How shall I kill you? Let me count the ways.

            I’ve thought of baking you alive, rather like my signature pig’s head en croute, but my oven couldn’t really manage all of you. Not all at once, anyway.             Perhaps a bomb would be better. Faster, cleaner. But I don’t want fast. Or clean. I want slow and dirty so you get just an inkling of the pain you’ve caused me. No,

agony . Pure, lacerating, mental agony.

            Yes, I have to destroy your peace of mind, your heart and soul. Especially your heart.

            Like you destroyed mine, you bastard swine!

            All those times you laughed and joked with Caroline and me, except it was Caroline’s jokes you laughed at. You smiled at mine.

            ‘I think he fancies you,’ I told her. ‘Matt! Fancy me?’ She roared with laughter. It wasn’t that funny. ‘You’ve got an over-active imagination, Vernon! Go and put the carrots on.’

            Sleek and elegant was Caroline, and she got sleeker and more elegant the longer we were married. While I just got fatter and squatter. Like I could defy the nature of my calling!             Poisoning. I gave that serious thought. But LEEDS’ PREMIER OFFAL CHEF HOSPITALISES LOVE RIVAL isn’t a happy headline.

            And then it hit me.

I  couldn’t poison you, but I could get

you  to poison yourself. Brilliant, eh?             All those niggling little comments from Caroline about Matt’s amazing Vietnamese recipes – ‘Well, he’s been there, hasn’t he? Studied with the locals. You can’t do better than that.’             ‘By “you”,’ I ask her, ‘you mean “me”? And how do you know his recipes are amazing?’             That shuts her up. She mutters something about ‘all the compliments he’s had’ and immediately changes the subject.             And I know she’s had a meal with you – and at your place. No one takes a steaming bowl to a park bench. And if you’ve put hot food in my wife’s belly, then what else – ?

            I can’t finish the thought. My stomach’s a tight fist. My brain’s boiling with rage and pain. Look what you’ve done to me, Caroline, when I love you so much my heart’s fit to burst!

            So, when I can find a spare moment, I look up Vietnamese recipes and – bingo! – there it is. Lemongrass chilli mushroom stir-fry. With shiitake mushrooms.

            Mushrooms and I have a history. When I was young and stupid, some really stupid mates persuaded me to drop some magic mushrooms. Only there was nothing magic about them. I’m not even sure they were mushrooms. Six hours later, when I’d finished throwing up, I vowed never to touch a mushroom – any mushroom – again.             Of course, I have. Well, you can’t offer a full offal menu without the odd button or beefsteak. But that’s beside the point.

            What if smarty pants Matthew  - yes, you, you treacherous sod! - picked the wrong mushroom? I’ll have warned you enough – in front of witnesses, I’ll make sure of that. But you breeze ahead, anyway. Which, of course, you’ll do. I’ll make sure of that, too.             ‘Invite Matt to dinner?’ says Caroline when I suggest it. Her face can’t decide whether to show disbelief or panic. The panic gives me a little twist of triumph, and pain. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’             ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I just fancied trying one of these Vietnamese dishes you rave about. A chef has to keep learning.’             ‘Oh,’ she says, just puzzled now. ‘But you’re an offal specialist.’             ‘That’s why Matt can do the cooking,’ I beam. ‘I’ll pay for the ingredients. I’ve even got my eye on a recipe. Apparently it’s one of the best.’             Her face is back to disbelief.             ‘But if you don’t think he’s up to it,’ I say. ‘Obviously he’s bound to find me a bit intimidating – ’             ‘Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Caroline steps in quickly.

            ‘Well,’ I smile reassuringly, ‘if you really think so.’             It still takes over a month to fix a date. Caroline tells me you’re very busy. Or perhaps it’s just the bowel-draining terror of confronting your lover’s cuckolded but still pathetically loyal husband? Especially when your culinary skills are about to be exposed as worthless crap!             Actually, I can do with the time. What I’m looking for is something reassuringly lethal, and you won’t find that in the local wholesaler’s (no, really, I’ve checked).

            My extensive researches on Google tell me my best bets are the encouragingly named Deadly Webcap, Death Cap or Destroying Angel, all of which, apparently, grow wild in the UK. But how to find them? I’ve precious little spare time as it is and Caroline’s bound to notice if I spend it skulking around the local woods.

            Next thing I know Fatiq, my unusually hairy sous-chef,

and  my usual relief cook both go sick and I’m working double shifts. Days pass in an offal-scented blur, which leaves little enough time for sleep, let alone scheming.             Then one morning, as I leave, I can’t help noticing Caroline’s scrubbing the kitchen worktop like she’s trying to remove the Formica. ‘Well, I don’t want Matt thinking my kitchen is anything less than spotless, do I?’ she says. And, with a sickening jolt, I realise the date. The meal’s just two days away.             I’m going to have to eat this bastard’s culinary catastrophe without even the pleasure of seeing him die in agony!             ‘And don’t think you’re leaving all this to me!’ Caroline knees the overflowing waste bin towards me. ‘You can empty this for starters.’             I calmly point out that I am understaffed, working eighteen hours a day and currently late and, when we’ve finished shouting, I take the bin out.

            The dustbin is at the bottom of the garden by the door to the ginnel. An area that doesn’t get much attention, and only gets it now because I manage to knock over the dustbin and upend the contents of the waste bin onto the weed-strewn path, all in one smooth movement.

            But it’s as I kick the spilled waste into a patch of leaf mould, that I see it. Deadly Webcap, as I live and breathe. Though

you  won’t for much longer, Matthew matey!

            I’ve stared at the images long enough. Two fattish yellowy-brown stems, each about three inches high. I even find a paper bag in the rubbish to pick them up with. What’s left I grind into the leaf mould with my size tens. No point in leaving evidence, is there?             Checking I’m unobserved from the house, I hide the paper bag in the garden tool store, and scoot out through the ginnel, grinning like an idiot.

            That night I finish late. Caroline’s asleep when I get in. I’m so knackered I can barely stand, but pulling on a pair of old Marigolds, mincing the webcap and popping it into a small deli pot which I hide on the topmost kitchen shelf – the one Caro can’t reach – gives me all the energy I need. I chuck Marigolds and mincing knife in the bin and go to bed happy. Which is more than you’ll do tomorrow, soon-to-be-a-memory Matt!

            ‘You

will  be on your best behaviour, won’t you, Vernon?’ Caroline asks warily fifteen minutes after he should have arrived. She only calls me ‘Vernon’ when she’s annoyed with me, or feeling guilty. Looks like a double whammy today.             ‘Sweetness,’ I assure her, smilingly. ‘I’ll treat him with kid gloves.’ ‘Sweetness’ only makes her even warier. Must stop that. Then the door bell rings.             Enter my love rival. Imagine the tigerish charisma of a young Harrison Ford, the wisdom of a Mahatma and the glasses of Clark Kent. Well, that’s Caroline’s view.

            All I see is a long thin streak of piss, leaning over me with watery eyes, slobbery lips and a what-did-I-just-step-in look. Oh and the glasses are round, wire-rimmed Nazi torturer style. Funny how Caroline missed that.             Naturally I’m left standing like an over-ripe lemon as they spend the first five minutes gushing over each other. Finally, I snatch the two carrier bags the piss-streak’s holding.             ‘Tonight, young Matthew,’ I announce, ‘I am your sous chef. I’ll just set up in the kitchen.’             His face drops. ‘Oh no. I'm used to working on my own.’ Suddenly we’re playing tug-of-war with Waitrose bags for life.             ‘I’m sorry, Matthew. I have professional standards in my kitchen. I can’t possible compromise them.’             ‘Oh Vernon, you make beans on toast in your underpants!’ snaps Caroline. ‘Let the man get on with it.’             With magnificent restraint I say calmly, ‘But how else am I going to learn his wisdom, darling?’             Caroline’s face is wide-eyed disbelief. But you, you narcissistic twat, you buy it! ‘Well,’ his grip relaxes, ‘if you’re happy to give me a free hand – ’             Why not, I scream silently. You’re fingering everything else I hold precious!

            In the kitchen Caroline hovers, clearly hoping to keep the peace. We watch you set out the ingredients. I prod a container.

            ‘So are these the shit ache mushrooms, then, Matthew?’

