NORTHBOUND By Jer Long/mrmarch1@live.com “Hey!” I bellowed. The exasperated man on the step behind shoved me aside as he shot off the escalator, jolting me. My nose inches from the polished granite floor of 30 th Street Station, someone grabbed my arm and set me right on my feet. “Are you okay?” The tall god with scintillating silver eyes adjusted my disheveled coat. “You sat across from me.” “Come,” he said and guided me away from the crowd of petulant pedestrians. From nearly every track, a steady flow of frustrated travelers filed into the taxi queues of the station.  “Seems ours wasn’t the only snowbound train on the tracks.” “Rushing to stand still, after hours on Amtrack, seems a futile act in the wee hours of the morning.” His smile was wide and his shoulders broad and I, a hair shorter than the epaulets on his tweed jacket, felt small and insignificant standing before such handsomeness. “Where are you headed?” Sincerity emanated from him as naturally as heat from a flame. “Old City,” I said, noting the snow drifts grazing the tops of the taxis on the opposite side of the glass entrance. “Suppose I’ll hoof it from here. Doesn’t seem that far on the map.” The stranger leaned against the base of the towering war memorial, Angel of the Resurrection, that I surmised to be at least thirty feet high. Gesturing to the magnificent, terrifying bronzed angel lifting a dead soldier from the flames of war, he announced proudly. “My namesake.” “Michael?” “I suppose Mother was praying for an angel.” “I’m Danial.” I offered my hand and he pumped it in his enormous paw. “You’re an angel too.” “I am?” “God is my judge.” “What?” “That’s what Danial means.” Heavy on my shoulder, I sat my bag on the floor. “I knew we were in for the long haul when they harnessed the snowplow to the engine in Baltimore.” “To think that I raced to station, fearing you’d leave without me.” He patted the pedestal reverently. “Never fails to move me. Passed by it a million times since I was a boy. Still.” Sensitive. I’d misjudged him, written him off as an entitled playboy. “You grew up here?” “Philly born and bred. I could walk this city blindfolded.” He tapped on the statue’s base. “As a matter of fact, my dad’s name is here.” I stepped closer to read the plaque. “In the memory of the men and women of the Pennsylvania Railroad who laid down their lives for our country 1941-1945.” “He was killed in Iwo Jima.” “I’m sorry.” “Fifty years ago, this year.” He ran his hand through his silver-white mane of waves. “He hadn’t the foggiest idea I was on my way.” “Two strangers passing in the night.” “That’s how I’ve imagined it!” He slung my bag over his shoulder as if we were traveling companions. “Ready to face the music?” Usually independent, I surprised myself and promptly accepted his generosity. “Can you point the way to Old City?” Tucking my scarf into the throat of my coat, he arched his brow. “It may be only inches on a map, but in this blizzard, you’ll be Frosty, the snowman, by the time you cross Independence Park.” Our height and build varying greatly in the reflection in the glass door, we appeared to be two separate species. He tugged on my sleeve. “Hold on.” Gesturing for me to follow, he scurried to a bank of telephones in the adjoining hall. “I’ll try the Latham Hotel. I know the manager. It’s a few blocks from here.”

Why help me? Bored? Lonely? Attracted? Dream on Danial. Not in this lifetime. “Answering machine. Accepting no quests. Kitchen closed.” He shook his head. “Sorry.” “You tried.” Lopsided, his grin was charmingly bashful. “I’m your best last chance.” “Best but never last.” “If you don’t mind sleeping under a My Little Pony comforter, my daughter’s room is free for the night. She’s visiting her granny in Boston.” A married man . There it was, hanging like a bruised banana from Carmen Miranda’s Tootie-Fruity-Hat. I should’ve known better. No way he was gay. A queen that good looking would be one stuck-up-bitch.  “Are you sure?” “A raging Nor-Easterner barreling down on a city buried under three feet of snow with another foot expected by tomorrow,” he scoffed. “I can’t send you to purgatory alone.” His stride was great, and I scampered behind to keep up. A titanic gust of wind barreled down the colonnade as we bounded through the automatic doors, flattening me against the stone wall. Securing his cap’s strap under his chin, and with fatherly assurance, he clasped my mittened hand and stomped a path through the waist-high snow to Walnut Street Bridge. Skating over the slick surface of the frozen Schuylkill River, a dragon blast of cold slapped my chapped cheeks. Tugging on the flapping hems of our garments, a monster gale, his laugh shrill, snatched the stocking cap off my head. “Oh!” My ginger curls snapped at the remorseless beast. Although swathed in layers of cashmere and houndstooth, I felt nude as the cold feasted on my flesh.  Diminishing visibility made it impossible to see but a few feet ahead. So, I surrendered, body and soul, to my native guide, trusting him to deliver me the spoils of salvation. Swept along the wilderness of white, trapped in a whirling dervish of swirling snow, howling, haunting, and spitting shards of glistening ice in my face, we trudged block after block against the spirited tide until the blizzard flung us into Rittenhouse Square Park. Continuing its campaign, the winter warlock, growling, spun down Walnut Street, stripping doors and streetlamps of their holiday grandeur.

Standing side by side in the conciliatory calm, Michael and I gazed above us, mesmerized by the winnings of winter’s wonder. Reaching several stories to the starless, cerulean heaven, the interlocking branches of the trees, their tip-tops coifed in ivory accumulation, held a bounty of beauty in their bare, black arms. Gigantic, geometric shapes, wrapped in radiant jewel-toned lights, were scattered about the park like a child’s discarded toys. Sapphire, topaz, ruby, and emerald, their glow reflected in the iced palace we’d stumbled upon. “Enchanted,” I whispered reverently. Michael dropped my hand and walked away. The chill penetrated my glove and I shivered. A yard from me, he seemed miles from my touch. My touch . The kindness of a stranger must never be misconstrued. Never . Plain people such as I, often confused reality and fantasy. No filling in the blanks Danial DuBarry. Unimpeded by the cold, he sat on the snow pillowed bench. “Being snowbound was a favorite of mine as a boy. My speck of earth silent, swaddled in purity. My virgin land breathing a sigh of relief from the tribes of tourists trampling its history daily.” He gestured to the abandoned expanse before him. “Mine.” I wanted to ask his daughters age and if his wife had been his college sweetheart, but questions seemed totally inappropriate. So, I joined him on the bench and wallowed in the majesty of Philadelphia. “Look!” I jumped to my feet. There, planted in the center of the block, my future home stood before us, its lobby door missing its doorman. “My building. I move next week. Too bad I don’t have the keys. I could crash there.” Standing, Michael mussed my hair. “Home. Let’s get you home.” Flittering feathers of snow drifted from the sky as we tramped down the snow-blanketed Locust Street. A flicker of light caught my eye and we paused to peer into the window of the Curtis Institute of music. Its amber ambiance beckoned more than a second glance at the shimmering instruments waiting for their master’s touch. Past the Warwick Hotel we trudged, stopping to admire St. Mark’s Church, shrouded in a thick white cape, its train trailed over the iron fence, becoming one with the street. The tops of bowed evergreens, their hairy branches iced to the stone wall of the church, formed a crystal-capped tunnel through which we passed. Michael unlocked the door of an imposing brownstone, rising four stories from the frozen earth.  His keys jangling, he ushered me over the threshold. “In brighter days, the entire house was ours.” Transfixed on the domed center hall’s muraled ceiling, festive with frolicking cherubs, I climbed the staircase behind him. “I retain a modest condo on the top floor.” I gasped when we entered his circus of classical antiquities. We removed our boots, and he hung our coats on carved gargoyle hooks in the vestibule. “Relax. Make yourself at home.” Striking a match, he lit the crumpled wads of paper stuffed between the symmetrically stacked logs in the fireplace. The stone surround featured Elgin-styled friezes and was topped with a rough-cut slab of marble that showcased a collection of unframed oil paintings. “A glass of white?” He asked. “Please.” In his form-hugging jeans and cream fisherman’s sweater, he padded across the beaten oak floor in his nubby socks, his pale mop of hair in sharp contrast to his tawny tan. Long limbed and trim waisted, at fifty, he was far fitter than the thirty-two-year-old me. Sinking into the luxurious down of the tufted Chesterfield sofa, I gloried in the glow of the smoldering blue flame gorging on the maple kindling.  A treasure trove of eighteenth and nineteenth century chairs, upholstered in sumptuous cobalt, jade, and crimson silks surrounded the room, whose walls displayed a gallery of art. On the side table, a photo of him and a lovely girl in a gilded frame was the single clue to his personal life. “So, what brings you to Philly?” Michael asked after his second glass of wine. “I’ve been invited to join an interior design firm. An offer I couldn’t refuse.” “Sounds promising.” “I was happily settled in D.C., working with a lovely designer, my friend, Constance, but she retired and well,” I moaned. “She arranged this job for me.” “Someone to watch over me,” he sang sweetly, but not very well. Smoke snaked into the fireplace flue and my heartbeat quickened. “It’s been me and no one else my entire life. Dream though I might, pray though I did, Mr. Right never galloped into Camelot on his stellar white stallion.” He stretched his long arms across the back of the sofa and uncrossed his legs, resting his knee against mine. “Do you travel for your job?” I glanced at his taunt jawline and admired the graceful slop of his nose. A sprig of grey hair ventured beyond his rolled sweater collar and the light from the flickering flame licked his muscular neck. “I’m a pharmaceutical rep. From Richmond to Boston, I ride the rails. Everyone needs drugs.” “Your wife doesn’t mind?” A blink of light from above caught my attention and I looked up into the bronzed Empire chandelier hanging from the center of an enormous skylight, its crystals tingling like ice cubes in a Manhattan. Though dusted with snow, the clear center of the glass panes, brightened by moonlight, presented an ideal view of the falling snow, soothing and silver and pure. “She divorced me eons ago. I get Alina one weekend a month and for two weeks in the summer.” By the time we’d polished off the second bottle, he’d draped his arm around my shoulder. I watched the ash smoldering in the hearth and froze when he took my chin in his hand. tenderly, he brushed his lips against mine. I buzzed from head to toe.

