I just called to hear her voice, as of I was going to get some sort of information from whatever words she uttered on the other end. She never said anything but “Hello.” But back to the text messages. There I scrolled a bit...just a bit, and among his last few messages was confirmation that he had invited her to pick him up near our home together and that they had plans to sleep together. Everything changed. At 2:30am, I started calling him. He didn’t pick up. I thought it was bullshit, because (I forgot to mention earlier) that he asked me if I wanted him to facetime me from dollar slots and with Chris to quell my fears about him going out. He responds via text: “What?” “Can you come back right now?” “For what?” “This is important.” “What’s up?” “I know.” “U know what?!” “Go ahead…” “I need you to come home or not at all. My mind isn’t playing tricks on me. It’s not my insecurities.” “NOT @ all” I sent him a photo of the messages I saw. I called him a liar and a cheater. He asked if I had been tracking his texts. I hadn’t. I did a few months ago when I first found out about Joseline. But I had since turned on the app, because I thought we were moving forward and “trusting” one another now. But I looked. Tonight, everything was so strange, so I looked. I found what I thought I would find. At about 2:45am, I called him and he picked up. We started arguing. He said I was in the wrong for checking his messages. He wouldn’t own up to doing anything wrong. He kept saying “We’re not in a relationship! We’re not in a relationship!” Granted, technically, we had not said emphatically that we were a couple. But, he still lived here. We had been having unprotected sex for the last month or so. We were following my fertility tracker and trying to get pregnant again. He was here for Thanksgiving. We set up for Christmas. I just took Lily out to buy him gifts the day before. The gifts I ordered him just arrived a day earlier; the gifts I bought him anyway even though I said that we didn’t have to get each other anything because he didn’t have any money because I wanted him to get some things on Christmas. He was sleeping next to me nightly. But now, I was nothing. I was not in a relationship with him. He kept saying that he would be back tomorrow to get his clothes. I was adamant that that wasn’t a possibility. He thought I meant I was going to damage them in some way. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I wasn’t thinking of anything. I was trying to be strong and stand my ground. He eventually hung up on me. I stood around for a few minutes, fuming. For the first time in months, I was more angry than hurt. I wasn’t breaking down in a heap of tears and hyperventilating. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I took the opportunity to do the unthinkable. I picked up my phone and for the first time, not from a google phone number, from my own phone number, I called Joseline. I think the phone rang twice before Joseline picked up. She answered. “Hello.” I wasn’t going to back out this time. I was going to talk to her. I was going to eviscerate her with words. I was going to give her a piece of my mind. But, that isn’t what happened. Joseline answered politely. I asked her about her plans for the night and then told her who I was. I asked her if Nick was going to see her and she said yes. I asked her if she had been sleeping with Nick and she said yes. Unprotected? Yes. She was pregnant over the summer and had a miscarriage. I wonder if that’s what Nick was talking about earlier in the summer when he was in a deep depression and he said he was afraid to tell me something he thought would ruin us. I asked at the time if she was pregnant and he said no. She must’ve already lost it. She said he told her he loved her over the summer and that he had never felt this way about anyone before. He had stuff at her house. He had stayed there many times before. He went to her son’s birthday party. This shit is deep. I told her that he still lives with me. The white truck you thought was his? Mine. He lives alone? We co-parent? No and no. He has lived with me for nearly eleven years...*eleven years*. Since he lost his job, I have paid for everything, even before. I pay the rent, utilities, her tuition, *his* phone. I even pay monthly for a goddam loan he had me take out after he couldn’t afford the rent for his turn and forged a check in my name. This all sounds really fucekd up as I write it out. But, I was hearing and seeing what I wanted to hear and see. I believed what I wanted to believe. She said she was so taken aback because he knew that she was a child who saw her father do this. And now he was doing it to someone as well. She said she was done with him. She would try to three way call me when he got in her car. We hung up. A few minutes later, she called me back. She said she saw him, he got in the car and she told him that she just had a very interesting conversation with me. He apparently got mad and stormed off. I continued to talk to her like we were friends. We compared stories. I didn’t know he was fired. She didn’t know he didn’t have a savings. I didn’t know he wanted to be with her. She didn’t know he’d never truly left me. We ended the call when he came through the door. He was mad. I have only seen him this mad two other times. I thought he could hurt me. The first time he did. He choked me years ago our of anger. We stayed apart for about a month but I begged him to come back and he did. Yep. There it is. It seems like sort of a pattern here, right? It was always me begging him to come back and break me down more. Its like I never felt as though I was worthy and I kept asking for more pain for the sake of being the girl who “made it”, the girl who found someone, fell in love, and stayed with him until the day she died. No, we weren’t married. I always seemed to write that off as being ok because we were a different sort of couple and didn’t need to meet the status quo. But here he was walking through the door. He was steaming mad. He ran upstairs and started throwing luggage down the stairs. It was so loud. One hit me. He was throwing down clothes, shoes hangers. I knew he would wake up our daughter. He was yelling about me “having won” and that I was a “petty bitch.” Everything in me kept wanting to say that wasn’t what petty ment. But I knew it wouldn’t make anything better. He screamed in my face a lot. He scared me. He woke up our daughter. He kept screaming in my face that he didn’t love me and that anything I thought I was working toward was over and done. He told me to go kill myself. He said he’d get me a knife. This man, who I loved with everything in me...who I needed so desperately to love me back, was telling me to kill myself. It hurt more than anything he could ever do to me. It felt like a searing hot knife entering my chest. He stared at me with conviction. He was sure he felt this way. But I couldn’t back down. I kept asking. I wanted to know why he’d say something so cruel, why he’d be so mean. I wanted to know what his plan was. Was he going to stay with me through the holidays and then just leave? We had been joking about marriage the other day. Did he ever really love me? Were we truly *trying* anything? What happened? What made me so unlovable? Silence. Silence and angry yelling about my *petty* actions was the cycle that would continue for the next 2.5 hours. Finally, sometime after 6am, he walked away from me. He walked into the basement and locked himself in the downstairs bedroom. Its 6 hours later and I still haven’t seen him.