            ‘Actually it’s pronounced “shi-tar-kay”, Vernon,’ you say. ‘And do call me “Matt.”’             ‘Right you are, Matthew,’ I smile, ignoring Caroline’s quick glare. ‘Got to be careful with mushrooms, you know. Mistake could be very nasty.’             ‘I’m sure Matt knows what he’s doing,’ Caroline chimes in. I’m sure he bloody does, too, but not in the kitchen!             ‘To save time,’ you say, ‘I’ve already minced the lemongrass and the garlic in my mini-blender at home.’             ‘I’d never have known to do that, Matthew,’ I say. ‘Do tell me more.’             And you’re off. I can’t express the joy I get from being patronised by a literally steaming idiot. Even Caroline sidles off after five minutes – ‘to set the table’, which she did two hours ago. Ten minutes later all my nods, smiles and ‘wows’ of admiration have reduced me to a seething frenzy.

            ‘And we’re done,’ you beam at me. I look at you blankly, befuddled by the red mist.             Your beam broadens. ‘Plates when you’re ready, Vernon.’ I hand them over. ‘You know,’ he adds as he fills them, ‘when Caroline first mentioned what you did I thought she said you were an “awful” chef.’ You chuckle, spindly shoulders heaving.             ‘That’s hysterically amusing, Matthew,’ I say.

            Your face straightens. ‘Actually, Vernon, I’m glad we have this chance to talk. I have a little confession to make. About Caroline and I.’             My blood freezes. If I were holding a meat cleaver, which sadly I’m not, the handle would be splintering in my hand. At least you have the decency to look nervous.             ‘But let’s eat first,’ you say brightly, reaching for the plates. Then start as I squeeze in front of you.             ‘Let me do that, Matthew. After your incredible generosity, the least I can do is provide the service.’

            Wisely, you nod. ‘Of course.’ ‘Make yourself comfortable. Be there in two shakes.’             I stand deathly still, heart thumping, till I hear voices from the front room. Then I whip open the cupboard, scramble around the top shelf for my deadly deli pot. Just as my fingers snag the lid, Caroline bursts in.

            ‘Vernon, what’s the hold up? Matt says it has to be served steaming!’             The pot snaps upright under my fingers. The lid pops off. Mushroom fragments spray the worktop. They’re in my face, my hair, the FOOD!

AAAAAGH! ’             ‘Vernon, what are you doing!’             ‘It’s a garnish,’ I gabble. ‘Last minute touch.’             ‘Touch? It’s more like a punch! It’s everywhere!’             She reaches for a plate.             ‘Don’t touch!

DON’T TOUCH! ’             She’s staring at me as if I’m going mad. I

am  going mad. Grabbing a knife I begin scraping the top layer off each serving, sweeping dollops into the sink.             Caroline’s still staring at me. ‘Vernon,’ she says, ‘you’re wasting half the meal! Let me - ’             ‘ NO! ’ I make her jump. ‘I’ll be there – I’ll be there!’             ‘Vernon,’ she warns, ‘you come straight in.’ And, thank God, she goes.             I want to bite my knuckles. I want to scream. OFFAL CHEF SLAUGHTERS SELF, SPOUSE AND FANCY MAN IN MUSHROOM MISHAP. The headline burns itself into my brain.

            How can I have been so maniacally stupid? How can I have put my beloved’s life at such an insane risk! What was I

thinking !             Actually, at the minute, I’m finding thinking a teeny bit hard. But I know I have to face you and Caroline.

            I gather up the plates. I may have piled them on top of each other.

            ‘Vernon!’ Caroline shrieks at me as I walk into the living room. ‘Why have you piled the plates on top of each other!’             I look down. Fried mushrooms are mysteriously dripping all over the carpet. You and Caroline stare at me, which strikes me as quite rude. You’re sitting at opposite ends of the dining table, leaving an empty seat between them. It feels like an inquisition.

            ‘Why don’t you join us, Vernon?’ you say. You look as if I might attack you with a meat cleaver, which feels like a familiar thought.

            ‘OK.’ I nod, but I have to put the plates down first. For some reason the floor has started billowing like the sea and I’m afraid I’ll drop something.             Sitting helps a bit, but it doesn’t stop the walls and the ceiling gently billowing, too.             ‘Vernon,’ you say, ‘I’m afraid I’m here under slightly false pretences.’             I try to look at you, but your face seems to be subtly changing colour, like you’re getting sunburned and sea-sick in alternating waves. It’s quite distracting.             ‘I think Caroline has given the impression we’re friends, and in a way we are now, but I’m actually her therapist.’ You peer at me, as if you’re expecting something. ‘You do know what a therapist is, Vernon?’             ‘Vernon!’ Caroline snaps. For a second I’m afraid I’ll throw up. ‘I was worried about you. About your anger issues.’             ‘Me? Angry?’ Her face is a picture of such furious disbelief I burst out giggling. She stares at me in horror. And then I feel very ill.

            My head thumps onto the table top.             ‘I’d avoid the stir fry if I were you,’ I say. ‘I think it’s – off.’ I wake up in Leeds Infirmary. Turns out I have abnormal sensitivity to psilocybin-based fungi. It takes me a while to realise they’re talking about magic mushrooms. One touch and I’m higher than Eckersthwaite Pike.

            Apparently shrooms are easy to confuse with Deadly Webcap, or any other wild mushroom when you’re stressed out of your mind, sleep-deprived and deeply depressed, which, of course, is normal in any decently run restaurant kitchen.

            But that’s all behind me now. Caroline’s insisted I take a break. I’ve even had a session with you know who. Apparently I do have anger issues. Who knew! Apart from Caroline, that is.

            Luckily, though, you assume my lacing the stir fry with hallucinogens was a crude attempt to make you confess to knocking off Caroline. An understandable delusion in my over-stressed state. ‘We’re very lucky, Vernon,’ you tell me, ‘you didn’t mistake it for something far more deadly!’

            How we laughed.

            I’m a little disappointed, though, that Caroline decides to regard my behaviour as a slur on her virtue rather than a sign of my deep, abiding love. But once she lets me back into the bedroom, and I’ve weaned her off takeaways, I’m sure we’ll be fine.

            Next week, though, I’m back in the kitchen and back to normal, thank God! And the first thing I’m going to do is wring the thick hairy neck of that malingering mound of rancid offal fat Fatiq for bunking off when I’m clearly at screaming point.

            He is

DEAD, DEAD, DEAD! /ends


When Chaia dies, she wants a plaque on this park bench. One of those tacky ones, where you put a quote and the person's name, in memory of. She wants it to be an interesting quote, because she wants to be an interesting person. Key word being 'wants,' because she doesn't think she has achieved it yet.

Perhaps she has. Maybe they don't tell her because they don't want to pale in comparison. Their voice boxes are polluted in envy, jealous of all the interesting things she has done. Perhaps her imagination is getting the better of her again. Chaia has an overactive one. Back in the day, way back, before puberty settled in, she was the Queen of Imagination. She would host tea parties with her stuffies, Ronnie Rhino and Mary Moose. She would pretend Ronnie had a crush on Mary. He'd always put an extra lump of sugar in her tea, because it had to be as sweet as her. Smoothest rhino she had ever met.

As much as she would love to pretend it was happily ever after, Ronnie got his head torn off by her dog while she was at camp for the week. Her parents replaced him with Roger Rhino. She wasn't supposed to notice. But Ronnie had a tattoo of a polka dot on his right butt cheek, and Roger didn't. She knew he was different. So did Mary. She was a very observant moose. Unfortunately for herself, she was in a similar boat. Chaia had made friends with the neighbor boy the summer before kindergarten. His name was Sterling, and he was her best (albeit only) friend.

She remembers the one weekend they had convinced her mom to take them to the zoo. There were supposed to be baby lions. Everybody was excitedly surrounding the enclosure, and she got to sit on her mother's shoulders to get a better view. Then Sterling had wanted to see too, and she had to get set down, because her mother said it was too dangerous to make a human totem pole and stack him on her shoulders.