 He gazed up as if waiting for a sign from God. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never…” Pulling him close, I kissed him. A testament to tribal instinct, his romantic artistry bloomed bolder with exploration. * The sun cutting through the semi-parted blinds teased me awake. I kissed my snoring prince on the forehead and stumbled out of bed. Coffee. Coffee . Belting his too long terry robe around my waist, I tip-toed over the chilled kitchen tiles. Careful not to make a sound, I searched high and low for any form of caffeine. Nothing. Wrapped in my woolens, I bounded out the front door. “Wow!” The sharp rays of sunlight, reflecting off the white blinded me momentarily. I rubbed my weary eyes and plodded through the slushy street, searching for a coffee shop or café. Closed. Closed . Even the quaint Violin shop was bolted, its shades pulled low. I waved at the doorman at my building, but he didn’t return my gesture. Too busy I suppose. There know I passed a Wawa near here . The symphony of drips, trickles, and pings of water rushing through pipes and gutters cheered me, reminding me that spring was near. An elderly man opened his creaking door, snatched his newspaper, grunted, and slammed it shut. Across the street, a young woman clicked her kitchen light on. Touching her fingers on the counter, she arched her back and stretched her lithe limbs in opposite directions. The sound of a window sliding echoed down the street. A young boy leaned out of a third-floor window and gleefully batted an enormous icicle with a plastic shovel until it broke off, tumbling to its death.

“Oh!” I’d bumped into a pop-up newsstand.  A round, bundled bull of a man was riffling through a stack of magazines. “Good morning,” I trilled, but he didn’t return my greeting.

Isn’t this the city of brotherly love ? Bam! He slammed a stack of papers onto the counter and snipped the plastic straps binding them together. The bundle of newspapers metamorphosized from its chrysalis, blossoming into a neat pile of the hometown rag, The Philadelphia Inquirer. Its front-page headline slapped me hard, and I shook in my boots. 30 Perish in Amtrack Disaster! A graph, headshots of the deceased, covered three-fourths of the page. There, smack-dab in the center, smiling big and bright in black and white, were pictures of Michael and me. I stumbled back into the pop-up, rocking the booth. The counter bobbed cock-eyed, and the flock of newspapers took flight, fluttering across the snowscape. “What the hell!” The hefty newsstand man barked as he scurried to retrieve them. Dizzy, I grabbed hold of the church’s iron fence to steady myself. High-pitched, the unnerving sound of metal scraping metal startled me, and I pressed my palms over my ears. Harpooning my knee, intense agony buckled me. “Help! Help!” I cried out as flames engulfed me. Scooping up handfuls of snow, I smashed it into my sizzling face. An elderly woman seemed to make eye contact but hustled away when I approached. Humming an unfamiliar tune, a young man in a hurry bumped me and I tumbled into to a holly tree. Penetrating my bones, the mezzo-soprano-screech of brakes punctured my eardrums as I scurried through the tunnel of thawing evergreens, sparks spraying me from either side. A colossal force barreled over me, smashing me into the ice. I pushed up and the torn flap of skin on my arm wavered. My lungs scorched, squeaks and chirps were all I could muster as I crawled out of the shaft. The lower extremities of my broken body refused to obey. So, using my charred hands as feet, I dragged myself over the pristine purity, praying I’d reach Michael’s stoop before I collapsed.

Michael! Michael! I reached for the glimmering brass knob as darkness swallowed me whole. * “Michael,” I whispered, my voice raspy. “How long was I asleep?” “I stopped counting the minutes.” My head in his lap, I glanced at the promising flames waltzing over the charred bark. “I had the most God-awful nightmare.” I sat up and he rubbed my back. “It wasn’t a dream, Danial.” “I don’t understand.” “The paper boy delivered The Inquirer after you left.” He closed his eyes. “I remembered every terrifying moment of the crash.” His cheeks were wet. “I’d do it all again for you.” My mind reeled with revelation. This is it? Quivering like a bowl of Jell-O, my insides shuddered. “Should we check in somewhere?”

He grinned. “Except for my daughter, I don’t care. You’ve unshackled me. I had no idea it could be like this.” I gazed at him, unable to grasp or accept what I’d hoped he’d meant. “I love you, Danial DuBarry.” “I’ve waited my entire life to hear those words.” I took his hand and pressed it to my chest. “Feel that?” A steady stream of tears flowed from my weary eyes. “I love you.” Snuggling together, we gazed through the crystal-clear skylight at the coral striated clouds sailing across the periwinkle heaven. Free. I too was free. Loved. I was loved. “I’m not afraid,” I said and smiled. Michael kissed my forehead, my chin, my lips. “Mother used to quote from the Bible when she was low.” He traced my face with his finger. “The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.” I tugged gently on his earlobe, and he rested his head against mine.


“Is the AC on the fritz again?”

“I wouldn’t know. Power’s out.” “What?” I felt sweat dripping down my back. No air conditioning was not what I wanted to hear. There was too much work to do, and the room was already stifling in the early morning hours. “Yeah. Seems like someone didn’t pay the electric bill.” Carol looked at me square in the eye, hands on her hips. Was she daring me to argue that fact? “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Call them. Use my credit card.”

“Are you sure, boss?” “I’m sure. Hurry, please. Maybe we can salvage the day. Anything in the fridge we need to throw out before the stink of rot fills the air?” “I don’t think there was anything in the fridge at all since last weekend.” “At least nothing got spoiled. Come on, let’s start unpacking.” I went outside to the open van and began pulling boxes out while I heard Carol on the phone shouting “Representative”. I laughed despite myself. I just won’t look at the credit card statement. That would be next month’s problem. *** After putting the last can of peas and carrots on the shelf, I stepped back to survey the room. Not good, I sadly admitted to myself, not good at all.

I sighed, reaching for the “Two Items From Each Shelf” sign. I would have to find a way to get more donations by next weekend. Too many hungry families counted on us, and this meager selection wouldn’t do. My thoughts went to Freddy and his crew, and I felt the familiar anger rising. Working to beat the system, they made the rounds of food pantries as if their career. Hoarding and returning our precious donations for store credit gave them free beer and cigarettes. To outsmart their con, my staff used a thick sharpie to cover the bar codes. Such a waste of time and energy, I thought for the millionth time. However, other than the internal chastising and the black marker, my hands were tied. “Boss, want me to unpack the clothes?” Carol glanced over at the black garbage bags near the door. “Looks like we got a lot dropped off this week.”

“Yes, please. Check for hangers in the back. Otherwise just fold everything neatly on the table.”

I allowed Carol to think the bags were dropped off, donated by locals. I wished it were true but even that had dwindled down to almost nothing. She didn’t need to know I went thrifting during the week meticulously picking out the best for the least, searching for the half price tags, and using my senior discount. New clothes are always a treat, even those gently used. Having options to wear to the office or an afternoon in the playground could mean the difference between going out and staying in feeling unworthy. The door opened making my heart skip a beat for we weren’t ready yet. I was relieved to see Erica with her flushed face juggling the brown paper bags.

“Sandwiches made already?” I asked my friend. “Nope. No time. I got the goods, though.” She unpacked the white bread along with the peanut butter and strawberry jelly. I started the production line ending it with the saran wrap and sign reading “Help yourself to two sandwiches.” Wincing at our frugality, I knew we had no choice. I couldn’t ask Erica to give any more as she and her children were frequent visitors to our pantry. A revolving door for her, she gave what she could and then had to take what was left at the end. My heart ached every Sunday while she looked longingly around the room as dinner time drew near. “Ready, ladies?” I gave one more look around, wiped my forehead and took a sip of water. The electricity was back on whirring happily, but it would take more than a minute to cool off the room. Feeling a bit dizzy from the heat and exertion, I hoped for the stamina to get through the day. I said a silent prayer and opened the door to the masses. Freddy and crew pushed their way in first as per usual, filling their bags to the point of overflowing. My polite little sign didn’t stand a chance against their greed. Maybe next week I would have the energy to stop them, but for now I was just grateful when they left. The last thing I needed was doubt creeping in to question my efforts as I focused on staying positive. “Good morning! How was your treatment this week?” I slipped a new headscarf into Evelyn’s bag, the cornflower blue the same shade as her beautiful eyes.

“Doctor says it’s going well,” the older woman smiled warmly as she began filling up her tote bag. I motioned to Maria waiting patiently at the door that it was okay for her to come in. Eager to hear how her new job was going, her smile told me everything I needed to know. It wouldn’t be long before her visits would slow down and eventually end as she got back on her feet. Harry entered, passing Evelyn on her way out. His eyes had the same haunted look week after week. Time would eventually soften the tragedy, but for Harry the loss of his son was still raw. He walked through the maze of shelves as if in a trance allowing Carol to pick out his weekly groceries. Glancing back at the door I gasped to see the young woman in the tattered t-shirt enter. It had been weeks since her last visit, her absence leaving me optimistic. The mounds of makeup on her cheek shattered that hope, as did the angry bruises on her upper arm. Trying to meet her gaze proved impossible as I stepped back giving her the space that she needed.

What can I do to help? I felt their desperation although I did not know their stories. What led to their poverty was irrelevant, the goal was to lead them out of it. The line was long, and the shelves were emptying at a faster pace than I was comfortable with. I quickly replaced my polite signs with the large poster from the back room. “Please take one item from each shelf” which would hardly fill their bags even halfway. I would have to go back to basics, cold calling the larger stores seeking donations. Perhaps I could push the boundaries by contacting stores from several towns over. “Mommy, look! Crayons,” the sweet little voice interrupted my business planning. I turned to see a mother and child at the “Back to School” table I had set up. The cutouts of yellow school buses saved from last year and the year before made for a cheerful display. “Honey, don’t touch,” the young mother scolded, her face pale despite the warm summer day, her clothes baggy and somewhat stained. “It’s okay,” I quickly jumped in. “Are you getting ready for school? Let me guess, are you going to college?”

“Nooo,” the little girl giggled, “I’m going to kindergarten. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Gordon. Right, Mommy?” As her mother softly responded, I made a mental list of what they could use. New to the pantry, I wanted to make sure they had a good experience and would return when necessary. Their comfort was top priority.

“Erica, bring out a backpack, please,” I called out. We had received a small quantity of backpacks filled with classroom essentials which were hidden away from greedy hands. This little girl was special, the sparkle in her eye was still shining. Let’s keep it that way, I thought, glancing at her mother’s weary expression. Let’s hold onto that joy for as long as possible.

Watching the little girl skip away with her backpack on her small body I was reminded why we fight the good fight. The Freddy and crew of the world would always be there with their greed and cunning ways, but there would only be one first day of kindergarten.