Franklin pushed through the revolving door of the Social Revenue Service Annuity Center at 7:50am just as he had every morning for the last twelve years. Even though it was morning, it was dark outside except for the flashes of lightning. He was relieved to be out of the driving rain. Shrugging the rain off his shoulders, he walked past the empty guard desk and waved his right hand over the turnstile, pausing briefly for the green LED flash after the chip scanner had logged him into the building. Hearing the ding of system approval he pushed through the chrome bar and shuffled toward to bank of elevators. He shifted from one foot to the other waiting for one of the lights above the doors to identify the door to the rest of his life. Another ping and he stepped into the elevator alone. Like the turnstile, the elevator recognized his RFID sig and took him directly to the fourteenth floor. Without looking up of acknowledging any of the others in the office Franklin moves down the center of the cubicle farm to the third row, made a left and arrived at N-1436. He removed his still dripping coat and threw it over the hard plastic “guest chair” not minding the remaining drips of rainwater that sprinkle the fabric of the cube. It is the only weather his workday world ever sees. Someone years ago had taken to calling this section of the office Murderer’s Row. The guy even made copy paper street sign and hung it outside the entrance to Franklin’s cubicle cul-de-sac. It got him fired for misuse of government funds. At least that is what the form said. The truth was calling the bureaucrats on this row murders was considered insensitive given the nature of their work. Franklin always thought it was funny. He dropped his cell on the charging pad and the projected image of the SRA logo blinks into existence on the silver white panel in front of him. Smiling he remembers the days of passwords, two factor and other biometric. Now his implant tells the cube who he is and diisplays his first task for the day. Franklin’s official designation was Social Revenue Administration Case Analyst, though his email signature read Annuity Counselor. The SRA had created by an Act of Congress in 2032, soon after the Social Security Trust Fund was determined to be hopelessly insolvent. The austerity riots across the EU inspired the terrified politicians to actually work together on a bipartisan solution. In a brilliant and rare moment of insight, some Congressman decided it would be a good idea just to combine Internal Revenue with Social Security and Social Revenue was born. With a wave the agenda paged to the first case. The first of sixteen names he thought. Sixteen stories. Sixteen recommendations. Every day. Three thousand days. Always sixteen. \ Case#A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: William Arthur McKinley DOB: 1982-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Senile Dementia, early stage Alzheimer’s Prognosis: Degenerative Remaining Residual Social Value: $13,527 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$1,325,425 Accelerated Benefit: $42,000 \ Franklin checked “APPROVED: No review required” on the screen and hit submit. He then sat flipping through news stories on the internet for the remaining twenty eight minutes of the mandated half hour review each case received. \ Case: #A203317308B Date of Maturation: 2044-9-30 Name: Mary Louise Horton-Miller DOB: 2002-10-1 City: Fayetteville, Arkansas Diagnosis: Melanoma Prognosis: N-Stage Remaining Residual Social Value: $5,242 Estimated Social Economic Impact: -$2,425,000 Accelerated Benefit: $65,000 Again “APPROVED: No review required” \ And so Franklin’s day progressed. Case after case of elderly or terminally ill people being approved for accelerated benefits. \ The most innovative part of the Social Security Solvency Act of 2032 was the establishment of the option for accelerated benefits. The idea of paying pensioners every month until they expire had proved too costly so there must be a better solution. Everyone, the authors reasoned, has some intrinsic value to society. That value can be expressed in monetary terms. At any point in life, or so the accountants argued, you can determine how much value you have left to contribute to society. Not only does every life have a value, society also incurs a cost for supporting that individual. This can also be reduced to a monetary value. There naturally comes a point when the cost of sustaining a citizen exceeds the value of their contribution. If one were to compare it to a mortgage, that citizen would be upside down in their value to society. When this occurs it obviously makes good fiscal sense, or so the politicians concluded, to consider liquidation. Unfortunately they were unable to just arbitrarily order such things with pesky things like civil rights in the way. There was however just too much money to ignore. One suggestion had been to exercise the concept of eminent domain on the lives of burdensome people. This was a little to far but once again money was the answer. People needed an incentive to liquidate. An annuity as it were. The regulators developed a complex algorithm that determines what percentage of an individual’s remaining social benefit they will be offered, plus a reasonable uplift, that they would receive immediately. These funds could be used anyway they like. Settling debt (a mandatory prerequisite) A child’s education. Philanthropy (highly encouraged). Donated to the state.(Very highly encouraged) After payment the citizen would then be liquidated, saving society untold billions. After two hours reviewing the first four cases, exactly thirty minutes for each, Franklin pushed back his ergonomic desk chair and shuffled toward the elevator for union mandated fifteen-minute break. Standing on the observation deck of the thirty-ninth floor he watched the movement of the tiny insect like people and cars in the streets below. It reminded him of videos of the blood stream and cells moving through the body carrying nutrients to and waste away from all of the important organs. He liked to think of the city as an organism and that was his job. Helping to move the old and dying out of the way of the new and growing. After fifteen minutes exactly he was back at his desk. Franklin waved to the next appointment and for the first time in twelve years something new happened. \ 10:15 End of Assignments 10:30 - 11:00 Counseling Center 2 \ Nothing for the rest of the day. This was exceptionally odd. Every other day, Franklin would spend the afternoon sessions with candidates. That is what he called them. The algorithm did not just evaluate people who had recent diagnoses or reached a certain age. Those were usually processed automatically and informed through the mail or by field offices