While he was up there, a bird had pooped on him. It thankfully had hit him in the hat. Some lady next to them had said that it was good luck, despite the fact that it was his favorite hat. Her mother had treated them to double scoop ice creams that afternoon, so maybe she was right. Maybe she should start feeding the birds in the park fiber supplements. Bring on the good luck. Sterling had to leave at the end of summer. Turned out his parents were splitting up, and his father had won custody, whisking him off to Nebraska. She had no idea what was out there, but he was. For the first few weeks, she pretended he was going to come back. Then his mother moved away too, and she realized he wasn't coming back. The tea was a bit salty that week. Then Matt moved in. Matt with the boring name, and bubblegum habit that left them too broke to spend pocket change at the arcade. They'd play hide and seek. Sometimes she'd been hidden for a while, and she had to wonder if he was really that bad at the game, or if he was bored of her and wandered off to play anything else. Chaia was best friends with Matt by default. She had a Sterling sized hole, and he was convenient. There was nothing particularly interesting about him other than the fact that his parents paid for basic cable, and that he would agree to have her over every Saturday to watch cartoons over bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios.

She remembers the last bowls of cereal they ever had together. No, he didn't move to Nebraska too. Rather she had gone off to her annual bible camp, and by the time she had gotten back, he had become best friends with another person who wasn't her. She's sure he had a name, not that she can remember it. She tries to block out the painful details.

At the start of second grade, she had made her first official female friend. Official, because they hung out outside of school, if you call getting invited to her birthday slumber party hanging out. Chaia did, because it made her feel wanted. Roger and Mary were fine company, but she wanted someone that didn't make her hold both sides of the conversation. She had gotten her wish, sort of. It turned out Marigold was painfully shy. During the sleepover, when all the friends partnered off into their own huddles, she hung back.

"Is this spot taken?" There was an open spot on the floor for Chaia's sleeping bag. She had taken it, and the following minutes to debate the plural of moose with her.

Moose? Meese? Mooses? She'd gone on a bit of a rant, Marigold shrugging along.

"My mom uses mousse in her hair. You don't think it's made out of moose, do you?"

"You want to find out?"

She'd left Mary behind when they snuck off to the bathroom. It felt odd knowing two Mary's, so she called Marigold Goldie. She liked that.

Goldie stuck by her side through it all. That was until they hit fifth grade, when she fell into the popular crowd, because she had gotten her braces off, and had a visit from the puberty fairy.

Chaia had come home to cry into her pillow. Her mother had rubbed her back, giving her what she thought to be words of wisdom. "Oh sweetheart, don't worry. She'll come around. You know how the saying goes. Make new friends, keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." Sterling silver? Mari-gold? It was a low blow. She made a habit of visiting the park after school. There was a bench by the tree where she would sit, reading from her book. If you paid close enough attention, you'd notice she was actually looking over her book, people watching, turning the pages on a counted beat. She'd watch to see what makes people interesting. There was clearly something wrong with her, seeing as how people kept abandoning her.

Could you train yourself to be interesting? There was a woman that would share the bench with her some days. She liked to toss peanuts to the squirrels. Sometimes she would let Chaia toss a few out, and she would watch them scamper to grab the treats.

They were cute. But they weren't human. It took a year, and three months, before the woman stopped showing up. Her obituary ended up in the paper shortly after. The squirrels still came, and she spent her allowance feeding the only friends she had.

A few months later, she had been standing in line at the grocery store. Her basket was full of nuts. "The honey roasted ones taste better, you know."

She turned, lips quirking. "Of course. But the squirrels don't have such sophisticated palates." He nodded. There was something familiar about him, standing there with his Honey Nut Cheerios, his curly blond hair falling into his eyes. She shook the feeling and paid the cashier. Sitting on the park bench, she saw him. He was walking through the park. When he spotted her, he took a seat. "Have you considered walnuts?" He took a baggie out of his pocket. "I have not."

He threw a handful to the ground. His eyes were set on it, but her eyes were studying him, trying to understand why he looked so familiar.

He laughed at a squirrel.

She knew that laugh. "Sterling," she whispered to herself. Was he back? Or was it all in her overactive imagination? "What'd you say?" He turned away from the squirrels.

"I regret buying all those peanuts now. They're very excited over your walnuts."

"I'll have to bring some more tomorrow." He paused for a moment. "Will you be here tomorrow?" She was there tomorrow.

He came for a week before announcing that he was going back home to his dad's house. He had only been in town for spring break, visiting his mom.

They'd made it through an entire week without exchanging names. She had been too afraid to ask him. "Here's my email. Send me pictures of the squirrels some times, will you?" He handed her a paper. She pocketed it. "Sure thing." After he left, she unfolded it.

His username. It was him. They emailed for years, the pretense of squirrels falling to the wayside as they talked about life. And even though he was miles away, he was the closest thing she had to a friend.

Chaia leans back into her bench. She's supposed to meet with Sterling today. Marigold has passed, with Matt hooked onto her elbow. They look at her, a faint memory of someone they once knew. Now she's just that woman that feeds the squirrels on her twenty first birthday, because nobody wants to take her out for her first drink. "Is this seat taken?" Someone slips into it. She realizes that it's her someone, because he's come all the way from Nebraska to hold her hand and feed the squirrels. And this time when he holds her hand, unlike that summer before kindergarten, he follows it with a kiss. "It is now." One day, Chaia will get that plaque.

Here sat Chaia. The squirrels went nuts for her. Sterling did too .


August 15th, 2023 Dear Martin, I’m sure you’ll be surprised by this card; you probably think it’s an incredibly cheesy one, but I just wanted to thank you for these two incredible weeks together. I’m glad this year you’ve been a camp counsellor with me – it’s been way easier and more fun to put up with the teens! Especially since half of the girls had a crush on you, haha! I thought they were going to kill me when you asked me to dance with you on that last night at the camp. Anyhow, I do hope it’s not the end of our friendship and that you will visit my place; you need to meet my husband, Stephen, he’ll totally adore you, I’m sure of that! Right, but it’s supposed to be a thank you card, after all, that’s why I picked this one with these incredibly shiny, exaggerated gold letters on the card ;P So, really, Martin, all jokes aside, I wanted to thank you for every single conversation we had – for the short ones and all those long ones as well. You’re a really good listener, did you know that? What you said to me the other day, you know, when we sat in the evening on the pier, and you said that I should pursue my dream career and that you were sure I could do it… Your words meant the world to me, thank you! To many people, those might have been empty words, but to me, it’s been something I desperately wanted to hear. My family has always been down-to-earth, including my husband, so I’m really grateful. Thanks! PS Did you know that my blouse from the dance night still smells of your perfume? Told you that you oversprayed yourself that night! Love, Rachel ----------------------------- September 30th, 2023 Dearest Martin, I’d like to thank you once again for coming to my birthday party! That was a fantastic surprise, and the gift… I wanted to thank you properly, but you disappeared without saying goodbye… not sure why. But anyhow, thank you very much for the book, I’ll definitely read something on the power of attitude, I guess you’re right – we can be whatever we have the strength to fight for. Will I see you again? Love, Rachel ---------------------------------- October 20th, 2023 Dearest Martin, I know you told me to stop sending you “Thank You” cards, but well… you know how much I love all kinds of cards (you could send me one too! Just kidding! Or am I?) So, anyhow, thank you for accepting my invitation for the double date; I wasn’t sure you would, haha. I really enjoyed the evening, and so did Stephen. Though, I’m truly sorry that your date stood you up, as a comforting thing I can tell you that you looked deadly handsome that evening, so this is her loss! I do hope my words cheer you up a bit. I saw your mood was clearly subdued at the meeting, I mean, I could see that something was really wrong, I just hope it wasn’t anything more serious. Also, taking this opportunity, I would like to thank you for supporting my ideas when Stephen was skeptical. Look at both of us, Martin, we’re still a good team as we were at the camp! Super glad to have you in my life, Rachel ---------------------------------- November 20th, 2023 Dearest Martin, It’s me again – your Thank You card. Thank you for your last message that I received a month ago. Exactly 30 days ago. I’m getting worried; you haven’t been answering my messages. Is everything OK? Yours, Rachel ---------------------------------- December 18th, 2023 Martin, I’m sorry for slapping your face. And thank you for your honesty, I appreciate the fact that you wanted to protect me, but what you told me about Stephen… Christmas is coming; I cannot think about that right now. But thanks for worrying about me, anyway. Take care, Rachel ---------------------------------- December 28th, 2023 Dear Martin, Thank you for escorting me home. I feel bad about interrupting your time with your friends at the bar, but seriously, who would have thought we would run into each other in the same bar in such a big city? Anyhow, I know I was really drunk that night; I must’ve looked miserable sitting alone at the bar, but well, you can imagine that I needed that. I remember you escorted me home in that pouring rain, even though I protested heavily. I think I was even nasty towards you at some point. Sorry. But I also remember that I felt great to have you around me. Especially when you tried to keep your jacket over my head so I wouldn’t get wet, that was nice… So, in this clumsy way, I want to say that I’m still grateful for having you in my life, despite our recent disagreements. Take care, Rachel -------------------------------- March 20th, 2024 Dearest Martin, I miss you terribly. I’d like to tell you how endlessly grateful I am that our paths have crossed and I had a chance to meet you. And I’ve got so much to tell you… So many things I’m grateful for. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have discovered that my husband is your cousin’s boyfriend… I know I was awful to you when you told me that. I know. And yet you stood by me. And your push for me to pursue my dream career, it was priceless, thank you. Now, in hindsight, I see and understand so many things. And yet I cannot tell you all of that, I can only write it here, in a Thank You card. I’m so furious with myself that I didn’t kiss you back when you kissed me on that street. I’m so sorry, I had to run away from you because I was overwhelmed with Stephen’s infidelity and everything… Now, I would give everything to come back to that day and kiss you back because then you wouldn’t have run after me and that awful car wouldn’t have hit you. It's been two months now since the accident, and you’re still in a coma. The doctors say there’s a slight chance you will wake up, but I refuse to believe that. I believe you will come back. And when you do, maybe we will start over and you will see how much you’ve changed my life. I’m done being this scared, stifled girl, and I no longer will be. Time to get my life. Thank you, Martin, for appearing in my life and making it way better even though I didn’t want it. PS I still have that blouse that smells of you... Always yours, Rachel