I took off my shoes and rested them against the yellowed wall. The howling wind tried to keep the door handle away from me– and almost won –but I stretched out and caught it, swinging it closed in a sharp motion. It had just started to pour outside and I merely escaped while the rain was still a soft sprinkle. Oh, the stormy summer days . Kathy was waiting by the sink humming something and admiring the weather and the smells and such. “Let’s go eat,” she said as a strike of lighting–or maybe just the booming sound of thunder–rattled the rickety brown windows of her homely little farmhouse kitchen. “C’mon, it’s a Saturday!” The joy that was always brought to Kathy’s fine-wrinkled face whenever she came up with an idea she fancied gave me a sort of youthful inspiration. One I couldn’t help but smile at and wonder. I usually didn’t like going out on weekend nights. I’d just smashed my thumb and was feeling quite pitiful of myself. I hesitated, staring at her big light bulb eyes and frozen smile like a fried earthworm on a summer sidewalk. She went to throw away some trash while my clogged brain worked meticulously, but a corner ticked the bin’s rim and bounced to the ground in a few flat sounds. Another crash of sky as she struggled to pick it up, holding her back and shaking violently. “I… don’t know ,” I forced out before the silence threatened. “I don’t usually like going out on weekend nights.” Copy-pasted straight from the mind of the madman. She was just coming up to meet my eyes again, and with a huff and a puff made out, “Well– my mind is made–you’re coming with me–or you’re rotting here–with the storm and all–” The kitchen lights buzzed their horrible antique orange-yellow and flickered against the rain. The cold seeping through the cracks in the window cill seemed to trigger a headache. Fresh air would help. And we would be out in the air if I decided my mind. It was all a headrush. Moments like these made me realize that there was no possible way I could just “ride along” or “go with the flow” like I’d tell certain people whenever asked what I was gonna do out of high school.

“Get a job,” I’d say.

“Then what?” “Then work.” “Well of course, ‘then work,’ but what about when that’s all been set and done with? You gonna go to college? Get a degree? Meet a nice girl? Go to Italy and dance with the people and the pizza? I’ve lost myself a great many times in the wild drive-ins of the city! I’ve been to California and I got myself a job in Nevada once! All straight from Texas, how ‘bout that? My family all started when I…” and blah, blah, blah. That only seemed an invitation for them to go on about how proud they were of life–or particular moments of life–or maybe trying to convince the world and god and themselves, most of all, they lived the life they thought they did. I was proud of life too, y’know. When it didn’t stick me with questions or choices, and I didn’t have to make up my mind with answers and decisions.

“ Go with the flow, ” I blurted to Kathy aloud. It just came straight out, rolled off my tongue so smooth, like a stock car steering off the raceway. I didn’t know what was the matter. And I don’t think she did either. Maybe she did. I can’t really comprehend lived people– truly lived people, anyway. I just got my sniffer in the rat race last summer. “Go with the huh? ” Her face twisted. “There’s a nice place off the highway with nothing around for miles if that’s what you’re so worried about? Or even food at the station court, where you can sit and study people…in that little book,” she motioned writing with her hands, “ya know the one. I always see you carrying around.” “Hmm,” the diner off the road was cozy; the station lively. “But what about all this rain?” I unfaithfully rationalized. “We’re getting soaked for a few bites and a great loss in money! The lights are going out and the bathroom floors a dripping from a leak somewhere under the sink! And this and that and we’re almost out of coffee! And you know how that coffee stuff keeps me sane from things! Great wraths of bedridden sick days take over when my mind draws a blank!” “Oh, child,” she waved her long boney fingers with a scoff. “All those things happen anyway. You know that! ” “But when the day is done we will be left with the nothings we started with. We will crumble under the pressure of the big sun and fall beneath the waves of endless stillness; like the polos on the sidewalk, or the burnings of the folded fans! And going with the flow will not matter much at all when I’m dead–or if I die early. And life is just water drip-dropping in cycles with no beginning or end in sight until one day it just stops; or it goes dry with the passing days…months…years! You can understand that, can’t you?!” “And where does the water go, son? Just splashes dead against the loneliness of the cold kitchen tiles? Spills out over the sleeping body like blood from a knife of the devil stuck underneath your ribs? The water drips to blackhole days until God herself wipes it all away with a washcloth? Does that–any of that–make sense to you?” “As I see it, or have seen it: Yes…a little. Just going and going and going and going…” “Well, listen here–looky here, at my visions, child–you may be right about one thing. You may be right about the drippings and the water’s endless supply of days and months. You may be right about the sudden halts in its production and the many blank and bedridden days. But all these pins and needles and bullets that are found in such waters you speak of, belong in there! They come with the solution packet that God has ripped open and mixed with the lives we live! And the waters–yes, the waters–they are not as endless as they seem. They go into our own little cups, son! Our cups are filled with the great big waves and projections and the common craziness of a wild life well-lived!” Kathy got feral, breaking into a wild monkey dance as she went deeper into her explanation. It was truly exciting.

“This is the reason!” She continued. “This is why the days thunder and we get soaking wet! This is why you cannot just flow amply with the ever-turning world, with all the years going by! This is why dinners on Saturday nights are such a treat, boy! This is why! This is why!” “But I don’t get it,” I had fallen to the same old conclusions with the talk’s lull. “Why do I want to lay in my bed and get swallowed up by the linen sheets? Like a great whale to cover me in its protective shade so I can sit and think and weep forever? Why has this lasted longer than the wounds of bullets and needles, or the heavy wetness of getting soaked in the wild thunders? Why do I sit grey with the gear in neutral and the days just rolling along? Where has all that water gone?” Kathy sat back a moment, leaning on the creaking wooden counter, still covered in flour and sugar from the afternoon’s baking of goddess creations. The dull light glistened off her glasses and hid her eyes with a black shade. Branches and other fine tree debris were smacking the walls and windows in soft slaps. I could see her mouth and nose contort to the side with thoughts conflicted or running. I hope I didn’t just make a mockery of myself. Or enrage a sleeping beast beneath her heavy-hearted chest. Sometimes my strange thoughts overflowed and toppled over onto dead evenings, or quiet afternoons. I assume I was looking for an answer, otherwise a reflection. “Your thoughts run wild, boy,” she spoke softly. “And to think yourself a burden is to think a lie. You are just curious is all. Like a curious little monkey.” “My friends all call me a curious little monkey.” “That’s because you still got something in ya, boy. Some little tadpole that’s squirming around. Waiting to be left off the leash and explode into the daises with the great downtown of the city.” “I believe that tadpole is stuck in frozen ice, Kathy. I don’t know why.” I also don’t know why I said that. But it fell off my tongue as if I dropped a heavy bucket that crashed and spilled along the ground with great satisfaction. “Stuck in the ice but not dead yet. Is that right?” “I’m not sure. Right now I’m not sure.” Who is reading my thoughts on this violent night? Slipping hidden notes under Kathy’s old canvas shoe and confronting me with truths I claim to be bogus? Somewhere outside an argument broke out. It was only a chilling echo against the sounds of the no-mans-land front yard. But the strained, angry voices were just as potent. “Where are you going!?” We both heard; then a wild scream; then, “I’m gonna kill you!” Kathy and I flinched. The voices swirled into one messy blurb of untamed angry nonsense and soon became a dull noise to us like the buzzing lights and fallen branches. “You hear them, child? Their tadpoles ‘gon wild and sporadic! But they ain’t dead and they ain’t bad. They’re just living! They’re living those ruffian lives because that’s all they know. And you can’t hate them for that, can ya? Now look at you”–her red fingernail went into my chest–“you know where you stand on life and things–I mean in the setting and morals around you–you just need to realize you are in there! You are the whale and the water and the sheets and the voices and the storms and the weather and the lights and the breath! You are the waves! You are the sun! You are the lighthouse!” In the middle of all this conversation, I’d pulled out my little black book and began writing in it. Just like Kathy had recalled, I clicked my pen and went about on all the things around me. The things I knew and the stuff that was said. Life and weather and crazies across the street. Inside, my tadpole squirmed a little but was still ultimately stuck. And I think that was okay. “I can’t pinpoint a reason why,” I admitted, “but I smashed my thumb on my bedroom door earlier, and I think that might be the cause of all this. All this talking and indecisiveness.” A soft smile grew on her lips, “And I stubbed my toe the other day, child. It is all in accordance with the water drip-dropping. It is all why I am old and aged like fine wine. It is the law that makes up all the laws that all the different people follow: The ultimate law.” I had to agree. And I also had to agree with dinner that night. At the diner, where I got myself a coffee and could be half-alone with Kathy, and hear her talk. Tonight I would put on my shoes; tomorrow I would walk down the street; soon I would reach the world.


The Lost Looking Glass of Peter Pan Strange forces were at work. The loadstone of the human mind is more mysterious, and just as powerful, as the irresistible attraction the little needle on your compass has for the land far to the North. Henry had walked this way a thousand times, but today he was swept through the front door of Trudy’s Treasures as if he were on autopilot. No thought, just feet slowly shuffling their way along the worn wooden floor through a menagerie of peculiar objects perceived by someone to have outlived their usefulness, and now, perhaps, destined for renewed purpose in the lives of others.