of their options. The algorithm evaluates every one. All 1.2 billion citizens in the country. It does not simply look at one’s health but also takes into account education, performance, skills, social media profile and personal relationships. To be honest no human is really certain how the value is calculated. That is the thing about self-learning artificial intelligence. It is sort of a black box. The AI sets the value and from that moment forward the amount you can receive ticks down. For the good of society and your loved ones, of course you would want to liquidate as soon as possible. The usual term was thirty days. Enough time to settle affairs, take a final vacation, tell off that rude neighbor that has been putting his garbage can in front of your condo instead of his own. One could always request more or less time but it was the counselor’s job to make sure the length of term was equitable. And by equitable that meant best for society. There were even bonus programs for the counselors who met targets for minimal accumulated term during a review period. Franklin had never received one. Troubled by what this could mean Franklin shifted in his chair. Perhaps there was a meeting and procedures were changing. It could be a new head of the department. That must be it. The director had changed every four years and he had only known about it through email. Franklin had never seen them before but that must be it. He felt odd too. A tightness in his chest. Sweat beading up on his forehead. Still he sat. Five minute walk to the counseling center. Five minutes before I should leave. What to do? He spun in his chair to ask the man in the cube across from him, forgetting that this desk had been empty since the sign incident. What was his name? Franklin had never even known. He just learned about the dismissal from an inter office memo and paid no attention to it. Come to think of it there weren’t any other occupied cubes on Murder’s row. One by one they stopped showing up but Franklin had never taken notice before. They must be letting me go he concluded. He’d experienced this before. Knew what it looked like. Questions flooded his otherwise unencumbered consciousness. Should I take my coat? No I’ll come back for it. Will they let me? How can they do this? Will there be a severance? Surely the union will have a say. Franklin looked around for someone to ask, but realized he didn’t know anyone of the dozen or so people he saw scattered in the mostly empty cube farm. He took a breathe and resigned himself to keep his composure. His dignity. Yes that was important for a man.  His hands trembled as he pushed the elevator call button. He stepped in and the system again recognized his sig, checked his calendar and chimed “Destination 2nd Floor.” In the enclosed space he found it even harder to breathe. His chest felt like a huge weight was on top of it.  Surely this is just anxiety and nothing more. Should I go to a doctor he thought? No. Maintain my dignity. Take the news like a man. Make a plan. Move on. That is what you do.  Franklin stepped off the elevator, turned right and through the frosted glass double doors of Counseling Center 2. He had never been in here. His sessions had always been in Center 1. A left turn off the elevator. So many new things.  There was no one at the reception desk. There never is anymore. Just a screen that read “Franklin Moss – Room C “and an arrow pointing to the left. He walked down the stark white hall to the third door on the left. Another screen inviting Fanklin Moss inside.  A white plastic chair sat in front of a simple conference table. At the other end of the table was a large plush office chair. It is the kind of “executive” chair Franklin had in his office all those years ago when he had been an insurance adjuster. In the chair “sat” a hologram of a blonde woman in a blue suit. Another person would have found the image attractive but Franklin had stopped noticing those things a long time ago.  “Mr. Moss, thank you for joining me. Please sit down”  “I don’t understand what is going on. Am I in some sort of trouble?”  “Not at all, Mr. Moss. Please sit down and we will review your case”  He recognized the script and fear seized him. He felt the sweat now pouring down his neck and pulled unconsciously at his collar. He steadied himself and tried to take deep breath. His chest felt like someone was slowly squeezing it in a vice. He felt cold.  The holographic counselor seemed unaffected by his state as he squirmed in the hard plastic chair.  “Mr. Moss, I am required to inform you that this conversation is being recorded for quality assurance as well as compliance purposes. The Social Revenue Service has determined that your residual social value will shortly cross the threshold for solvency. Were you to receive medical attention for the coronary event the system has predicted you will experience at 10:38AM, society would incur a cost of $852,138.98. As your position is being eliminated, to be replaced by interactive counseling systems such as myself, your remaining social value if you were to find other employment would be $128,175 for a period of one year when a second coronary event would occur with 78% certainty resulting in a further burden on society totaling $1,327,886.42.“  A lightning bolt of pain shot down Frankin’s arm. He clinched his teeth and struggled to inhale. Barely aware of the sound from the counselor across the room.  She continued, “In an effort to optimize the benefit to society, the system elected to allow you to continue your role as “ a brief pause and the voice changed to a male tenor that said “Case Analyst” – returning to the female voice – “ until this time. It is now my privilege to offer you this annuity of $17.38 as incentive for voluntary liquidation for the good of society. I realize you may have many questions and I am here to assist you in any way. Mr. Moss, do you have any thing to ask?”  Franklin’s eyes and teeth clenched, his right armed gripped his left shoulder digging into the skin but he never felt it. Then a release as Franklin’s body relaxed, slumped over the arm of the chair and the last air in his lungs escaped.  “Mr. Moss. You may ask me anything at all.”  The minutes ticked by. The long lashes of the hologram blinking every 7 seconds.  At 10:58 she spoke again. " Thank you Mr. Moss for your contribution to the solvency of the Social Revenue Safety Net. The funds from your annuity will be delivered to your beneficiary of record."  The hologram winked out of existence. A door in the back of the room slid open and two orderly bots rolled in, collected Franklin and carried him to yet another new place.  At 11:00am in room B, the hallway door opened and a lovely blonde hologram in a blue suit said “Ms. Anderson, thank you for joining me.