Hey. My name's- actually, I can't tell you, and welcome to the story of my life. And trust me, you don't want it. You know, I've always been a bit of an outcast. Everyone always had a cheat code to get through, except for me. Of course, I'm not blind. I see that others suffer too. I see the jock who's allowed to do anything he wants, but it's because his parents don't care. I see the kid who cries silently in the cafeteria while his friends ignore him because it's a regular thing. I see the girl whose own therapist turned against her because of her manipulative father. I know I'm not the only one suffering. It's just that.... for some strange reason, everyone knows naturally how to do certain things and I don't. Everyone knew how to fit in to some extent, even the 'loners' would immediately find a friend group in the first week of school. Even when I first went to school and no one had formed a group yet, it seemed that they would all gravitate to finding a certain type of people they wanted to talk to, and those people would feel the same. Nope. Not this girl. I stood wondering why everyone else could talk to each other and I couldn't. It was like I.... didn't exist. While everyone laughed and joked in the cafeteria, I ate by myself. Maybe it was because I sat at the allergy table. Of course, there were at least three other kids there, but they were crazy and all boys. I don't have anything against boys in general, but I couldn't relate to them or understand their jokes. They were actually a bit crazy, though. One proposed to a pokemon card, while another ate a peanut butter jelly sandwich on purpose. And he smiled and laughed afterwards, even as the rest of the table basically shrieked because, well, WE'RE ALL ALLERGIC TO NUTS. Oh, and I might of had bullies, but that's the thing with me. I don't know where to draw the line. I didn't know if it was bullying or I was just being dramatic. I still don't know now. Let's fast forwards to when I moved before third grade. I finally got a 'best friend'! But let's face it, friendships when you can't understand them don't last them. After all, my friendship started with a duck eraser and a purple-green tie-dye pencil. My first friend was Karen. Yeah. Let that sink in. She'd sit by me at lunch everyday, and I'd love having someone to talk to. In the middle of fourth grade, however, she went away to China because her grandmother died. I was so excited when she came back, but.... she didn't talk to me anymore really. She sat by Molly, who was one of my 'popular' friends. Although, I don't know if I could call her a friend or not. She always seemed a bit toxic, but I could never tell. I also had Kaitlyn, who also seemed a bit toxic, but less than Molly. She'd sit by me every now and then, but she'd bring her friends and talk to them the whole time. Now, remember, this is the allergy table, so there weren't really a lot of kids there. There was one other kid called Abigail on the other side of the table, but she was surrounded with friends. I could see why. She was perfect. Beautiful, never got any lower than an A+, and extremely kind. She didn't want to see me sit alone, and neither did the teachers, and eventually I figured out that the teachers wouldn't leave me alone until I didn't sit alone. So I sat with them. Honestly, I doubt that she really likes me. Don't get me wrong, she's a great person, but I was never really talked to. I couldn't really get into their conversations. She probably only talked to me out of pity and obligation. So I was a lonely girl. I didn't act like everyone else, either. Basically all the grade either hated me or silently judged me. Recess? Ah. I played tag with a bunch of boys. Again, pretty sure they hated me. Pretty sure they still hate me. I honestly didn't care too much, I just wanted to play tag, which I loved to do. But it did hurt. I was known, I think, as the somewhat-quiet-yet-loud serious loner. It was in sixth grade when things started going both downhill and uphill. Alright, so remember I said Kaitlyn visited every now and then? Well now she had her own pretty big friend group. I considered them as good friends, though I know now they didn't like me much. A girl named Kailey came then, and they all became way more toxic. Now, again, I'm still not sure if what people do to me is bullying or not. So I'll stop mentioning it. However, a new girl came with Kaitlyn one day. Her name was Lisa. Lisa is another absolutely perfect girl. She doesn't even have to try. But I won't rant again on what other people have that I don't. Lisa is a really great friend to this day, and I'm really glad I met her. Another friend I made in sixth grade was Kira. Now, Kira had just moved in this year too, but unlike Lisa, I didn't really meet her in school. Sure, we knew each other existed, but we never really talked. From third grade, I enrolled in a very 'tough-person' sport. It's not a well-known one either. I was never good at it, no matter how hard I tried, and I didn't understand how my coaches didn't give up on me yet. Again, pretty sure most of them hated me. But basically all the girls there joined after me, so I tried forming 'friendships' with them. It went sort of well. Everyone else in the club still hated me, but at least the people who joined after me were still friendly. I tried. So Kira was one of those people. Now, I'm not good at fencing, but I can teach some basics, so I tried to help. Now I have a personality that's kind of hard to ignore. If I like you and I think we have a chance at friends, I'll be nice and act normal. By the way, normal for me is dark humor and sarcasm while smiling. If I don't like you and I know you don't like me, then I'll be ignoring you and acting cold. There'll still be sarcasm, but not in the joking-around-with-friends way. Of course, this got me into trouble because kids are stupid and decided to ship me with every male they know. Because I am the joke of the grade. I didn't like that, and here's a lesson guys. If the person you're 'teasing' seems genuinely upset even if you think it's a small thing, stop. It probably doesn't feel like it. Either way, at this point in time I started to realize that some people actually liked me when I acted like myself. The third friend I made was a girl called Stella. I met her because our grade was rehearsing how graduation would go, and she was next to me. Yeah. I started feeling much better, because when she introduced me to her friends, I saw that they actually liked me, and not out of obligation. The main friend I made from that was Harvey, someone who I saw was absolutely fine with being himself and was liked for it. In seventh grade, Stella would eventually introduce me to a girl named Clara, who I also became friends with. She also helped me rekindle my friendship with Karen. Now, I wasn't closest with Kaitlyn, but I did become friends with another one of her friends called Aria. Yeah, things started getting better now that I had friends. However, the best part had yet to come. A few months into the school year, during gym, I was talking to a girl I was friendly with called Ashten. She introduced me to a girl called Emily. Shiny chocolate hair, blue eyes, and an identical twin. Now, me and Emily weren't immediately friends. A couple of days later, I was sitting in front of my fifth period class for lunch again, when I saw Emily. The thing was, somehow, we had never ran into each other before even though we ate lunch in the same place. I guess the days I was there she was at lunch group. I haven't mentioned this before, but music is my life. I exist for it. I was listening to music and then Emily asked me what it was and I gave her my other earbud. We hit it off after that. We were so different yet so alike. I was like this girl with a bad reputation and hated a whole lot of things, yet she was this girl who loved basically everything, and hated no one. Except for Hitler. Yeah. Essentially I was this little bubble of darkness and she was a ball of sunshine. But despite this, we were alike in so many ways. She loved listening to the new songs I discovered, and we messed around and laughed at everything. We understood each other, too. We could tell each other things we'd never tell anyone else and not think anything of it because we knew the other wouldn't ever tell anyone else. We even have a handshake and best friend necklaces. They're yin-yang necklaces, and of course, Emily got the white sparkly one while I got the black one. It's better that way, they match with our closets. I'm in 8th grade now, the last year of middle school. It's only been like a year and a half but I feel closer to her than I have with anyone else. You know what the best part of our friendship is? We could be apart for a long time and it would still be like nothing's changed. Except her height. Why is she so tall.