“Can I help you?” “Who, me?” Trudy’s first customer of the day seemed confused. “Yes, if you have any questions, I’ll be here. I’m always here.” Questions? Had the gift of speech not eluded Henry for the moment, he might have inquired as to where he was and why he was there. Music boxes, Christmas ornaments, baby cribs, shoes, bonnets, dolls, bikes, bowls, caps, an army of figurines, beer signs, anything that had once served mankind, had found their way onto the packed shelves of Trudy’s. Henry strode up and down the aisles without noticing any of it, but then that magnetic force thing stopped Henry in his tracks. It wasn’t his reflection peering back at him from the clouded mirror framed by hand-carved oak; it was Henry, from a time the years had buried and Henry could barely remember. The image of a 6-year-old boy with disheveled hair and a mischievous grin stirred his memory and touched his heart. What had become of that little boy? “What is that, Henry?” “It’s a mirror. It will look nice in my office.” “What? Why would you want that ugly thing in your office?” Henry wasn’t sure. “And where did you get it?” Henry didn’t know that one either. “Please don’t tell me you paid for that thing.” Martha had stumped him again. Long after Martha had gone to bed, Henry studied the face of that little boy in the mirror in the dim light of his small office, and finally, he remembered- the carefree moments of play, the wonder of all things seen for the first time, the ability to imagine and dream, the life of a child. The boy’s smile grabbed hold of him, jumped from the mirror and onto his face, never to let go. Time could no longer erase the memory as the magic of the mirror dusted off the years, and Henry’s smile matched the grin in the mirror. Henry was still Henry. “Good morning, dear.” Martha had not heard that tone for years. Her husband seemed…different. “What are you so happy about?” “What day is it?” “Are you okay, Henry? It’s Thanksgiving Day. How could you forget that? Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.” “Thanksgiving! Oh, my gosh, I’ve got to get going on my list.” “List? What list?” “My wish list. Christmas is only a month away and Santa is coming. I better get moving.” A very perplexed Martha watched Henry hurry off to his office. Henry thought, and wrote, with great excitement: - A new sled. - A battery-operated robot. - A Nerf gun that shot Nerf bullets. - A Candy Land game. - Plastic dinosaurs that could fight each other. - A dump truck that actually dumped stuff. -Electric train with engine that blows real smoke. Henry looked up and saw the mirror hanging on the wall next to his desk. He stood and saw the little boy looking back at him. Henry was happy to see him again. “Yes, Doctor Barnes, he believes in Santa.” “What do you mean by that, Martha?” “I mean what I said. My husband believes in Santa Claus.” “No...” “Yes, he thinks Santa will be coming at Christmas. He spends hours working on his wish list.” The good doctor had known Henry for years, and it was difficult to take Martha’s call seriously. “What’s his position on the Easter Bunny…or the Great Pumpkin… the Tooth Fairy?” After coping with Henry’s rediscovered belief in the jolly old elf for more than a week, Martha was not in the mood. “Dammit, Doctor! My 54-year-old husband believes in Santa! This is not funny.” “Well… it’s a little funny…heh, heh, heh.” Henry’s co-workers were likewise befuddled. “Fred, what kind of cookies do you put out for Santa on Christmas Eve?” “Huh?” “I usually do chocolate chip, but this year I’m going to put out some peanut butter cookies. I think Santa will like the change.” “Huh?” “And I’m worried the milk will get warm. How do you get the milk to stay cold for Santa, Fred?” “Huh?” “And the reindeer! Don’t forget about the reindeer, Fred.” “Marvin, have you noticed anything unusual about Henry lately?” “Well, at his annual review last week, he asked me if he had been naughty or nice. That seemed a little odd.” The body of a man and the mind of a child provided some good entertainment for the neighbors. “Susan! Come here and check this out. Henry is building a snow fort in his backyard!” “Oh, my God, Tom. Yesterday I saw him sledding by himself on the hill at City Park. I think Henry’s lost his marbles. I hope he’s not dangerous. Where are the children?” Martha bounced around from confused to annoyed to compassionate. The sight of Henry on his knees, leaning into the fireplace and peering up the chimney, touched her heart. They had been together since high school, and now the love of her life, in layman’s terms, had gone woo-woo. “How in the world does he get down the chimney, Martha? The guy is amazing. And with all those toys!”  “I’m at wit’s end, Susan. Last night he asked me where his ‘jammies’ were, and this morning he put Hershey’s Syrup on his pancakes. He came home from work wearing a cowboy hat.” “That is pretty weird, Martha. I’ve heard of the midlife crisis where a man tries to revisit his early years, but it seems like Henry has gone back a little too far. I didn’t want to tell you this, but last week he showed up at our door and asked Tom if he wanted to come out and play.” Martha suspected it wouldn’t be long before Henry’s behavior went beyond the neighborhood and workplace. The line in front of Santa’s Village at the mall moved slowly, and Henry was growing impatient. “What are you asking Santa to bring you? I want him to bring me an electric train, one that shoots real smoke out of the engine. My name is Henry. What’s yours?” Deep within the heavy jacket, stocking cap, and colorful wool scarf, a little boy was struggling to come up with the appropriate response. “I’m Willie. Uh… are you here to see Santa?” “You bet. This is my third time. I keep changing my mind. I don’t want to ask for too much. Sometimes it’s better to ask for just one special thing to make sure you get it.” The image of the 6’2” 195 lb. Henry perched on Santa’s lap will long be remembered by all who witnessed the event. As fate would have it, TV 6 was doing a story on the Christmas shopping rush, and Henry made the six o’clock news- the national news. “Here’s an interesting story out of Cleveland, Ohio. A 54-year-old man was seen sitting on Santa’s lap at a local mall, apparently telling him what he wanted for Christmas. Our own Jay Larson caught up with the man after his visit with Santa. Jay, what’s the story here? Some kind of a joke, or did the guy lose a bet? America wants to know.” “Well, Bret, let’s first give our viewers a chance to get the little ones out of the room. Some things are best unsaid in the presence of small children.” “Good point, Jay... And with that warning, what’s the story here?” “Apparently, someone’s parents didn’t tell him about the real deal with Santa. I think we may have the first recorded case of a grown man who still believes in Santa. Here’s a clip of my earlier conversation with 54-year-old Mr. Henry Farkel.” At this point, Martha closed her eyes and covered her ears, Henry beamed with pride, and a gleeful Tom pulled his chair closer to the TV. “So, Mr. Farkel, how was your visit with Santa?” “Awesome! Santa is the best person in the whole world. He’s going to bring me an electric train. I love him.” “That’s great…” “With an engine that blows real smoke.” “How nice. So, Mr. Farkel, I have to ask you. Do you still believe in Santa Claus?” “What do you mean, still?” “I mean, most people stop believing in Santa when they are six or seven years old.” “That’s silly. Who do they think brings them their presents? Geez.” Martha reflexively turned the TV off, put her head in her hands, and moaned softly. Tom and Susan, along with millions of people in their homes, at bars, and in airports throughout the country were laughing hysterically. Life would never be the same for Henry and Martha. “Hi, Mom.” “Martha! What’s with that goofy husband of yours? Santa?! Oh, my God. I told you not to marry the guy.” Martha felt like she was wearing a “Kick Me” sign on her back wherever she went. “Look, Gladys. Her husband’s the one who still believes in Santa.” “I saw your husband on TV last night, Martha.” Enough said. Giggles and smirks everywhere.  At work, Henry garnered a company record four reprimands in one month- one for sailing paper airplanes across the office, one for putting a fake snake in Nancy Martin’s lunch bag, and two for firing spitballs into Fred’s cubicle. On the homefront, he regularly played Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan, and short-sheeted his and Martha’s bed to the growing annoyance of his early-to-bed wife. And, of course, the relentless revisions to his Christmas wish list continued. Martha was reaching her breaking point. No plan of action derived from additional calls to Doctor Barnes, and occasional visits to the 24 Chapel at St. Mary’s yielded no miracle. She tried reasoning with her husband. “Henry, you have to know that reindeer can’t fly.” “Oh yeah? Well then how does Santa deliver presents all over the world in one night? You’ve got to think this thing through, Martha.”  Martha grudgingly understood she was now married to a man with the world view of a six-year-old. The contrast could not have been greater, the elderly, austere Father Hanley delivering his soul-saving Homily from a lectern with the receiver of a remote-controlled gag-sound machine, set to barnyard chickens, cleverly concealed inside. Henry eagerly awaited the moment. Bawk, bawk, bawk! Cluck, cluck, cluck! Bawk, bawk, bawk! Never in the history of gatherings of people had so many tried so hard to contain their laughter, and there had never been a more mortified priest than poor Father Hanley as he struggled to comprehend the moment. After church, Martha expressed her displeasure over the sophomoric stunt. “That was bad, Henry, really bad. During Mass! You’ve been doing a lot of strange things lately. They have been childish and silly, but not harmful… until today. That was bad, Henry.” Henry felt like a scolded child… which he was. The last thing Henry would ever want to do would be to hurt Martha.  Father Hanley immediately suspected Henry was the culprit when he fell out of his pew and rolled around in the aisle in a fit of unrestrained joy. He pulled Martha aside after Mass. “Martha, I think your husband was the one responsible for that childish and disturbing prank. ” “Really? What makes you think that, Father?” “Martha…” “I’ll talk to him.” “Martha, a few nights ago, just after dark, I heard laughter coming from the playground. I looked out my window and saw Henry coming down the big slide. Then he went to the swings. 1 Corinthians 13:11, Martha. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But, when I became a man, I put aside the things of a child.’ Please remind Henry that he is now a man.” “I’ll do that. Sorry, Father.” But… strange forces were again working their magic. For the first time since the momentous change in Henry’s behavior, Martha felt conflicted. The episode in the church was certainly regrettable, but the thought of Henry flying down the big slide brought a smile. And the swings! On their first date, she and Henry went to the town park and talked for hours while sitting on two swings. That was so long ago, but Martha remembered. The guy was acting like a complete nut-job, but it suddenly occurred to her that Henry seemed… happy, happy as he had ever been. That night, Martha observed Henry once again planted in front of the mirror. The smile was there, and he seemed peaceful, content, and… happy. Henry returned to the kitchen table where he had been drawing stickmen attacking a castle as Martha reflected on the events of the past few weeks. Santa, all the strange behavior, bringing home the mirror, constantly looking in the mirror… the mirror… the mirror. It was drawing her in. She walked into Henry’s office and looked at herself in the mirror. It was her, but not her. The years peeled away, and Martha saw a little girl in a red jumper, light brown hair with a yellow ribbon, and a smile she had a hard time remembering. It was the smile of those carefree, fun years of a child. She had seen that smile recently…on Henry. Martha stared at the little girl in the mirror until she could no longer keep her eyes open. When Henry came home from work the next day, Martha greeted him with a smile… yes, that kind of smile. “Henry, I made some sandwiches, and I thought we could go over to St. Mary’s for a little picnic. Then maybe we could go down the big slide and sit on the swings and talk for a while. We haven’t done anything like that for a long time, Henry. What do you say?” “You’re on! And when we get home it will be dark, so we could pull a little Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan!” “Hell, why stop there, Henry? Let’s hit the whole neighborhood!” Henry smiled as he put his arm around Martha. He had just gotten his Christmas present early, the last thing he had asked for from Santa.


CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains descriptions of violence, gore, and some profanity. Viewer discretion is advised. A shrill wail jolts me from the quiet darkness of sleep to the glare of LED lights flooding an unfamiliar room. The ground I lay on is hard and cold— have I rolled off my bed again? Another wail prompts me to push my upper body off the ground; the setting before me tilts and spins like I’ve just staggered out of an old rollercoaster. I squeeze my eyes shut against the bright, dizzying room and clench my teeth to fight back a wave of nausea. At the nausea’s dissipation, I force my eyes open again, blinking a few times to clear my vision. The room is white and appears to be made of metal. The walls hold pieces of advanced technology on silver shelves.

This room isn’t my bedroom. I push myself up to stand, and it takes my head banging against the metal ceiling to kick my memories back into place.