At first, I hated them. Including him. They moved in, their stuff piled in boxes, dust floating and swirling in the light that streamed through the living room windows. The father was tall, his body bulky, his stomach protruding out, with a layer of fat built on top of muscle. He had a square face, with thick brows, and a monster of a mustache growing over his thin lips. The mother was small, yet her personality made her seem tall. A subtle, yet powerful “Here.” would make either of the men put down whatever they were carrying in the spot where she indicated with her painted fingernails. Her noticeable curves swayed perfectly with her high heeled feet. Her short, curly blonde hair brought out her eyes that seemed to have photographed an unearthly ocean. The son was something of a sight. He stood at a height between the two parents, yet he was almost the height of his father. Clearly a young man, the boy was most likely done with his height. His round cheeks were accented by a strong bearded jaw. Freckles scattered across his face like the stars in a white galaxy. His blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, as in his beard seemed to be aflame with strawberry red. His eyes glowed with blue as flecks of brown seemed to circle his pupil. He had a thick neck, and a square body. He too had a similar build as his father, yet the soft, beautiful features of his mother. With a pat on the back from his father, the three started to unpack their lives in the shell of the house that I used to call home. It was worrisome, to see such beautiful people take up the space that I took up. The parents took up the master bedroom on the first floor, near the kitchen and the dining room. The son took up on the second floor, on the opposite side of the house, accompanied by the living room. Each floor had its own bathroom, along with the master bathroom that was connected to the parents bedroom. It was something of a sight, to see two people make love. The father, Steven, always started with slightly bringing down one of the mother's, Kara's, straps from her nightgown. She would always giggle, as he would slip down the other and let the pretty pink silk fall swiftly to the wooden floor of their bedroom. It was always romantic and full of pure lust. His deep earthly growls seemed to ground her heavenly moans as they paced to the rhythms of their breathing. My father was never in the picture, my mother always alone in the bed herself. Why would no man ever want to make love to a woman such as she? I wished someone would've held her the way this man did his wife. I wished it everyday to be able to have a father in the life of my mother and I. The boy sat alone, and quietly did his own things in his own part of the house. Aside from college schoolwork or football practices, he would just sit and listen to the most beautiful music. Granted, I hated the music. It was something he enjoyed, therefore I had to hate it. Sad melodies cried out along the electrical beat of synthesizers as he lie in his bed, sometimes tears slowly falling from his lakeside eyes. Overtime, his tears began to mean something to me. As one began to glisten down his face, I had the sensation to cry myself. I'd never had that before. There was a girl once. She visited for dinner, spaghetti with breadsticks (Italian night), and swiftly left the table with the boy to go up to his room. After small talk, they began to kiss. As it prolonged, they started to become restless. The boy, Kendall, started to run his hands through her hair and she began to unbuckle his pants. My heart began to… My heart… His computer seemed to light up with light as the sensation of crying pulsed through me, his sad songs blaring through the speakers. The two pulled away, and with one glance, the girl had a confused look on her face as she looked at the bearded young man. “I-I think I should go…” she said as she jumped up, and grabbed her bag. Kendall… he sat there, and stared at his computer. Tears were started to dry on his cheeks as he took in a deep breath. “T-thank you, God.” He whispered through shakey breaths. I could feel it, the heart that he had hidden underneath the flesh and blood that surrounded his soul. It seemed to beat frantically, but not in the way of love, but out of regret and misery. Naked pictures of men flew through the reflection of Kendall's mind as he let his eyes flutter shut. That night I sat in his thoughts, and experienced everything he lusted for. As he kissed me, I felt his hands glide over my skin. Up over my torso, down my back, and then… With a simple push, I felt pure bliss. He growled softly as I let out a gasp of pleasuring pain. As we made love to the rhythm of his heartbeat, it felt like blood seemed to rush through my veins. My heartbeat picked up its dead weight, and began to race along his. I opened my eyes, and looked straight into his. Our world seemed to slow down, our pleasure euphoric; our utopia indestructible. I knew he'd see the physical body of a young man exactly his age, his light skin covered in patches of dark hair. Slightly shorter and smaller in body size, I still had a decent amount of weight. Our bodies were nothing close to perfect, yet it was something that felt perfect to me. My green eyes seemed to glow in his, and my black hair seemed a shaggy mess. I knew that in his eyes, I was beautiful. That's all that mattered to me. Weeks turned into months, and months soon became a year. It was something we held special to each other, those nights in his dreams. Imagine, the dead in love with the living. A year became two years, and then to four. Slowly he made his way out of our house, and it was something that I grew to hate and admire. He was someone I loved, yet life compelled him to move forward. I never wanted him to stay longer than he had to, or even worse, stay as long as forever with me. The idea was full of toxic longing, yet seeing him move on was something more beautiful than anything I had ever witnessed. I loved him. For who he was, and will continue to still love him, for who he will be.


He had worn out his welcome and made a mess in the living room, so my Christmas house guest had to go. This happens every year. My partner has a roving eye--I don’t mind who she brings home--we’re open like that. It was mid-December when I came home from work and there he was, standing in the living room. It seems that every December without fail she hooks up with some long-limbed six-footer, and next thing you know he makes himself the center of attention. Oh well, whatever makes her happy, right? Every year I beg her not to bring ‘em home and for once maybe keep things simple, but no. She has some sort of need that only this sort can fulfill. I’m not really into these woodsy types but I have to admit he was good looking. He had a particular scent, hard to describe, like the outdoors. Plus he put her in a better mood. I have to admit he did look pretty festive all dressed up in holiday colors. But by New Year’s day I had enough, he was now dropping shit left and right on the carpet. I asked her to get rid of him, but she didn’t want to, she called me a spoil-sport killing the party too soon. So it was up to me to take him out. She went out shopping and left me alone with him: this was my chance. I had thought ahead--an idea I got from Dexter--and put a plastic sheet down first. He never saw it coming. The plastic sheet worked great, so much less mess on the carpet than the previous ones and I was able to wrap him up in it. After the deed was done, I called up my buddy Mike to help me haul him outside. Mike is the kind of friend who would help you bury a body, so this was no big deal to him. We slid the bag down the steps and into the back yard. "Thanks buddy, I owe you one," I said. “You need any more help with this?” he asked, but I said no. “Why don’t you fire up the chipper-shredder, it’ll take no time,” he said. “Nah, too much noise,” I said “I can just bag him and be done with it”. Once behind the house I got to work. I unwrapped him from the plastic and opened up a disposal sack. I looked around but nobody was outside, yet I needed to work quickly and quietly just in case. I started by cutting off the smaller parts. This was harder than I thought, my cutters must need sharpening. After a few minutes I was left with some of the larger pieces. I used a saw to cut those down to size. I considered just putting him the back of my truck and dumping him somewhere, but too much risk of getting caught, it seems like even dumpsters have security cams these days. And so under cover of darkness I filled up the two brown sacks containing our Christmas guest, his name was Douglas something. Douglas Fir. At first I thought he was joking, what sick parents would name someone after a type of Christmas tree? But despite being soaked in blood, the name on his drivers license was still visble: Douglas James Fir. Later today I may need to haul these bags off, already they are starting to smell.