“I got a letter this morning.” “A letter?” “Yeah, a letter. From my girl on the outside.” “How’s she doing, with the baby and all?” “She’s uh… She says she’s leaving me. She’s taking little Emily and they’re leaving.” “No shit? Damn it, man. Where’s she going?” “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. Probably thinks I’m too dangerous to be around my daughter. I only even got to see Emily once. She was born the day before I got locked up.” “That’s fucked up, dude. Real fucked up.” “I probably deserve it, man.” “What are you talking about?” “It’s not fair to her. Not fair for her to spend all her time out there waiting for me, when I can’t even be there to take care of Emily. She’s gonna be better off somewhere else, with family or something I guess. Get herself a new man and a new life.” “That unfaithful bitch…you gotta stand up for yourself more! Go and track her down once you get the hell out of this God-damned place!” “No, no way! That right there, that’s crazy. Look, I fucked up, ok? Same as you, and same as everyone else in here. If she wants to leave, I’m not gonna go out and try to stop her. She’s her own person.” “Listen mate, I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. You see this?” “What’s that?” “Been working on this for a few weeks. Got my stash stuffed in the mattress right here, everything we need to bust out of here and be back on the outside. Don’t you say nothing, and I’ll get you out of here, too.” “You’re crazy! I’m not going along with that. Listen, I’ve only got a year left on my sentence anyway. Good behavior too, so probably less. I’ll be out of here and they won’t be looking for me no more.” “I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.” “What I understand is that you’re going to get yourself killed, or at least end up in here for life. Fuck that, I’m staying out of it.” “I don’t think you understand me. I let you in on my secret, and now you’re involved. Anything happens to me, and I’m gonna tell them it was your idea. You planted that stuff in my mattress, blackmailed me and threatened me until I went along with it. This shit works both ways, dumbass.” “Hey, be cool. I’ll keep my mouth shut for you, but I’m not gonna try to bust out with you. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a death wish. I want to start my life over. That’s what this is to me, okay? A chance to start over.” “They’ve brainwashed you bad, haven’t they? They’ve gotten into your head, making you believe all their bullshit about rules and rehabilitation…that’s not who you were when you walked into this place. You went hardcore just as much as the rest of us. What’s happened to you, man?” “The only thing that’s happened to me, is deciding that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up behind bars. I did it as a kid, twice before Emily was born, and again now. I haven’t lived…I haven’t done anything with my life other than sit here and rot like some sort of animal. I’ve had enough, alright?” “If you had enough, you’d be fighting to get the hell out of here.” “I am still fighting. I’m fighting for a life where I’m not constantly running away from something. I’m waiting out the end of my sentence and then I’ll get my freedom back. I’ve got a buddy to stay with until I can get work and get my own place. What you’re doing is a suicide mission.” “When this is all over, it’s not gonna be my body that they find in this cell.” “What are you talking abo-“ “Sorry mate, I didn’t want to do this. You were the best pal I had around here, but I can’t risk anyone knowing about the plan. Looks like I’ll have to take off a bit sooner than expected.” “You… cough …why would yo-“ “Hey, what the hell is going on in here?!” “Oh, shi-“ “Knife! Drop the weapon! Drop it now!” “Sergeant, put this block into lockdown now! Nobody gets in or out!” “Get down on the ground, hands behind your head! Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” “We need a medic over here, this guy’s been stabbed!” “You fucking pigs! Go ahead and shoot me, I know you’d fucking enjoy it!” “Get the cuffs on him and get him out of here. Put him in the solitary cell.” “Fuck you!” “You may as well keep your mouth shut, buddy. You’re only going to make things worse for yourself at this point.” “You can’t put me in the hole! Let go of me!” “Stop resisting! Stop resisting!” “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of there soon enough…for some serious questioning.” “Hey, Sarge! Look what I found in the mattress!” “Holy shit…how long has all this been here?” “Looks like he’d been stockpiling for weeks. Months, maybe.” “Why the hell did no one notice this when it was happening?!” “Well, I…uh-” “You what ?” “Well, he obviously kept it hidden! How would anyone have known?!” “Inspections, damn it! Who was responsible for inspecting the cell? Don’t bother answering, ‘cause I already know it was supposed to be you.” “Sarge, I-” “I always figured that if anyone around here was a traitor, it would be you. Save your explanation for questioning. Guards!” “No! Please! I was blackmailed, I swear! He said he would kill me if I talked!” “So you helped him?! Damn it, rookie! The integrity of this entire prison has been compromised because of you! God almighty only knows who else has been planning an escape or what sort of connections they may have. You’re just as guilty as he is!” “Please, let me go!” “Sorry, rookie. You’ve lost your chance for that. See you in the slammer, when I inspect your tiny cell. Give my regards to the prisoners.”