Ship #A17: my one-way ticket to a new life I never asked for. A third, much quieter cry finally pulls my attention to the enormous windows at the back of the ship crowded by a small group of strangers. A young woman sobs in the arms of another, silent one on the metal floor. A tall, visibly strong man stares with his head against the windows, tears falling to the ground without sound. Beside him stands a boy no older than fifteen clutching an old, tie-dyed bunny plush.

My feet lead me to join them, albeit against my will. As I approach, the boy looks up at me, his tearful eyes the color of whiskey illuminated by sunlight. He steps slightly to the side to open a space for me, which I step into, finally getting a view of the window as our former home explodes. The blinding yellow and orange lights thrust debris every which way. Entire chunks of land are thrown deep into the abyss of space. Smaller explosions light up like fireworks amongst the stars. In its place is a void of nothingness.

The sobbing woman has ceased any sound. Her silent comforter bows her head. The muscular man buries his face in his hands. The boy beside me trembles as tears pour from his eyes, and unconsciously, I rest my arm against his shoulders. Hot tears slip down my cheeks, and my throat burns with suppressed sobs.

Our planet is gone, and the silence is deafening. ——— “My dear Evelyn, I hope you and the twins are safe. I’m so sorry we got separated— everything became so frantic and confusing that I had no chance of getting back to you. I’m on another ship, but I’ll see you soon, okay? Tell Aniyah and Colton—” my voice breaks “—that Dad loves them and misses them every minute and promises we will all be together again on a new planet soon. I love you.” I lift my thumb off the button, and the recording ends. Two other clicks on the technologically advanced phone send the recording without issue as a fresh wave of tears warps my vision. “What are you doing?” I snap my head up to the boy standing in the doorway of the sleeping quarters— this is the first time I have heard him speak since boarding the ship some days ago. Sighing, I answer, “Sending a recording to my family. We got separated in the chaos…I don’t want them to panic.

The boy nods, enters the room, and sits beside me on the ground against my bed.

“How are you holding up?” I ask him. “Well,” he mutters, “I haven’t thrown myself out of the emergency hatch yet.” I nod. “Did you get separated from your family as well?” I ask. The boy gazes at his tie-dyed bunny plush for a long moment before answering the question. “I never knew my dad, but my mom worked for NASA. Her team designed all of the ships. On the day of the escape, she was running around helping people get into ships and checking that nothing went wrong. This bunny—” he held up the old plushie “—was hers. When I got into the ship, she pushed it into my hands, hugged me, told me she loved me, and darted back outside. She knew she and her team were doomed. I guess part of me still hoped she was wrong.” “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, trying to hide my shock. “Thanks,” he shakily whispers back, tightly hugging the bunny. “Does the bunny have a name?” “Biscuit. She said it was fitting.” The two of us jump as a shriek pierces the air, and we wordlessly scramble out of the sleeping quarters and into the ship's central area. The muscular man is already there, along with the sobbing woman from the first night, whose shrieks dissolve into hysterical crying. At her feet lies the other woman, her comforter, with short auburn hair doused in blood and terrified brown eyes leaking spare tears. More blood pours from a deep gash on her neck like a river on the ground. “Dear God… ” utters the muscular man, who turns away from the scene with a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck possessed someone to do something like this?” I whisper. In my peripherals, the boy sways on his feet, staring at the scene in horror. I catch him as he collapses. “Who would do such a thing?!” The hysterical young woman questions. “Who even managed to smuggle a weapon onto this ship?!” “I’ve been in the sleeping quarters all day,” I quickly state, “and there were body scanners when we were boarding. It’s physically impossible for someone to bring a weapon here.” “And yet,” the muscular man chimes in with a hoarse, unsteady voice, “it seems that’s what’s happened.” I shut my eyes against the gory scene and fight to organize my thoughts— someone on this ship has murderous intent, and this woman may not be their only target.

“Let’s search the ship,” I find myself saying. “There’s a chance that, in the chaos, we gained a stowaway.” The boy makes a noise and stirs. I quickly put my hand in front of his eyes, shielding him from the bloody mess on the ground. “We should do something with her body as well,” I add, and it takes a fair amount of prompting to get the remaining three of us adults to seek out cleaning equipment. The crying woman, who reveals her name as Della, opts to manage cleaning up the gradually drying blood. I turn to the other man, Zeke, to confirm we’ll be handling the body, but he cuts me off two words in. “Can’t do bodies. I’ll stay with the kid, y’know, make sure he’s all right.” I acquiesce, and the handling of the body becomes my job. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought living on a new planet would be the coolest thing in the universe,” Della laments, turning to me as I stoop down to pick up the body. Grunting, I remark, “Not what you thought it would be, is it?” Della shakes her head. I lift the body into my arms, staggering backward as I stand back up. “There’s a hatch down the hall to the right,” Della states, pointing down a corridor without looking. “I discovered it while exploring the ship before we took off. You can put her through there,” she adds, her voice quivering slightly. “Thanks,” I mutter and step into the corridor. The blood from the young woman’s neck drips onto my hands and shirt while the blood in her hair quietly leaves a trail on the ground. Her body retains some warmth, but her dull, unseeing eyes persistently remind me of the lost life. At the end of the corridor, built into the right wall, is a small hatch with tinted windows. I unlatch the hatch, revealing a short, pristine white tube capped with another door at the end.

I rest her body on the clean floor— I hate to stain it with blood— and shut the opening hatch with a soft click. My fingers guide themselves to a button and press down. The silence is filled with a vacuum-like sound as the ending hatch opens to suck the young woman’s body into space. A few moments pass before I release the button, and the corridor settles into silence. I breathe a sigh as tears warp my vision yet again. Once upon a time, I was the guy who rarely cried. Now, I long for the day I never have to cry again.

A low hissing noise cuts through the silence. I instinctively check the tube, but its process is done. My eyes scan the corridor before finally stopping on a particularly dark corner where the wall meets the ceiling. I step closer to it; shards of white metal stand at odd angles in a distorted sort of circle, and the hissing is louder. I put my finger up to it, and nothing stops it from going through. “Della?” I call down the corridor. “What is it?” She replies. “During your exploration, did you happen to find a toolbox anywhere? I think the explosion blew out a corner down here,” I explain. “Yes, and I’ll be right there! Don’t move!” She shouts as her voice fades, and she hurries off.

I wait one, two, three minutes. Della screams. Flooded with panic, I take off up the corridor. Not another murder. Not another murder. “Don’t come out!” Della cries from another room. “Where’s Zeke?!” The muffled voice of the young boy shouts. “Just stay there!” Della’s voice breaks. My hand grabs the doorway of the sleeping quarters to anchor myself, and I swing into the room as Della bursts into tears. Not another murder. Not another… “Jesus…”

Zeke’s blood soaks through one of the few beds in the sleeping quarters, pouring from several wounds in his chest and one through his neck. I tentatively step closer, holding my breath as I tip my head down to look at the wounds. “Knife wounds,” I whisper, picking up my head to face Della. “Big ones, too,” I add. Della sorrowfully shakes her head. “We need to call someone.” “The ships are pre-programmed,” I remind her, “so nobody can get off-course to help us. Let the kid out of the bathroom. We’ll head to the central area.” My eyes follow Della as she walks the boy out of the room, using his plushie to shield his eyes from the gory sight. My mind whirls with questions, but one stands at the forefront: How does one woman in a small ship become the first to discover two murders in a row? ——— “There’s nobody else on the ship,” the young boy, Elias, reports. “Positive?” I ask, briefly glancing down from the step ladder in the corridor. “I’ve checked three times. Nobody else is on the ship.” “Fantastic,” I mutter. “Hand me another nail,” I request, putting out my hand. Elias rummages through the toolbox for a moment. “There are none left.” “How?” I ask in bewilderment. “That box was brand new! I’ve only used—” I mentally count the number of nails I’ve used to repair the broken corner “—five nails!” “Well, the box is empty. There are none left,” Elias repeats, matching my confusion. “Son of a bitch… ” I growl under my breath.

“Della?” I call. “What?” Della yells from the other end of the ship. “Is there another box of nails up there? All of mine have vanished!” “There should be!” “I’ll get them!” Elias declares, running off. I leap off the ladder and bolt after him. With Della as my main suspect for the past two days, the last person I want alone with her is this kid. “Elias!” I shout, bursting into the empty central area of the ship.

This time, Elias’ screams of terror shatter the air before Della’s. No. God, no! I fly down another corridor. The screams grow louder. Anyone but him, please, anyone but him! The screams cut to silence. I halt in front of the small storage room at the very end of the corridor. He’s just a kid. The tie-dye rabbit lies in a rapidly growing pool of blood beside its mangled owner— torn clothing, a deep gash in his neck, stab wounds in his arms and chest, and a nearly unrecognizable face.

I collapse, sobs wracking my body mercilessly. Tears stream from my eyes and burn my skin. In wiping them away, I streak blood on my cheeks. It’s too quiet. My gaze tears away from Elias and trails to Della’s silent, shaking figure curled up against the wall, splattered in blood. In a blink, my hands are curled around her neck. “You did this!” I roar. “I didn’t do anything!” Della cries, her fingers trying to pry mine away. “You were at the scene of every murder! That’s not a coincidence!” “I never hurt anybody! ” “There’s nobody else on this ship!” “ Please, I never killed anybody here! I know it looks bad, but you should have seen—!” “He’s a fucking kid!” “Something else is on this ship—!” “Nobody else is on this ship!” “Will you fucking listen to me?!” A sudden, firm crack snaps everything to silence again. Della’s head falls limply to the side as I pull away my shaking, bloody hands. I stare at them numbly for several seconds.

I killed someone. A strangled cry escapes me. I killed someone. Bile burns up my throat and joins the blood on the floor. I killed someone. “That makes my job easier,” says a voice behind me. I turn around, my body heavy and slow, as if all of its energy has been sucked dry. My eyes climb upwards past the figure’s distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt to its face. Tousled black hair falls messily over his hazel eyes.

I bring a shaking hand up from my bloody distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt and push my tousled black hair out of my hazel eyes. “Such a shame you couldn’t fix that broken corner sooner,” says the figure in my voice, “because it was a perfect entryway to your ship.” “Who are you?” I manage. My copy grins and answers, “I’m you , and just like you, I’m looking for a new place to reside.” My copy holds up a blood-covered knife in his hand. “I quite like your form. I would have just killed you, but then there’d be witnesses, and with witnesses comes… inconveniences.” The cold blade of the knife rests against my throat. “After all, there’s only room for one of us on that new planet,” he sneers. My body snaps into motion before my mind does, and I find myself sprinting up the corridor. My copy shouts at me as I swing into the control room and barricade the door. Before me is a long, white control panel covered in buttons and little screens all set up for the ship to deliver its passengers to the new planet. I frantically search the room for something, anything to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I resort to my own fists.