In 2016, America elected a President so exceedingly fond of walls that he spent all his money designing one. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or even riding in his golf cart, except to show off his new wall designs. He had a wall plan for every mile of the border, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, "The President’s meeting with his Cabinet," here they always said. "The President is looking at his border wall plans." In the great city where he lived, Washington DC, life was always gay. Every day, many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two politicians, Nancy and Chuck. They let it be known they were wall designers, and they said they could build the most magnificent wall imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but walls made of this material had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid. "That would be just the wall design for me," thought the President. "If I built it, I would be able to discover which men in my Republic are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the wall built for me right away." He paid the two politicians a large sum of money to end the shutdown and start work at once. They set up two factories and pretended to manufacture the materials needed for the wall, though there was nothing in the factories. All the finest bricks and the purest mortar which they demanded went into renovating the Capitol and other federal projects, while they worked the empty factories far into the night. "I'd like to know how those politicians are getting on with the wall," the President thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the wall. It couldn't have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he'd rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole country knew about the wall's peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were. "I'll send my honest old Vice President, Mike, to the designers," the President decided. "He'll be the best one to tell me how the wall looks; for he's a sensible man and no one does his duty better." So the honest old VP went to the room where the two politicians sat working away in their empty factory. "Heaven help me," he thought as his eyes flew wide open, "I can't see anything at all". But he did not say so. Both the politicians begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty brick ovens and mortar mixers, and the poor old Vice President stared as hard as he dared. He couldn't see anything, because there was nothing to see. "Heaven have mercy," he thought. "Can it be that I'm a fool? I'd have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the Vice President? It would never do to let on that I can't see the wall." "Don't hesitate to tell us what you think of it," said one of the politicians. "Oh, it's beautiful -it's enchanting." The old VP peered through his spectacles. "Such a design, what colors!" I'll be sure to tell the President how delighted I am with it." "We're pleased to hear that," the politicians said. They proceeded to name all the brick colors and to explain the intricate design. The old Vice President paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the President. And so he did. The politicians at once asked for more money, more bricks and mortar mix, to get on with the wall construction. But it all went into other federal projects. Not a grain of sand went into the bricks or mortar, though they worked at their wall construction as hard as ever. The President presently sent another trustworthy official, Sen. Graham, to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the Vice President. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the factories he couldn't see anything. "Isn't it a beautiful wall?" the politicians asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary design. "I know I'm not stupid," Sen. Graham thought, "so it must be that I'm unworthy of my good office. That's strange. I mustn't let anyone find it out, though." So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful brick colors and the exquisite design. To the President he said, "It held me spellbound." The entire city was talking of this splendid wall, and the President wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the factory. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials - the ones who had been to the factory - he set out to see the two politicians. He found them working with might and main, but without a brick in sight. "Magnificent," said the two officials already duped. "Just look, Mr. President, what colors! What a design!" They pointed to the empty factory, each supposing that the others could see the stuff. "What's this?" thought the President. "I can't see anything. This is terrible! Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the President? What a thing to happen to me of all people! - Oh! It's very pretty," he said. "It has my highest approval." And he nodded approbation at the empty factory floor. Nothing could make him say that he couldn't see a wall. His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the President in exclaiming, "Oh! It's very pretty," and they advised him to have a grand opening ceremony for a section of the wall at the Mexican border. "Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!" were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The President gave each of the politicians a button, with the title, "Grand Wall Designer." Before the ceremony, the politicians sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the President's new wall. They pretended to measure the bricks and finish the mortar. They made cuts in the air with huge trowels. And at last they said, "Now the President's new wall is ready for him." Then the President himself came with his Cabinet to El Paso, and the politicians each raised an arm as if they were pointing to something. They said, "These are the bricks, here's the mortar, and this is the mantle," naming each part of the wall. "All of the components are manufactured of the lightest materials, but with maximum strength. One would almost think it wasn’t a wall, but that's what makes it so fine." "Exactly," all the Cabinet agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see, except a big sign that said, “Trump’s Magnificent Wall”. Chuck and Nancy threw a huge curtain over the sign and the section of the ‘wall’ to be opened. "If the President will condescend to pull the curtain and reveal the wall," said the politicians, "all the attendees of your Trump Rally will see what a magnificent wall we have constructed." The President pulled the curtain and the politicians pretended to show him the wall. They took him for a tour of the wall, pointing out the features. "How well the President’s wall looks. Isn’t it becoming?!" He heard on all sides, "That design, so perfect! Those brick colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent wall." Then the Press Secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, announced: "The President’s rally attendees are waiting to see the wall." "Well, I'm supposed to be ready," the President said, and turned again for one last look at the wall. "It is a remarkable wall, isn't it?" He seemed to regard his wall with the greatest interest. The Cabinet members who were in attendance stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up some bricks. Then they pretended to lift and hold them high. They didn't dare admit they had nothing to hold. So off went the President to his rally. Everyone in the crowd declared, "Oh, how fine is the President’s new wall! Doesn’t it fit the border to perfection? And see how long it is!" Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No wall the President had displayed before was ever such a complete success. "But there isn’t a wall!" John Kelly said. "Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said VP Mike. But the crowd all began to whisper to one another, "There isn’t a wall. John Kelly says there isn’t a wall." "But there isn’t a wall!" the whole city cried out at last. The President shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This rally has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his Cabinet held high the bricks that weren’t there at all. So, from the utterance of John Kelly, the country came to realize that there was, in fact, no such thing as Trump’s Magnificent Wall. But that is how Chuck and Nancy brought the shutdown to an end. Trump had his ‘wall’ and the federal government got its funding and all lived happily ever after…well, until the next shutdown.