Trigger warning: suicide missions

I first saw someone get killed when I was six. I was young enough to not know the reason why, but old enough to know that I shouldn’t ask. When the Japanese soldier burst into our straw-roofed cottage, I felt fear that I had never experienced before, of being killed – or worse, taken alive – by this stone-faced man in his khaki uniform with hands that belonged to a giant. I didn’t see the beating – I hid in a small wooden cabinet – but I could hear the lashing of the whip and the scream that ensued, over and over again, penetrating into my blocked ears. I crawled out gingerly when the sound abruptly ended, but then I was met with the sight of the soldier dragging a limp and bloody man out of the cottage. I caught sight of the soldier’s face for a second and was bristled to the bones by the grim ecstasy in his eyes. And yet the horror ensued – the man was tied up to the great apple tree that shaded our cottage, and the soldier stood ground about twenty metres away. The soldier raised the rifle and aimed. The shot rang out throughout the entire village, and the crows on the apple tree shrieked and glided upwards. The soldier aimed again. I finally looked away, and shook when the second shot pierced the air. This man, whose blood stained the apple tree and cursed it from bearing any more fruit, was my father, and the sole reason behind every bullet I shot, and the reason why I accepted this task – which I knew would be the last thing I do for the country, and its people, and my father. The task was simple and fatal. Go in, kill as many Japanese as you can, and blow yourself up. Even as a freedom worker, there were better and nobler ways to go. Death – I had come dangerously close to it many times in my years in the Independence Movement. Yet when I barely made it out alive, I was never as shocked or shaken as the others. And yet, as my cold and clammy hands held tight onto the steering wheel, I could feel my legs visibly shaking. A novel feeling of a constricting pressure rose up my chest and tightened my throat. Maybe it was the fact that it was voluntary – that I was willingly laying my life down. Our car stumbled along the crudely-paved dirt road that rose and fell with the curve of the hills. The biting wind rattled the flimsy window and sliced painfully through my double-layered clothing. The sky was bleached into a kind of sickly grey, like a dreary blanket weighing down onto the barren landscape that seemed to stretch forever. Only the setting sun broke this monotonous sight, dyeing the western horizon red. Next to me was Ji, a light-hearted yet painfully blunt man who was lost in an uncharacteristic silence. His roughly-cut shoulder length hair whipped against his dark skin that stretched over his bones, showing every mark of poverty and deprivation. His eyes had a glint of sorrowful madness to them, evoking a sense of both fear and pity. I didn’t know him very well, and I wasn’t trying to know him better – I saw no need, as we were going to die today anyway. Our destination shimmered into view like a mirage, a military factory that supplied the guns that were used to shoot us and tanks that were used to trample over our homes. The building itself was largely obscured by birch trees of deathly pallor, and the only thing that signified its existence was the thick, steady column of smoke that rose and dispersed into the sky. “Stop here,” Ji said. “They can’t see us from here.” I turned the car into the obscurity of the forest and slowed it to a stop. “How many’ve you got left?” Ji said tiredly. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I counted, and said, “Two.” Ji chuckled. “Yeah?” I slid one between my lips and gave him the other. Ji pulled out his lighter and cupped his hands around his mouth. When his was lit, Ji handed me the lighter and said, “Check the back.” I sighed, then got out and around to the trunk. As I lit the cigarette, I opened the rusty trunk with my other hand. It was empty except for a brown suitcase, with peeling leather covering. I gently took it out and brought it back into the car. Ji held out his hands, and I gave him the suitcase. He laid it on his lap and clicked it open, revealing three round objects with irregular grooves on its sides. I eyed the factory out in the distance. It was basically a set of large warehouses, which the Imperial Army had claimed for themselves after driving out its inhabitants. Tiny worker ants crawled around the buildings, working in a predetermined pattern, silently, thoughtlessly, but effectively. The graffiti and filth that had dirtied the walls had been wiped clean and replaced by a huge flag of the rising sun. “Should we go?” Ji said. “Wait,” I said. “Let me enjoy my last minutes a little longer.” “Mm.” A cold silence passed over us, until Ji seemed to revert to his normal ebullient manner. “How did you end up here, anyway? You know, in all this. The Independence Movement.” The lump in my throat seemed to snake further upwards. I composed myself, and said, “It’s the usual story. My father was killed.” “Oh, by your father, you mean Tae? I’ve heard of him. Most men in the Movement have. Well, most men have heard of you as well. I heard all about you at Kimhae. Everyone talks about you. Not in a bad way, of course. They’re always praising you, for how you fought out of that dreadful place all by yourself. Really, I always wanted a chance to meet you. It’s an honour, to be able to meet you.” “Most of the things they say aren’t true,” I said coldly. “It’s all propaganda. I only survived at Kimhae because of the men who gave their lives for me. I had to step over the corpses of my comrades to get out alive. Don’t believe everything they tell you. I’m not the hero they say I am.” “But surely you have enormous courage just to lay down your life like this?” “Aren’t you doing the same?” I asked. “Well, I have no choice, really. I’m going to die anyway.” “Why’s that?” “You haven’t heard?” Ji asked. “About me? They made quite a fuss about it. Well, I guess I deserve it. I, well, they took my sister and mother. The soldiers, I mean. And you know what they’ll do with them. I couldn’t bear it. My sister had just gotten married. I just couldn’t let that happen. So I gave them what they wanted – the document the Movement entrusted me with. I don’t know what’s inside, never opened it, was told not to. But in any case, it wasn’t as important as saving my family, you know? But then turns out it was really important to the Movement. They told me that if I don’t take part in this, they’ll have my head.” He then seemed to survey my expression. “You’re not angry, right?” “No, I’m not,” I said truthfully. Somehow, seeing the flaws in others filled me with some kind of guilty pleasure, as if the imperfection of another could somehow exalt me. And once again, silence, as we sat, lost in thought. The uneasiness grew until I couldn’t stand it anymore. My hand reached into my pocket and found the cool comfort of the revolver. It travelled further and found the grip of a knife. When I pulled it out, Ji turned, transfixed by the sharp glint of the blade in the setting sun. He watched in silence as I held it to the ring finger of my left hand. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, I sliced downwards. I let out a stifled cry. When I opened my eyes again, my hand was a bloody mess with crimson streams running down my palm. Ji coughed uncomfortably as I examined the remaining half of my finger. “Damn it, then.” Ji said, and took the knife from him. With a sharp intake of breath, he cut off the top of his finger. Steadying my heavy breathing, I closed my eyes and said, “Let’s go.” Ji nodded. I started the car again and manoeuvred expertly through the densely-spaced trees. Soon we broke into a clearing, and the factory loomed high over us. As we grew closer, I could hear the workers shout and form a crowd. I gritted my teeth and pushed hard down the accelerator. Soon we were in shooting range. I could hear a warning shot from my left, but I didn’t turn to look. The crowd sensed the danger now and dispersed hastily, yelling and shouting. Ji shouted something, but I couldn’t hear him from the blood thudding in my ears. I swerved the car away dangerously close to one of the buildings. A sharp shot pierced my concentration, and I saw that Ji had already pulled out his gun. “Get off!” Ji yelled. I opened the door and rolled off the car. I stood up and briefly surveyed the chaos we had caused. As I raised my arm, my fingers found the comfortable groove of the trigger, and I began firing with hysteric fervour. Each shot rocked my shoulders, and was met with a scream. I saw Ji darting into one of the buildings, using the suitcase as a shield and shooting manically. But in that momentary distraction, a shot rang out from behind and pain erupted from my shoulders. I screamed and turned with my gun raised, and fired. The bullet found its mark, and a young officer crumpled onto the pavement. I stepped closer, and to my dull shock, I saw that the officer was barely of age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The passion of his youth was still bright in his eyes, but fading. He weakly raised his revolver but I kicked it away from his hand. My eyes locked onto his, both burning with ineffable hatred. Then, the boy’s eyes gave away to a meek despair, disgusting me. As I raised my gun again, I remembered the soldier aiming at my father tied on the apple tree. Had he hesitated? No. He was used to killing. Every murder was forgotten and buried into a deep, apathetic part of his brain. Wasn’t I the same? I fired again, and my heart fluttered with an unspeakable euphoria. The power of hurting and destroying the powerless filled me with a kind of dreadful exuberance that was utterly inhuman. As if the last strand of my humanity had disappeared with my ring finger. As if this lifelong struggle for this country, which was neither moral nor wicked, had only left me with days drowning with guilt and nights thieved of sleep, and now it would end with a final gift, the awakening of a horrid monster within me. As I watched the boy writhe in pain and finally succumb to the darkness, the sincerest part of my soul was glad that this was my final day. I heard the distant thudding of footsteps, and turned. The gun dropped from my hand, and I faced the incoming group of soldiers. They stopped, and raised their rifles. The soldier in front shouted, and the first volley was fired. As I fell, I saw the hideous grin of the officer that killed my father, the monster that haunted my dreams from the age of six. My own mouth contorted into that same grin, and I fell to the ground next to the corpse of the boy. And in that last moment, all I saw was the flag of the rising sun looming before me. Then, suddenly, it burst into a maelstrom of fire. I embraced death with open arms.