My bloody fists smash navigation screens and snap buttons out of place. They tear apart wires and wreck carefully installed instructions. Alarms scream in my ears as I seize the emergency steering wheel and slam down the speed pedal. In an instant, the ship shoots off through the stars and streaks through the black nothingness of space. My copy bangs on the door, demanding to know what I’m thinking, veering so wildly off course.

The ship’s energy sputters out, halting it to a sudden stop and flinging me to the ground. The lights flicker out as we drift into the void. My copy stabs at the door. I pull my communicator out of my pocket— the screen is cracked, but the screen lights up when I pick it up. A shaking finger holds down the recording button as I take one deep breath. “My dear Evelyn, Aniyah, Colton, I’m so sorry. I must break my promise to you. Something happened, and I had to veer off course. I won’t be seeing you on the new planet. Please do not call anybody for me, for the safety of humanity depends on it. I’m so sorry to leave you. Colton, don’t give up on your dreams as an artist because I know you can make it. Aniyah, keep persisting with acting, no matter how hard it gets, because I know you will one day dazzle the silver screen. Evelyn, my dearest Evelyn, don’t waste away your life. Go out and do everything you’ve ever wanted to do. I’m so sorry it has to end like this, but I am doing this for you. I love you all. I will never stop loving you. One day, we will be together again. Until then…goodbye.” The recording ends. Two clicks send it off with perfect timing. The lock snaps off the door, and my copy’s sinister smile is my final sight as his knife plunges through my heart.


“Are you there, God? It’s me.”

Savannah was now standing in front of the little cabinet next to her bed. She was wishing for a miracle but when she opened it, it was still empty. She had been trying to remember everything she had been taught about talking to the Lord.

She was so upset but she figured this was as good a time as any. The preacher had said the Lord was everywhere and knew everything.

He was watching over her and he knew her every move and thought.

“Lord, you know that my grandmother gave me that necklace.” Savannah said as she wiped the tears that had started flowing down her face.

Her great great grandmother had given the necklace to her Nana on her 13th birthday and her Nana had given it to her.

There was no way she could go home without it.

She could not bear to see the look of disappointment in her grandmother's eyes. She was expected to pass it down to her oldest granddaughter someday when that girl turned 13. She should have never taken it off, she thought.

She had put it in the little cabinet right beside her cot.

Everyone had a little cabinet to lock their personal belongings in.

She must have forgotten to lock it and someone had stolen her necklace because it has disappeared.

There had been a big todo when Savannah said she was taking the necklace with her to camp.

Her mom suggested that she leave it home where it would be safe.

She had wanted to show them all that she was responsible enough to keep up with her own possessions.

Now look at what had happened, her mother had been right as usual. Savannah thought to herself, “There were four girls assigned to each room and about 20 rooms in the camp dormitory, 79 possible thieves.”

She has asked all the girls in her room and they all swore up and down they had not taken it.

They had even let her search their personal belongings just to reassure her it wasn’t one of them.

She had gone to the camp counselors who were in charge of supervising the girls and told them what had happened. They asked her if she had locked her cabinet and when Savannah admitted that she had accidentally forgotten, they shook their heads and gave her a shrug like “Well, what did you expect?” She wanted to say she expected with all the religious stuff they had them doing daily that everyone would behave like angels. Obviously somebody was not getting the message.

Stealing was one of those big sins, Savannah thought,

it came right after “Thou shall not lie.” Savannah was the oldest granddaughter.

Her Nana had 8 granddaughters and although her Nana would never admit it Savannah knew she was her favorite. She was feeling desperate

as she walked across the campground.

It was close to dinner time and all the girls were getting washed up and ready.

There was no one paying her any attention as she walked in the opposite direction from the mess hall. She got to the small chapel and went inside.

It was so quiet in there that she felt like she needed to walk gently, almost on her tiptoes, as she approached the altar. She knelt before the altar and she began to pray. “Dear Lord, this is Savannah.

I know I have never really spoken to you before Lord.

It isn’t that I didn’t believe, it's that up until now I wasn’t really sure how and didn’t need to bother you.

First, I need to say Thank you for all the blessings you have given me.

I am old enough now to realize just how blessed I am.

I have my mother and father and my brothers and they all love me.

I have my grandparents and lots of friends. I have never been hungry or cold or abused.

I know you have a lot on your plate and I was careless in not locking my cabinet but Lord if you could just spare a few minutes and help me to get the necklace back I will try to be the best young lady I can be. I'll be more of a help to my mom and I’ll stop talking back to my dad and I will even try to be nicer to my younger brothers, but Lord they do try my patience at times. It is not just for me I want it back but my grandmother will be heartbroken. She thinks the world of me and she thought I was ready to handle such a big responsibility.

This necklace is a big deal in our family.

It has been in our family for five generations. Lord I know this is a lot to ask but when you think of it, it is really a very small miracle.

I

mean compared to all the big ones you have done. This one Lord would be just for me. Well, thank you Lord for listening and no matter what happens I want you to know I still believe in you and always will.”

Savannah got up and walked quietly out of the chapel.

She didn’t go to her dorm to get ready for dinner.

She walked almost as if she was in a trance to Room Number #7.

She entered the room on the left and went straight to Cot # 4 and the cabinet assigned to it. She bent and opened the cabinet and there was her necklace.

Savannah put her necklace on and she kneeled down and said,

“Thank you, Lord”. When she left the dorm she didn’t stop to see whose room she was in and she didn’t even feel the need to go to the camp counselors to let them know she had gotten her necklace back and to tell on the thief.

You see it didn’t really matter. She knew that this was between her and the Lord and her faith. It was something she would carry for the rest of her life. .


March 10 th . 2015 As the sun sets in the distance, the mourners start to disperse. One by one, they turn and walk away, giving Roxanne a gentle pat on the shoulder, or a sympathetic nod as they pass her on the way out. Eventually, she’s the only one left, stony-faced, still staring at the fresh mound of earth beneath which her best friend now rests. Pretty white and pink roses are strewn on the grave, and as the trees sway in the cool, gentle breeze, the weight of the reality finally hits her: Janet is gone. Her best friend of 30 years is gone. She’s never coming back. Ever.

Roxanne heaves a sigh of relief. ---------------------------------------------------------------- January 25 th . 2000 “No, no, no! Janet! Wake up!” Roxanne’s shrill voice rent the otherwise still air, her screams echoing off the walls of the empty building. Tears streamed down her bony cheeks as regret flooded her entire being. Her trembling body was bent over the motionless girl lying flat on her back, limp, blonde hair plastered across her face. Janet William’s pale face looked lifeless, although the gentle rise and fall of her ribs indicated otherwise. At first glance, she didn’t seem hurt. But her legs. Her pudgy legs were bent at odd angles, almost as if they’d been pulled violently apart. Roxanne couldn’t breathe . How could she have been so careless? How could she, Roxanne Jones, a state swimmer, have let her guard down for a minute? She shouldn’t have gone along with this stupid idea. Everyone knew that the disused swimming pool was cursed. How could she have allowed Janet to get to the top of the diving platform? 30 metres above the ground, built over 20 years ago and hadn’t been maintained in the last 5 years. The platform wasn’t sturdy. Definitely not sturdy enough to support a 150-pound teen with no experience whatsoever in diving. Perhaps if she’d fallen into the water beneath, Janet would’ve been fine. Maybe a few scratches, or a bumped head even, but still fine. But she’d hit the cold cement with such a sickening thud. Perhaps if Roxanne had been able to grab onto her friend’s flailing arms as she teetered on the edge of the platform, Janet would have been all right. Perhaps if Roxanne hadn’t also climbed onto the platform, Janet wouldn’t have lost her balance in the first place.

They didn’t know it then, but that one moment of stupidity (or was it misfortune?) had altered the course of their lives forever. ---------------------------------------------------------------- September 20 th . 2002 “You’re going to resign?? Again??” Janet screeched at the top of her lungs. “But you promised to stick to this job! No other job will pay as well as this, and we need the money, remember??” “You need the money, you mean,” Roxanne muttered bitterly under her breath, inaudible to anyone but her. This was not the life she had envisioned for herself. She had once harboured great aspirations, aspirations that seemed certain at that time. Winning the state swimming championship just over 3 years ago had caught the attention of the top sports schools in the country, and she was sought after by world-class coaches who’d promised to send her to the Olympics. She was so close to her dreams; so close. “Roxanne? Are you listening? We need the money. We’re supposed to go for that Taylor Swift concert in Singapore next month. Aren’t you excited for that? And our Europe tour later this year? Isn’t that on your bucket list? Roxanne forced herself to look at Janet. Her best friend. The girl with whom she grew up at the orphanage. The girl who’d been by her side since they were toddlers. The girl who’d been confined to a wheelchair since that horrible incident 2 years ago. Janet looked hurt, tears starting to pool in her eyes. It took very little to set her off these days. Janet’s once-bubbly personality had been crippled along with her legs. Initially distraught after the doctor’s declaration that she’d never walk again, she’d now come to terms with it. But Roxanne became everything since then. Even as children, they were inseparable, but now, it was as if Roxanne was her lifeline. All of Roxanne’s ambitions had to be abandoned; all of her desires were put on the back burner. Janet’s needs, and wants, took precedence over all else. Whatever Janet wanted, she got. Through Roxanne. Janet was living through Roxanne.