Love and fate, those two intercoursing powers that shape whole lives and destinies, must have been at work when they met. Julian, with his eyes as piercing as a falcon’s, and Judy, as genteel as a flower. They had both been invited to one of those societal parties in which members of the arts are wants to gather and mingle with bourgeois, and vise versa, to give themselves more notoriety, or to distract themselves from their own mediocrity. How was it that it happened? A passing glance? A nervous greeting? Or a chance encounter as the passed by? How mysterious it is for two souls, thrown into the world as it were, to come together, out of all other people. Regardless, after that night, the two of them were inseparable, scarcely being apart from each other for more than an hour in the day. So attached were they that they were seen as a single entity, with arms wrapped around each other’s waists and shoulders, walking in unison. Julian was the taller, and Judy would look up at him, wide-eyed as a doe, smiling. This smile of hers would be enough to send him into all manners of boasts and bravery and he would puff out his chest like a strutting rooster. And this gave Judy the happiness that is singular to a woman, of having a man such as him all to herself. Their nights were spent in a passion, in which their love manifested itself into sculpted physicality. For whole months they lived a lifetime of happiness. Marriage had been discussed and a date set, and in April they were married. This did not encumber their love. On the contrary, their marriage had only tempered their love and made it stronger. They developed almost a new language, one that only they could know and would refer to one another, not by names, but by monikers of love. But after a month of matrimony and lawful passion, a change came over Judy. At first she didn’t know what it was herself, or why it was taking place within her. She grew quieter, and her eyes became sadder. Julian noticed this, and would ask, “What is it, my little love droplet, that has you so crestfallen?” But Judy could only respond, “I do not know, my proud rooster. A gloom has fallen over me.” Judy became less affectionate, more contemplative and melancholic. This both concerned and annoyed Julian. “Come now, darling, you must stop this. Whatever it is I must do, you know I will.” She was hesitant, almost frightened at what she should say. At last she spoke. “Well, perhaps things have become a little too expected. That’s not to say dull, but maybe just a tad humdrum.” “Well, my dear,” Julian said assuringly, “how shall I un-humdrum it then?” “I would like—that is, if you were to agree—to have a picnic in the country.” Julian, taken in by her feminine whims, thought the ideal marvelous, and the next day set about making preparations. He ordered a carriage, a fine carriage, to drive them out of the city and into the surrounding countryside, and had a restaurant prepare for them a nice basket of sandwiches, cakes, and wine. The day was sunny and warm, with a cool breeze. Tufts of white clouds floated gently in the blue sky above. The country was lush with greenery and birds could be heard singing merrily in the trees. The driver of the carriage was up front, controlling the two horses, while Julian and Judy were nestled in a blanket in the back, admiring the scenic view. “Look! A fox,” Judy called out and pointed. There were two foxes, playfully running and chasing each other, pouncing and jumping around. “Where would you like to stop, sir?” asked the driver. “A little ways more,” Julian replied. As they went along they came to a lake where a man and a boy were fishing on a boat. This picturesque sight charmed Judy, but Julian thought it inconvenient that someone else should be so close to them and ordered the driver to keep going. Then a splash was heard, followed by a cry. “Papa! Someone, help!” All three in the carriage, their attention grabbed so, saw that the man had fallen out of the boat and was flailing about in the water. Judy became terrified. “Julian, you must help him!” But Julian only blinked at her. “There is already enough trouble without my being involved.” Judy was appalled by this cowardice. The drive had already dismounted the carriage and was running over to the drowning man’s aid. He jumped into the lake and swam to him. He helped the man out of the water and back into the boat, where he and his son thanked him. “Now, you see? It was all a to do about nothing,” said Julian. The driver, wet from head to toe, walked back to the carriage. Judy offered him their blanket, much to the protests of Julian, who insisted they continue their drive immediately. “No, I don’t think I want to now. I would rather go home,” Judy said. “Are you mad?” Julian nearly shouted. “I have paid good money for this. It was, after all, your ideal!” But Judy was unyielding. Julian ordered the driver to take them back, foregoing the picnic. They didn’t speak a word more to one another the entire time.


It’s been over a year since this blob of fat and mass I’m forced to refer to as emperor abducted me from my home planet as a slave. Though at this point I’m more of a secretary. For over a year I’ve had to follow this manchild around, reminding him that, no, he can’t eat the natural wildlife, he’ll be late for his meeting and his entire planet will be blown up. Atleast this time it’s somewhere nice-ish. A couple weeks ago he and a large amount of kings, emperors and rulers of this sector were called to a secluded moon on the edge of this galaxy for a “business meeting of sorts”. This could obviously be a trap, but the sheer stupidity of such a request baffled even the wisest amongst these tyrants to a point where they couldn’t help but go anyway, like a personal test of strength We were met by a personal army strategically placed around a large mansion, though it was apparently empty on the inside. It didn’t take long before the place started to fill up with guests, at this point nobody knew who the owner was. The room started filling with annoyed complaints and the usual guttural noises of the different languages. One last person entered before the doors and windows shut. Then a large hologram appeared floating over everyone’s heads close to the ceiling, displaying black silhouettes that kept changing between the various species present “Greetings ! It spoke, changing voice with every new silhouette “Welcome to my humble manor, I apologize for the wait, way too many buttons on this thing.” The room was silent at the poor attempt at a joke. “Ahem, I’ve gathered you all here, tyrants, emperors, slavers and the like for a celebration of a single thing we all have in common..” A brief pause for dramatic effect “Strength, might, power !” The mood on the room was noticeably lifted, no surprise that these people loved to be complimented on their greatness “Now, we can all agree that whoever has it will always win, and to that I propose an alliance. Think about it, surely with all of these..” It seemed to not find a good word “Great..Minds ? Yeah, that. With all these *great minds* put together the cosmos will be ours to rule !” I had seen this at least two times in the past year. The first one to suggest such a thing was shot on the spot, the second got a bit farther, but the alliance was broken because of greed and lust of power. This was basically a waste of time. “I am liking these responses so far, as would be expected.” There was a sound as whoever spoke shifted on his chair “You all have so much in common, after all.” Unbeknownst to everyone there who were paying attention, the lighting on the room was getting darker and darker as great sheets of metal started enveloping the walls. “You are all hated people with an *incredible* amount of money on their heads.” These words awakened them to their surroundings. Panic ensued within the closed off manor, the men and armies outside must have been busy judging by the lack of efforts. The hologram finally settled on a single race, one from a terribly named planet. They were very close to the others in their planet, but something in their genes granted them the ability to think, to surpass the other species even though weak and lacking any notable physical capabilities. Their planet was never voted on being granted contact to other species like