It’s 7:00pm, and like clockwork, Coco trots up to G, with her gray feather duster tail raised high, and cocks her tiny head expectantly. Coco has never been a patient cat. As she saw it, the world functioned according to her schedule. Who else is there to worry about? G was her entire world, so she assumed she was his too. And she wasn't far off with that assumption. “I know it’s time, baby cat, just one second.” He continues to type furiously with his left hand while reaching down to give Coco a quick scratch between the ears with his right to let her know he sees her, and he hears her. Coco feels reassured, but won’t let him forget she’s still waiting for him. Moments later, Coco starts making the calculations to take her valiant leap onto the desk, presenting herself squarely in front of G’s computer screen. She wouldn’t block much of the desktop if it weren’t for her puffy gray fur that always looked like she just came from an unfortunate run-in with a child who just learned about static electricity and wanted to test out some balloon magic. She might look like a large cat, but G swears she’s 75% fur. G is just finishing up writing his code, so he doesn’t appreciate the break in concentration. But this is what he signed up for when he adopted Coco. He never understood why people would get so upset with their pets for climbing on tables or scratching at furniture. To him, any so-called “bad behavior” was all part and parcel with pet ownership. It was easy for him to hold this opinion since Coco never had an affinity for chewing plastic, or really doing anything she wasn’t supposed to, for that matter. She liked to sit on the kitchen table, but her potentially dirty paws weren’t a deterrent to G, who usually ate at his desk and made a habit of kissing her paws ever since she was a kitten anyways. Her germs were no worse than the unknowable filth he encountered on the subway every day. Coco politely, but expectantly, lifts her white-mittened paw to G’s face as if to say, “it’s time, Dad.” With just a few more clicks, he gives in. “Ok, let’s go.” G sometimes needed to be pulled out of the trance he entered when he plopped into his office chair. He is an extremely self-motivated problem solver, and he loved how computers gave him the opportunity to solve even the most complex puzzles. During his most intense bouts of hyper-focus, hours felt like minutes. G scoops up Coco under his arm, grabs the heavy-duty pet brush from the closet, and carries her to the designated spot on the living room carpet. Only one room away in his 900 square-foot apartment, G follows the trace of his daily path on the carpet, which is slightly less flattened near the walls compared to the center line, where it’s padded down almost entirely. Coco loves the carpet because, as she’s learned, things can get very slippery on a freshly mopped tile floor. Coco knows what she’s in for and starts purring immediately. Cats like Coco require daily brushing to tame the iconic mane that  G’s friends love to compliment. Her fur easily tangles, especially on her hindquarters, making it harder for her to clean after doing her business. The long fur on her chest dips down into her water bowl. Although it’s not the most sanitary, G does not reconsider allowing her on the kitchen table. Plus, Coco loves to groom herself, which is basically like taking a bath. But self-grooming so much long, loose fur is a recipe for hairballs. Again, sanitation is not a priority in this home. Through years of attempting distinct solutions to each problem, G found that brushing her daily solved all of them at once. He was usually able to brush away approximately two kitten-sized balls of fur from her with each brushing session. Brushing was satisfying for Coco, therapeutic for G, and it only took a few minutes. After all, grooming is one of our most primitive instincts as mammals. Every mammal bonds with their offspring by grooming. It’s a way of building trust and healthy attachment, and it’s functional. G had a routine that left no patch ungroomed. He starts with the back left for 5 brushes, back right for 5 brushes, tummy left and right (5 brushes each), rump left and right (5 brushes each), neck (5 brushes total). Coco gets hand-fed a treat in between each of these self-defined quadrants. She purrs the entire time. When the routine is complete, G takes the furball from the brush, marvels at his work, and wonders how many hairballs he’s saved Coco from before throwing it in the trash. Then, Coco returns to one of her 3 beds. This time, it was the Christmas-themed one even though it was the middle of June. She grooms herself to correct any part of her fur she feels is out of place. G refills his water glass, takes a big swig, and then returns to the computer. G has never missed a brushing session, partially because Coco’s unmatched circadian rhythms would never let him forget. G has a simple and a solid job. He cares most about spending quality time with his family and friends, including Coco. When it’s the end of a long day and he’s feeling overwhelmed, the brushing routine reminds him to slow down. He checks his heart rate on his Apple Watch, a habit he probably does more frequently than necessary, and notices a dip back to resting rate after he sits back down. They say taking care of a living being is good for you, and G would agree. Sometimes, the five-minute mental break reminds him to look out the window, or to cook dinner, or simply got him out of the rut of working, gaming, or getting sucked into an internet rabbit-hole. Those sacred few minutes gave them both peace, and they returned to their assigned seats feeling calmed and accomplished.


Tick, tock, tick, tock , time went by fast as I was busy working. Exhausted and drained by the day’s work, I was relieved to look up at the wall clock, fashioned to resemble a mini solar system, and find that it was already 7p.m. Closing time. I began to pack up along with the other day staff when the employees on the night shift showed up. Packing up even faster, I grabbed my bag and my binder then zoomed out the door and walked past several staff until I felt a firm grip around my wrist. “Sammy!” annoyance built up within me as I recognized the voice before I even turned back. “It’s Samantha. Don’t nickname me.” “Geez, I’m sorry,

Samantha Solar Sun ,” he teased and said my full name. “Is that better?” “Yes,

Morgan Lunar Moon .” “Wow, I’m surprised you know my full name.” he smirked and leaned closer. “Do I have a stalker?” “Not a chance,

Lunar . I’m sure ‘Lunar’ must have been a typo on your birth certificate for ‘lunatic’.” I rolled my eyes and snatched my wrist from his grasp. The tall, dark-haired pest in front of me and I work in the human resources department of the office; except I work during the day, and he works at night- so thankfully, I’m mostly away from him. I’m mostly away from people in general which is great because people can be a lot to handle. It’s ironic that I have a job giving warmth and light to humans. My Mum had my job here before but she couldn’t continue after she had a ‘burnout,’ if you know what I mean. So now I have to take care of the family.  “Ouch,” he gripped his chest over his heart and feigned pain. “That hurt but I’ll let it slide because you’re cute. Your fiery, red hair. Your gorgeous, hazel eyes. Such a beaut’. Words are not enough to describe the beauty of your-” “Do you need money, Morgan?” “Can’t I just compliment a babe when I see one?” “If you don’t need anything then I’ll be on my way home now.” “No, wait! Alright, you got me. There’s a party tonight. The biggest one of the century. The biggest one of the millennium even, and I’d like you to be my date.” Calling it the ‘biggest party of the millennium’ sure did seem like a stretch. Then again, how would I know. I probably haven’t gone to a party in years, but knowing how Morgan acts like a party-driven donkey, any party is a ‘big’ party to him; and a big no from me. “Thanks, but I…. I have things to do tonight.”  “Like what?” he squinted his eyes in suspicion. “Uh, personal things. None of your business!” “You’re always just bouncing back and forth between home and work and home and work and-” “Yeah, I get it!” “I’m just saying, live a little. It’ll be fun, I promise!” Fun for him, undoubtedly. I’ve never been fond of social gatherings. I mean, what’s the fun in being cramped up with a bunch of people, most of which you don’t even know, for a couple of hours and eating cheap snacks I can just go buy at the grocery store if I wanted to, while listening to overly loud music at decibels that are probably enough to cause ear damage to your neighbors down the street? If there’s some appeal, I certainly can’t see it. Despite my clear disinterest in attending the party, he still didn’t give up in his attempts to convince me. He grabbed my hand again and clasped it between his hands, leaning closer and speaking more softly. His gray eyes had a mesmerizing twinkle to them which I called ‘moonlight’ and I suppose that made him more convincing. “Just imagine this, Samantha. A night of laughter, fun and excitement. It’ll be a night you’ll never forget. It’ll be just me, you…… and the Stars.” “Wait, what? the Stars?” Cindy and Mindy Star, twins and my co-workers who also worked the night shift with Morgan. “Yeah, I crashed my car last week and it’s still at the repair shop so they’re giving us a ride to the party. It’ll still be fun though. The more the merrier!” After thinking for a moment, I gave him an answer. “No.” “What? Why?” he whined like a child. “Even after all my convincing?” “I’m still not fully convinced.” He sniffed and pretended to cry in what I assume was a poor attempt at making me feel bad. Although I still didn’t really want to go, I remembered our last

New Year’s revolution

party ;  where we celebrated another complete revolution of the earth and I told myself I’d try and go out more than last year- so basically more than zero times. “Alright, I’ll go but I’ll only stay for a little bit.” “Really?” his fake crying ceased instantly. “Awesome, I’ll pick you up at 10.” As he walked away, bouncing and bubbly, I realized something. “Wait, shouldn’t you still be at work by then?” Chuckling suspiciously, he turned back to respond. “I have my ways.” Then he left. Mischievous brat.                Despite getting home hours before the party was supposed to start, I could barely relax. Every aspect of my being was filled with regret.

Why did I agree to go? I could have been watching a movie and enjoying a quiet night by myself instead of racking my brain, trying to figure out what shirt would match with this brown skirt!