Despite her frustration, Roxanne thawed. Although she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it, her expression softened. Once again, she was consumed by the familiar guilt. It was after all, partially her fault that Janet was now in this state. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t quit the job. We’re definitely making the concert and the tour. Two items off our bucket list,” Roxanne heard herself say, kneeling so she could hold Janet’s hand. This was how all of their disagreements were resolved – with Roxanne conceding.  ---------------------------------------------------------------  June 10 th . 2005 “You want me to what??” Roxanne bellowed. “Trust me; it’ll all be worth it -” Janet’s sentence was cut short by Roxanne’s outburst. “You want me to be a surrogate?? Carry your child? Are you insane?? You do know that I’m engaged right? Marc and I plan to start a family one day when we’re ready. That’s probably years away. Who’s going to raise this child of yours then? Or are we all going to live together for the rest of our lives? How much more are you going to ask of me, Janet? Haven’t I given up enough for you??” Roxanne knew instantly that she’d gone too far. The expression on Janet’s face said it all. Her features were contorted in agony, and tears cascaded down her cheeks like a burst dam. “I-I can’t b-believe you just said that!” Janet’s voice broke as she yelled. “Given up enough for me?? If you hadn’t dared me to jump off that wretched platform that day, I’d still have a life! If you’d stopped me from climbing up those steps, I wouldn’t now be a paraplegic! If you’d grabbed me when I reached out for you, I’d probably be a wife and a mother today!” Roxanne felt like she’d been slapped. She always wondered if Janet truly blamed her for the mishap. Now she finally got her answer. And it stung. In that moment, words failed her. Janet wasn’t done. “Since you’re the reason my life has gone down the drain, don’t you think this is the least you can do for me?? You know how much I love children, right? It’s probably one of my dearest dreams, which I can no longer achieve, no thanks to you! So you think 9 months of carrying a child is worse than 5 bloody years in a wheelchair? 5 years and a lifetime to go! You owe me this!” Roxanne sank into the couch, covering her ears, refusing to listen. ---------------------------------------------------------------- August 2 nd . 2008 The smell in the doctor’s office was oddly comforting. Roxanne winced when the cold gel was applied to her growing belly, but she was eager to see the ultrasound image of the life within her womb. Janet looked ecstatic of course, seated in her wheelchair by the foot of the bed, squeezing Roxanne’s foot reassuringly. “Did you feel any movements today, Ms. Jones?” the doctor’s concerned voice boomed after a few minutes. The smile on Roxanne’s face faltered. “I t-think so,” she stammered, looking at Janet for confirmation. “Is something wrong??” Janet’s voice was laced with panic. “I’m afraid I can’t detect a heartbeat, Ms. William. I’m very sorry.” And just like that, their second surrogacy attempt came to naught too. Both Janet and Roxanne grieved, but in different ways. While Roxanne withdrew into her own cocoon, Janet was more vocal. Her heartbreak was too painful to contain. She bawled her eyes out daily, inconsolable, irrational. For Roxanne, the pain was beyond words. Granted, she’d been a reluctant participant initially, but with each attempt, the idea had grown on her. She’d broken off her engagement with Marc, choosing to put Janet first, as usual. She’d devoted all her time and energy to this. She was so invested. She felt like a failure; she’d failed Janet once again. ---------------------------------------------------------------- March 10 th . 2015 Roxanne heaves a sigh of relief. A part of her aches at the thought of spending the years ahead without her best friend, but another part feels as though she’s been liberated. But the guilt is something she’ll carry with her forever. Janet managed to live her life to some extent through Roxanne, but many of her dreams remain unfulfilled. The past few years have been rough. Janet’s health took a turn for the worse after a bout of pneumonia about a year ago. Recurrent infections and hospital admissions became more frequent until last night, when Janet finally gave up. “Goodbye Janet. I hope you’re in a better place now,” Roxanne whispers as she takes a step back and finally leaves the cemetery.


March 12 th , 2019 I’m bored; it’s three in the morning and my family lay sound asleep in their beds. I don’t remember when sleeping got to be so hard. I don’t remember when the dark started seeming like a friend. I relish daybreak in a completely new way since it became so hard to fall asleep. I am a restless soul; I need to move. Being confined to my room each night when I could be out in the moonlight is its own kind of torture. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for awhile now, maybe a year? Then again, I’ve never been quick to fall asleep, ever since I was a girl. Now I am seventeen and sick of lying still in the dark, waiting for sleep to steal over me in the early hours of the morning. My school allows me to wear makeup so that hides the blackish bags that are now permanent fixtures on my face. However, I got sent to see the school counselor after I drifted off during class and she made me tell her what was going on. It was either tell her what was going on or she would call my parents and that would have led to yet another fight with them. She recommended that I keep a journal, and I guess that, for lack of things to do at night, I am going to at least try. March 15 th , 2019            Whenever I manage to sleep it is always a light and restless sleep. I am visited by odd dreams that sometimes have an H.P. Lovecraft vibe. I marvel at their strangeness. The only problem is the fact that the dreams only linger for a few wonderous moments once I wake up, after that they fade back into the dark corners of my subconscious from which they were born. Right now, I am staring at the digital clock on my desk and its kind of hard to read the numbers with my contacts out. I suppose I had better look for my glasses, but that would require being able to see to find them. Thanks to the fact that I take out my contacts each night before I get into bed, I will be finding jack shit right now. I look for them tomorrow. I have a splitting headache from straining my eyes to write the words on this page right now and I am getting dizzy. I have decided that the clock says 3:47 AM. Goodnight. March 17 th , 2019            I found my glasses yesterday and I am wearing them now. My headache is ever present, but I have grown used to it. The throbbing in my head is like the beat to song that only I know. I flit about my room; I have memorized each object’s place and I can tell now when something has been moved or when someone has entered. These four walls confine me every night and now they are my most hated jailors. They hold and inside them my deepest secrets and they protect me from the elements, yet they also trap me in the dark when I wish to be free in the starlight. March 24 th , 2019            The nights repeat and repeat, an endless cycle of boredom. Every night is the same and I tire of the routine. I lie awake waiting for my parents to fall asleep, I message my friends until they also tire and drift off into dreamland, I haunt the kitchen and I scavenge for any tasty morsels, I pace the same hallways of this same house night after night, and I wonder; will it ever change? Will I ever fall asleep quickly and sleep tight till the morning?            I wonder if once I’m married and when I have children of my own; I will still lay awake by my husband’s side as he slumbers soundly? Years from now will I still fight this losing battle against my oldest companion, insomnia? I can’t help but hope that in the near future this unwanted presence weighing down on me may soon evaporate into the night from which it came. April 1 st , 2019 I have made a discovery, a brilliant one if I do say so myself. I have discovered how to remove the screen on my window noiselessly and quickly. I can also now put it back in place perfectly. My bedroom may be on the second floor, but there is a slightly slanted roof right below it. Once I drop down onto the garage roof, I can simply run along it to where it ends and right below, against that wall there is a concrete box that houses our generator. It is a short hop down and then I am pretty much just a few feet of the ground. This may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but I now have unrestricted access to the outside world each night. The best part is that my parents sleep soundly, and lord knows they have never once bothered to check on me once I shut my door each night. I can now come and go as I please, I am free. I can go to the clubs, go out to 24/7 diners, I can go to the beach, I can do anything I want to. My walls shall no longer be my jailors, and the nighttime is forevermore mine. April 5 th , 2019            Tonight is the night. Tonight, I shall test out my new escape plan. Anyone who has strict parents knows about those late-night parties that you never get to go to, well tonight I’m going to meet up with my best friend Millie and we are going to a beach bonfire. Finally, my wasted nights will amount to something. No longer shall I lie awake pondering my desolate future, maybe tomorrow I’ll write about the party but for now, this journal is going back in its hidey-hole. April 6 th , 2019            I have decided that I will not write of my nightly outings. I may write beforehand, but my escapades belong to the night. Speaking of the night; last night at the bonfire I met a girl. She had the most gorgeous black tresses falling to the small of her back and milky white skin. Her eyes shone like obsidian and she was a slender and short at the same time. We danced for hours and I learned so much yet so little about her. I had never seen her before last night, yet she felt so familiar to me, it was strange. In the end we were the last to leave the beach and when I asked her why she was there so late, she told me that it was because she didn’t sleep at night.            “The nighttime is the right time to live,” she said. “I sleep during the day, or sometimes not at all. What does it matter? I know I can never fall asleep at night,” she sighed. “I lay awake and I wonder,” she admitted. “I feel no need to dream because I dream with my eyes open as I revel each night.” I remember her laugh, its cool bell tones washing over me as we stood in the light of a million stars. I hope to see her tonight, there is a party in one of the high-end night clubs in the center of town. April 7 th , 2019            I saw her last night, or rather this morning. We met at the nightclub and we danced for hours again. At 2 in the morning we wandered the streets and ended up in a little café. I asked more about herself, where she was from and she told me a sad story with a beautiful ending. She was born in the darkness and was left in the streets. She went from home to home and yet nobody wanted her. She searched for a place she would be welcome and recently, she told me, she had found one. She found a place where she was loved, and she intended to stick around. I’m elated by the fact that I will see her again tonight.            Last night she told me she wanted to go to the city park. So tonight, that is here we will meet. She loves nature and I believe that that’s because deep down, she is like me, a wild restless soul. I feel so identified by her, so at home with her. My nights of lying in bed, waiting for the day are no more. Now my insomnia has has given me life’s greatest gift of all; her. April 8 th , 2019 I feel need to write of her each time I see her. I wish to record her every word and capture her magical laugh with each letter. She is something so pure it is almost otherworldly. I hope to portray her essence in these pages so that one day someone else will be able to know her even if they never meet her. For I have learned a secret; only I can see her. It scares and excites me at the same time. It means that she is mine forever, yet I fear I am crazy. I am torn in two, yet she is ever stronger, pulling towards her until we collide. Last night at the park was amazing. She kissed me. I had never kissed a girl before, never thought to, but it was breathtaking. Her lips were cool against mine and the tasted of a northern wind and dewy grass. We lay side by side last night as her mouth and mind told me tales of faraway places and things that could only be said or seen in the dark. She regaled me with tales of her nighttime escapades throughout the years and I was left in awe. Tonight, she is taking me to the woods where she says she has roamed many nights before. I am anxious to see her once more for during the day she is nowhere to be found and no one knows her. April 9 th , 2019            I believe that tonight shall be my last night writing. Last night she sheltered me away to a clearing deep in the woods to the south of town. She showed me something, she told me her secret, she explained everything. In the clearing deep in the woods to the south of town I finally asked her what her name was. She told me she had many names, and that she was from many cultures. She told that her favorite name is Bella Noche. Then I suppose something clicked. She is the night, or rather an embodiment of it. She offered me a place by her side. There are many embodiment's of the night she told me; it means something different to each person. I am going to join her and revel forever more in the moonlight and no longer shall I lay in wait for dawn. I am no longer a victim of insomnia; I am blessed with the ability to stay by her side each night. For I love my beautiful night as I shall never love another; her moonbeam kisses and starlight eyes forever mine.