everyone else. They simply left their planet one day and are now among us. Nobody liked then, basically. One of the people there pulled out a gun, firing into the hologram, which fizzled for a bit before returning to its original state. As it did so, it revealed the face, or rather mask, of K’cid, considered the most dangerous bounty hunter to ever live. “Not even a moment for hesitation, huh ?” He seemed to be amused by this “Let’s see which button was it..Uhhh..Right, this one.” A boop was heard and soon the plates that covered the room began to separate, giving way to four primitive kinetic energy based weapons that rotated around the room and began to spin with a loud whir. The blasts fired against them simply ricocheted off. “You see, the reason my species has made it this far wasn’t muscle, brains or..Tentacles..Like you bunch have. We learned to exploit the world around us: ganging up on stronger animals, luring them into traps, lying and cheating our way to the top. Now we are here, free from the boundaries imposed by nature.” As he spoke the guns started firing, corpses falling down with every single ear-ringing wave of projectiles. I jumped under a table, pushing someone else who had the same idea out. They were shot immediately. It wasn't long before the human’s monologue was over, and everyone in the room either dead or bleeding to. A door opened as the man walked in, holding a weapon akin to those who mowed down the people moments ago. He walked over to the table, shooting a couple struggling men on his way. He stopped right before the table, his mask falling to the ground as he..Celebrated. The once intimidating person started jumping around amidst the corpses, screaming obscenities of his victory “GET FUCKING DESTROYED YOU WEIRD LOOKING SHITS. READ LIKE A GODDAMN BOOK” Was the only one amongst them that didn’t include some sort of language I still don’t know. As he finished, he once again turned towards the table “Consider yourself lucky, you’re not on the list. There are ships waiting outside.” He simply said as he grabbed his weapon and walked out. I didn’t want to be close to that..Thing. But I also couldn’t spend any more time in this room full of corpses. I decided that if he hadn’t killed me yet there must have been a reason. I followed the man, walking past what once was a lush field, now stained by the blood of the many guest’s blood. Many corpses of the personal army from earlier were still there, their heads seemingly exploded from within their helmets. There were no victors in this war, except the one walking in front of me, happily picking the biggest ship he found and boarding it. He flew off, and that was the last I saw of him. I took one of the ships and went back home to my family. I instantly began working on this, as I must not forget a single detail of my encounter with the biggest threat of this galaxy. I never want to meet a human again.


From before her birth, the world was constant cacophony. The ringing hum of machines permeated the world just beyond her mother’s womb. She felt the vibrations of the outside as they spread through the amniotic fluid and danced along her skin. These sensations were frightening at first, but gradually she came to enjoy the massaging hand of noise, it was only after her birth that she became aware of the constant screaming. Her first days were spent in repose, her ears became deaf to the ever-present tumult. Most of the time she was fastened to the end of her mother’s teet, her siblings wiggled and churned beside her as they gulped the life-giving nectar. Her world was sound, touch and taste. These mutable and expressive senses illumined the flavor and rhythm of the world around her. In perfect darkness she imagined herself to be a wave in flux, undulating in an ocean of black goo, colliding with her sister and brother iotas. A piercing white light prowled along the edges of her eyelids, waiting to flood her retina’s the moment they opened. The darkness gave way to a blinding, endless white. Every immaculate corner of this world was bleached ivory, except for the lowest edge of the walls, which were spattered with shit. It was crowded, everywhere she looked were her fellow siblings, but no one spoke to each other, they cried out, but their babbling was incoherent. Her mother was completely immobile, the rising and falling of her stomach the only evidence that she was alive. She bit the nipple to get her mother’s attention, she tried to cry out, her voice was lost amongst innumerable screams. She wanted to say something to all of them, she had so many questions to ask, but she had no words to ask them, so she kept silent. Most her days were built around eating. Usually, it seemed like one continuous meal. She gained no satisfaction from it, but there was little else to do. Sometimes when she ate, she would begin to cry, it would make her angry. She didn’t understand why she was sad, she wished she could just enjoy her meal, she wished she knew what she wanted. She was most troubled by the shadows. Towering creatures who seemed to melt in and out of the walls at will. Their limbs were long slender tendrils that sprouted from their amorphous bodies at will. Head to toe they were completely white except for the faces which were made of glass and reflected the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulbs into her eyes. She avoided looking at their faces. They seemed a benign presence amongst the herd, they moved about freely and tended to the children. She wanted to know what allowed them to pass into the walls. It seemed to her that the entire complex must be a living organism and that her brothers and sisters were its children. She imagined that they were essential to the walls, converting food into manure on which it fed. This sense of purpose was a salve to her anxiety. After five months a group of shadows materialized amongst the herd. They organized the crowd into two groups, one was locked into their enclosures while the rest were led away. She was amongst the procession, outside the wide open of her room the walls became narrow. There was a commotion as her neighbors fought for space. At the back they were screaming, the shadows grew long fingers that pulsed with electricity. They drove these charged rods into the backs of those who lagged behind, unleashing a cry of pain and the pungent smell of burning flesh. The walls narrowed until they were forced to run single file. She ran as fast as she could, the stampede behind her nipped at her haunches. At the end of the tunnel was a nexus of eight branching pathways, shifting iron bars directed the herd into each of the paths one by one. The bars snapped into position as she approached and delivered her into a pitch black box, her momentum was broken by a floor of thick gel that enveloped her ankles. The experience of silence was as divine as anything she had ever known. Here, where it was dark, where she was alone, she was filled with an intense awareness of her entire body. Her breath, her heartbeat, the feeling of her guts. It was calm, for the first time in her life since she had left the womb. Her earliest memories began flooding into her head, though now they felt like a half-remembered dream. Clamps fastened around her ankles and locked her feet into position, the metal groaned as it was lifted upwards. She was only aware of a faint swaying, she struggled to suppress her urge to squeal, as she did not want to break the silence. The container finished its ascent and stopped with a sudden jolt. Hydraulic pumps pushed the box horizontally until it made contact with a set of rails straddling a concrete box. A large clang reverberated through the chamber as it took hold of the magnetic tracks. Suddenly, the floor underneath her dropped. She swung into a small white box full of shadows headfirst, only the restraints on her legs stopped her from hitting the ground. Her head spun wildly as she squealed. One of the shadows stepped forwards and sliced her throat, turning her screams into gurgles. The blood streamed down her face and into her eyes. She swung like a pendulum, the centripetal force of her path encouraging the blood to flow. Her vision began to dim as her life spilled across the bleached white floor into the drain. She realized finally, the real reason she had been born.