TW: Horror, seizure-like behavior, blood, and gore. The eighth grade school day was sweltering hot, and James was fast asleep on his desk. Even in sleep, he muttered unintelligibly, fingers twitching and brow furrowing. His teacher didn’t bother to wake him, fearing the behavior that would surely ensue. James was a strange child, and was often the victim of relentless bullying and teasing. The mutterings grew louder, until some of his fellow classmates shot him nervous sideways glances. He had been diagnosed with Schizophrenia at a very young age, it being the closest possible explanation for the things he heard and saw. Even though the simple explanation brought comfort to those who knew him, it was obvious that the diagnosis was a mere guess. The doctors had been utterly confused by James. There was a sort of… unsettling feeling about him. Something inexplicable. A sort of… staticky feeling. He never smiled, and spent most of his time staring and whispering. He had fits sometimes, body seizing and eyes rolling. The doctors diagnosed him with Epilepsy soon after the first seizure, but they knew that wasn’t quite right either. After an incredibly dull lesson on square roots, class ended. With the rusty ting of the afternoon bell, James awoke, sitting straight up in his chair with a hiss. He hated sleeping in class. Today was the twenty-seventh of May, and he couldn’t afford to sleep. He couldn’t afford to miss the opening. Robotically, James hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the classroom, blank eyes flickering from student to student, looking for the twins. He didn’t have to wait long. The classroom’s exit suddenly darkened, blocked by two hulking figures. They were the school's two largest and most cowardly bullies, Jacob and Hunter. The pair were twins, equally rich in wealth and stupidity. “Why the rush, Jamie?” said Hunter with a smirk. They always called him by that infuriating pet name. James merely watched, cocking his head. “Off to see the ghosts?” mocked Jacob. “Little shit. Did you forget? You owe us allowance,” he finished, holding out his grubby hand expectantly. James never had money, and the twins knew it. His failure to pay was merely an excuse for them to beat him. But, this time was different. The twins could feel it, a certain… staticky feeling, brewing in the air. James could feel it too. It was time. The small, no, miniscule window of opportunity had arrived. A chance to turn the tables. A chance to reverse the curse. He grinned, an unsettling sight. The twins had never seen him do such a thing before, and they stepped forward, balling their meaty fists in fear. “No funny business, Jamie. Remember what happened last time you tried to scare us? Wasn’t so fun, was it?” Hunter teased, lifting his chin with pride. The jab had the opposite effect, and James’s horrific smile grew wider. He remembered that time clearer than day. It had almost worked, and was worth the brutal beating he’d gotten afterward. The staticky feeling grew more intense, urging him to hurry. Holding up his hands in submission, he said something entirely unexpected. “I have the money,” James said with a gleeful giggle, pointing outside, past the school yard. The unsettling grin stayed plastered on his face. The twins narrowed their eyes in unison. “Follow me,” James giggled, now practically jumping in excitement. The pair stepped aside, following James as he stumbled down the stairs. He beckoned once again, giggling raspily. Hunter and Jacob followed, smirking. They gave each other a knowing look. The pair was ten times stronger than him. If there was money, they’d take it. If there wasn’t, they’d have fun. Simple as that. Wherever James took them, it wouldn’t give him an advantage big enough to prevent them from taking what they wanted. They strode after James, hardly caring as he walked miles past the school, past the suburbs, and into a large, abandoned wheat field. It was this moment when the two bullies realized something was off. The itchy wheat rubbed against their skin, leaving golden hairs covering their shorts and t-shirts. They could hardly see James any longer. The stalks were uncharacteristically tall, and seemed to grow taller the farther they walked. The staticky feeling grew, making the hair stand up on their necks. An unsettling chill settled on the pair, despite the heat of the day. Jacob started to panic, realizing that James had gone missing. “We said no funny business, James!” Jacob shouted, tearing through wheat stalks, trying to find James. Hunter was more cautious, and carefully tip-toed through the field, trying to find an explanation for the supernatural feeling which had enshrouded the area. Much farther in the field, James’ grin widened, making his face hurt. They felt it too, he thought. The static. The scratchy, haunting feeling. The voices would surely come next. He’d done it. Jacob and Hunter searched, panic increasing. It wasn’t until the first voice rang out, however, that they truly began to lose their minds. A shriek sounded, making their ears ring. The two stopped in unison, trying to find the source of the noise. When there appeared to be none, the two went berserk, voices of all sorts swirling in their heads. “JAMES,” yelled Hunter. “JAMES, WHERE ARE YOU?” screamed Jacob, insides curdling in fear. A new voice caressed his ear. Hello, visitor. Has James brought you? Good for him. Good for him. I always liked that kid. The voice cackled. Possesed by pure terror and adrenaline, Jacob blindly sprinted, running faster than he ever had before. “JACOB, WAIT!” cried Hunter, tearing after his twin. After what could have been hours, or possibly only seconds, they reached a small, circular dirt clearing. Panting, scared, and covered in itchy wheat, the pair was furious, especially when they saw a clean and complacent James sitting cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, fingers tapping a short and impatient rhythm. “Late-late-late-late-late,” muttered James, now twiddling his thumbs. Enraged, Jacob ran at him, scratching shoes making red puffs of dirt. Then, just as Jacob drew back a fist, James opened his mouth, his tongue lolling and pitch black. Jacob stumbled back to his twin, repulsed. “Now, dear, I think they’re actually slightly early,” said James. But, the voice wasn’t his. It was an old, scratchy woman’s voice. “Bah. Might as well get the whole thing over with,” said a second voice, this time the deep sound of a man. “Take? Which take?” muttered another, this time James’ own voice. “Now, James, you know how to check,” said the woman again. Hunter and Jacob stood, frozen, watching James’ mouth in horror and fascination. Then, there was a horrible ripping noise, and Jacob and Hunter howled, clutching their arms. The flesh on their left forearm had been, well, unzipped. But instead of blood, all that oozed out of the wounds was a thick, muddy substance. Hunters’ was a sickly, grotesque mustard yellow, and he stared at it, terrified and transfixed as it dripped down his arm. But, Jacob on the other hand, began to shriek. His wound oozed black. A frightful, horrendous black, which crawled and dripped like hundreds of newborn spiders. “There you have it, James dear. It’s him,” the crone said. She clucked her tongue. “Good thing you got him in time. It’s so rare to find a specimen like this one on time,” she finished. Then, with a sigh, James collapsed, mouth shutting. The wounds on Hunter and Jacob’s arms disappeared with a dark flash. “What did she mean, Hunt? What does she mean, it’s me? What do we do?” Jacob babbled, panicking. Then, behind them, James began to convulse. His eyes rolled back in his head, the red veins sharply contrasting against his ghostly pale face. He collapsed to the ground, body jerking. Then began the screams. Oh, the screams. They were as high pitched as a whistle, and as freakish as a pig’s squeal. “I don’t-I don’t-what do we-” stuttered Hunt, unable to get a hold of himself. The staticky sensation that had shrouded the field seemed to grow stronger, until it was an audible buzzing. Hunter and Jacob swatted at their ears, panic overcoming their senses. They were so panicked, in fact, that they didn’t notice as James’s body went limp. They didn’t notice as James stood, like a puppet on strings, and raised a trembling hand in Jacob’s direction. They didn’t notice until a wailing, horrid shriek of a thousand voices sounded. “FREE!” screeched James, pointing at Jacob, eyes and face whiter than a sheet. The static turned to a roar, and Jacob screamed. He screamed, and kept screaming. He fell to his knees, begging, gabbling unintelligibly. All Hunter could do was stare in horror. Time stood still as James froze, a horrifyingly triumphant expression pressed into his face. Thick, dark liquid began to pour out of James’s mouth, trailing down his shirt and pooling in the clearing. He retched, and more fluid poured. The sickly black liquid didn’t end, continuing around the dirt trail. It boiled, burning the edges of the clearing, but couldn’t seem to pass the soil of the circle. Coming to his senses, Hunter yelped, jumping into the cover of the wheat. He moved to grab Jacob’s arm, but quickly yanked his hand back. Jacob’s skin was burning hot, at least one-hundred and fifty degrees. So, all Hunter could do was watch yet again as the dark puddle reached Jacob. Slowly, it crept up his shirt, soaking his body. It burned, ignoring Jacob’s pitiful whimpers as it pooled in his mouth. He swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, until there was no black left. And, just as the last drop disappeared down Jacob’s throat, the two in the clearing collapsed. Hunter cried out, running through the field. Tears burned in his eyes, and he hardly noticed as he sprinted for at least a mile to the twins’ house. “It’s- It’s Jacob, he- they-” Hunter blubbered, sobbing. His parents, shocked at the display, tried to calm him. The only thing they were able to get out of him were a few words. He repeated them over and over. Jacob. Burn. James. Voices. Liquid. James. Voices. Liquid. Burn. Jacob. Now hysterical, Hunter’s father and mother told him to lead them to Jacob. He did, leading them back to the innocent golden field. The window had passed, and the staticky feeling and the voices were gone. Upon seeing the field once again, Hunter screamed, and took off in the opposite direction. Exchanging terrified looks, the pair trudged through the wheat until they found the clearing. The mother shrieked, her voice carrying across the wheat field. There lay Jacob, asleep, muttering and twitching. James knelt next to him, patting his back and whispering soothing words. “How did he get this far?” screamed Jacob’s mother, collapsing on her knees. Jacob’s dad ran out of the field, undoubtedly trying to find help. “I told him, with his Epilepsy and all, that he wasn’t to leave school without an adult! I can’t- I can’t believe this,” she said shakily, looking at James. James stood, looking ashamed. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let him get far. I sent Hunter to get help, but-” he started, looking mournful. “Don’t worry dear, I’m glad you tried to help. You can go home now, I’ve got it from here,” she finished, dismissing him with a wave. He stayed, however, watching Jacob mutter nonsense and convulse with an air of confusion. He stayed all the way until the ambulance came, where he caught a ride back home. His parents embraced him immediately, crowing with pride over his heroic actions. He took their praises in stride. But, once he was alone, he sat, furrowing his brow. He couldn’t remember the last three hours. He couldn’t remember much of anything, really. Only his friend group, soccer practices, and birthdays. Important things. Had he hit his head? Feeling around his hair, he found the small, circular bruise that was beginning to appear from his violent seizure. Of course, however, he had forgotten the occurrence. Relived, he stood. Yes, that must have been it. He’d hit his head. Shaking off the panic that had begun to rise, he returned to the kitchen and the happy embraces of his family. The only individual who remembered the entirety of the situation was the unfortunate Hunter. He lost his mind in the following years, becoming almost as utterly insane as his twin. The unfortunate pair, they were called, recipients of pity wherever they went. James, meanwhile, lived the life of a normal boy. The only remnant of the past he had lived was the black, thick blood which pumped through his veins, freed of its inhabitants but inescapable.