I never thought at twenty-nine I would be alone, with a cat. Living in a big old house like some old spinster lady. My mother always said confidence was the key to survival, looks would only get you so far. I mean I'm not bad looking. I packing a few more pounds than I should be. But that's because food and loneliness seem to go hand in hand. I wouldn't call it fat, more voluptuous. My work at the hospital takes up most of my time. It's the kids, they mean the world to me. My mother always wanted me to be a doctor. I always felt it would have been too much pressure, too much responsibility. That's why I decided to become a paediatric nurse. The kids aren't just sick kids, but they're my friends. I don't know maybe it's that maternal instinct in me. It Makes my job so much harder when we lose one of the kids. Other nurses tell me not to get emotionally attached, but those kids need me. I'm the light in the darkest days of their lives. My mother was a very confident woman, beautiful, with flowing blond hair and emerald green eyes. It always drove my father mad when other guys would pay her attention. It would send him into jealous rages, but my mother being my mother could handle his temper. My mother always said I had her looks, but not her brawn. She was right, my crippling shyness is another problem. Men either think I'm weird and walk away from me after they try and approach me. Then there are the guys that just want to take advantage of me. Which unfortunately has happened more times than I like to remember. People seem to think if you're quiet they can say or do whatever they want to you. What people don't realise is that still waters run very deep. Now I'm not saying there is no interest there. There is this one guy Mark but I'm not sure about him, yet. He is very handsome and he did make me chuckle the first time he introduced himself to me. The thing is there was a stage where I thought he was following me. I would conveniently find him places I normally wouldn't be. When he finally came up to me he gave me some half-cocked reason for bumping into me. He did seem genuine and he adamantly apologised for coming off as creepy. I will be honest it's hard for a lot of men to get a chuckle out of me, especially a stranger. He texted me this morning asking for a date. But I haven't the courage to reply back. For one, I hate going out. I can feel very out of my comfort zone and that would be enough to spoil the night and come across weird. Passing a dress shop on the way home from work. I notice this new dress in the window. It was gorgeous. A beautiful pink dress with lace trim. I would look sexy in that. If only I had a reason to wear it and I did. All I had to do was text him. I decide to buy the dress, my finger hovers over the send button as I summon the courage to invite him to my house for dinner. As I peer at my reflection in the mirror. I was amazed at how glamorous I looked. It doesn't seem like me, but to hell with it. I can see my mothers disapproving eyes glaring back at me. Sitting on the couch my heart begins racing. I stare at the clock. He's late, over a half hour late. I must have freaked him out. As the minutes slowly ticked by I hear the knock on the door. I try and compose myself as I open the door. He standing on my porch with half his shirt tucked in, hair a mess and mud on his pants. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a rucksack in the other. He smiles at me “I'm so sorry I'm late, please forgive me. Had a problem in work and I literally got dressed in the car on the way over. I chuckle in pure amusement at the thought of him getting dressed in his car. He hands me the bottle of wine. “The rucksack has my tools in it. You don't mind if I leave them here with me.” I smile and shake my head and gesture to him to come in. About a half hour into the meal the conversion wasn't flowing he tried his best. I knew the awkwardness was going to mess it up for me. He eats his last bit of desert “I don't mean to be rude but can I please use your bathroom. I get up from my chair “it's upstairs last door on the left. As he was upstairs, I couldn't help but wonder what was in his bag and why he couldn't leave it in the car. I listen by the door as I look through the bag. In it were a hammer, duct tape and a Stanley blade. Strange I thought a carpenter would have more tools than that. As I'm holding the bag in my hand. I hear him walking around one of the bedrooms. I leave the bag on the ground with just the duct tape and the knife left in it. I slowly make my way up the stairs to the landing. He steps out from one of the empty bedrooms and arrogantly dusts off his hands. “This is one beautiful house you got here.” I look at him and smile “is that so! well, let me show you around then.” I walk him down to the last door on the right. I swing open the door “this is my mother's bedroom.” He steps into the bedroom and recoils back in horror. As he does I hit him in the head twice with the hammer before he drops. As his body jerks and spasms and he gurgles some incoherent babble, I couldn't help but notice his shoes were untied “How rude.” I hit him again in the back of the head, I didn't want to kill him, tonight is a special night. I drag him down the hall to one of the rooms I had turned into a makeshift surgery. The benefits of working at the hospital. Also through the years, you learn a lot about the anatomy of the body from working with the doctors. I strap him down to the table. Doctors weren't my only source of ingenious ways to torture and cripple people, films are a treasure trove of ideas on how to hurt and maim people. I love the act of hobbling very effective way to immobilise the person. But it's only truly effective if you break the humerus bone in the arms as well. There's not much they can do after that. Before I would just simply sever the spinal cord. It was funny to look at when they're conscious. But there body's are really troublesome when trying to move them. As I clean down his body with alcohol. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. “Won't be long now my love.” When you don't know what you are doing lobotomies can be very messy. Which I had to learn the hard way. I remember reading about a serial killer who would inject acid into the brains of his victims. For him, it wasn't effective since they would die shortly after. I find the perfect amount of diluted Sulfuric acid injected into the prefrontal lobe through the eye, is enough to make them utterly and completely submissive. I dress him in one of my father's suits and prop him up in a wheelchair I got from the hospital. I wheel him down to the last room on the right. I step into the room and wheel him over to the bed. I look down on the wrinkly dried skeletal remains of my dead mother. “What do you think mommy, he is so handsome ain't he.” I wipe the drool dripping down off his chin “what's that mommy, no I'm not a dumb bitch and he won't leave me like the rest of them.” As I wheel the body of my last victim out of the room I turn to my mother “I think this one could be the one.