I thought as I rummaged through my closet, which was mostly filled with corporate clothing for work- which made my outfit selection for a casual night out even harder. I finally found a white, spaghetti strap top, which my sister must have forgotten at my place seeing as I’d never buy something like that myself. I finally put on my black flats which I wore to the office often and I was ready to go. Knock, knock . Someone was at the door. “I’m coming!” KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK , I flung the door open angrily and surprise, surprise- it was Morgan. “Are you trying to break down my door or someth- ARGH!” The strong scent of his cologne shot straight into my lungs. “ Cough, cough,

there’s such a thing as too much cologne, you know.” “Oh, please. I wouldn’t spare a drop for a date as lovely as yourself.” He didn’t seem to be “sparing” in flirtation tonight either. “You look nice. I like what you did with your hair.” I unconsciously grabbed my curls which flowed down on my shoulders. “I wear my hair the same way every day.” “Hmmm, still. It looks good.” Honk, honk,

“Are we going to party or what?” Cindy pressed the car horn. Morgan and I got into the backseat of the car. It was a short drive and he kept trying to make friendly conversation along the way. We arrived at the party a few minutes after 10 p.m. I looked up as we stepped out of the car and saw neon lights over the huge building which spelt out the words:

The Black Hole - a popular nightclub. “Morgan, why are we at a club?! I thought you said you said we were going to a party.” “We are going to a party…... inside the club.” “I didn’t agree to this.” “You never specifically said you wouldn’t go to a club though.” I glared at him and turned around. “Alright, this night has been fun. I’ll be leaving now.” He grabbed my hand in an instant. “I don’t think so, Sammy. I’m not letting you leave until you’ve had a truly memorable night.” “I told you, it’s Samantha not Sammy and I’m not-,” I cut my words off with a scream as he yanked me by the hand and dragged me into the club. Before I could lash out at him, my senses were assaulted by the bright, flashing lights and the deafeningly loud music bouncing off all the walls. Asides from that, the club was so congested to the point that I barely had any breathing space. “I can’t believe how many people there are in here.” I shouted amidst the noise. Morgan responded. “Me neither. I thought there’d be a lot more.” I looked up at him, wondering if he had finally lost his mind. “Wanna dance?” he asked. “No thanks.” “Come on, we’re here to have fun. Don’t be a party pooper.” “I just…. I don’t feel so good.” “Oh, okay. Let’s go sit at the bar and get some drinks.” “What about Cindy and Mindy?” I asked. We surveyed the area but didn’t see them. “I’m sure they’re off dancing or something. Come on, let’s go.” He led me by the hand to the bar. I’d object to any physical contact from him under normal circumstances but I was honestly just afraid of getting lost in the crowd. He pulled out a chair for me. “Sit here. Are you cold?” he began to take off his black, leather jacket. “I’m fine, thanks.” I couldn’t help but smile at his sudden acts of kindness. “Wow, I guess chivalry truly isn’t dead.” He laughed as he sat besides me. “There’s this hot chick over there so I’m trying to make myself look good. If case she asks, you’re my sister.” I glared at him and slowly shook my head in disappointment. “Never mind. You killed it.” “I’m joking!

Geez , what kind of guy would try to hit on someone while he’s literally on a date with someone else. I’m not that cruel.” “Okay I guess…… wait, what do you mean by

that

cruel?” “ Haha , anyways, would you like a drink?” “No, I’m good. Thank you.” “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he had started trying to get on my nerves again. At this point, I was tired of correcting him. “How many times do I have to tell you; live a little! Who goes out and doesn’t get a drink?” “Those who don’t want a drink? I don’t drink alcohol.” “You do realize that there are non-alcoholic drinks at some bars, right? Come on, I’ll buy you one. My treat.” “Why are you being so nice though? We’re not even close or anything.” He smiled, and for the first time, he didn’t have a dumb, smug look. He actually looked sincere. “I dragged you out here because you hole up yourself at work so much to the point that I’m worried it’s all you do. You shouldn’t take just one thing so seriously to the point where if anything happens to it, it’s like you’ve got nothing left. We’re still young, so why not actually live life rather than ‘be lived’? You know what I mean?” I was shocked by the depth of his words- and, oddly inspired. It felt like someone or something had possessed Morgan and made him actually speak with some sense for once. “Wow, I didn’t know you could actually be profound. I mean, up until now, everything that’s come out of your mouth has just been rubbish.” “Um, thanks?” “I didn’t mean it that way. What I’m trying to say is, thank you.” “Anytime. Now, you can thank me by letting me buy you a drink.” “ Haha , alright. Go ahead.” “Yes!” he declared victoriously as he turned over to the bartender. “Excuse me. One milky way and a mars-tini please.” “Milky way? What’s that?” “Oh, it’s this really cool drink they make with coconut milk. It tastes great- plus, no alcohol, so that’s an added bonus. I’m sure you’ll love it.” “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.” The drinks arrived faster than expected. “Thank you!” Morgan said to the bartender then handed my drink to me. “Come on, try it out!” I was hesitant to take the first sip. I slowly picked up the cup and examined the drink then tasted it. “So, what do you think?” “It’s amazing!” it was so good that I drank it faster. “I knew you’d love it.” He turned over to the bartender. “It’s amazing how you people can make such great drinks, even without alcohol.” “Do you mean the Milky way? Oh, it has alcohol.” Morgan’s face became pale and I spat out my drink- at least, the last sip which was still in my mouth. “Morgan, what does he mean by, ‘it has alcohol’? You told me it didn’t?” “Yeah, I thought it didn’t, but-” “You THOUGHT?! Morgan, what the heck? I told you, I don’t drink!” “I know! I’m sorry! I must have mixed it up with the galactic swirl or something.

Uggh !” he faced the bartender. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Why didn’t you ask?” he responded sassily while wiping a cup. “Samantha, are you okay?” I began to feel a bit dizzy. “Huh, what? Am I, um, no I feel fine.” I remember sitting there for a bit before suddenly turning to Morgan and saying, “Let’s dance!” “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You sound like you’re tipsy. You must have like zero tolerance.” “I’m fine. Let’s go.

Weeeeee! ” One of the last few things I remember was grabbing him by the hand and then we danced for a bit. After that, I got so dizzy and then everything suddenly went dark. I eventually woke up with a splitting headache and found that I was asleep on the couch in my living room, still wearing the same clothes from last night and my hair was an absolute mess. “ Ow! ” I massaged the temples of my forehead with the tips of my fingers as I sat up on the couch, wondering how- and when exactly, I got back home. “What time is it?” As I reached out to pick up my phone from the table, it suddenly started ringing- it was my boss.

Uh oh! “ Samantha, where in the universe are you?? It’s already

10 a.m.

and yet, no sun! Just be grateful we were able to run the auto-sun or else, things would have been terrible! We can only run it for so long. Get into work NOW!” “Uh, yes Sir! I’ll be there right away!” he cut the call and I went into a panicking fit. “10 A.M.?! How could I allow this to happen? I have to get ready!” I rushed through my morning preparations as fast as I could and arrived at work at 10:35 a.m., at which I was greeted by my boss’ scolding. After apologizing profusely, I got to work. The day went by rather slowly between working extra hard and taking pain killers to overcome the hangover. It was finally the long-awaited closing time- I needed to sleep badly. As I walked out of the office, I unfortunately bumped into an all too familiar face. “Samantha, are you okay? I texted you to make sure you were alright after we dropped you off last night because you passed out on the dance floor. It was kind of cute actually.” He smiled and I wanted to punch him in the face. I glared at him for a brief moment then walked away. “Sammy, what’s wrong?” “Don’t ever call me Sammy again! Because of you, I drank, woke up late, messed up and nearly lost my job and got yelled at by the boss!” “I’m sorry, I really am. I had no idea things would end up like this. I just wanted you to have a memorable night. Although, it was memorable in some ways. Right?” I refused to speak because this pest was clearly testing me. I simply continued walking away. “Samantha, wait!” he ran after me and grabbed my wrist in his usual, forward manner. “So, does that mean there won’t be a second date? Because, there’s this thing this weekend….” I forcefully unleashed my wrist from his grasp and shoved him away. “I’m never going out with you again!” The end.


Author’s note: This is part of the “Diana’s Life Tips” story series where the stories are all stand-alone with relevant info I will provide. Relevant info: Daemon is a demon Diana accidentally summoned. They think Satan’s ex-wife is planning an invasion so they went to ask an ancient demon what happened during the last demonic invasion (AKA the Great Demon War). Dry heaving, Diana collapsing outside the passenger’s side door of the latest Jeep Daemon stole. She’s never been more happy from skipping lunch or else she’d be actually heaving. Wiping her mouth, she stood on jelly legs, dusting off stones and dirt from the pavement that impressed on her red knees. “I don’t know why I agreed to get in a car with you driving after what happened last time,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad,” Daemon said as he got out. “We crashed into a tree,” Diana screeched. “But wasn’t that mostly your fault?” She stared daggers at him. “Okay, okay. Point taken. But we’re here, so stop trying to murder me with your eyes.” “Oh, don’t worry. I can murder you with something else. I’m flexible .” Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Daemon said, “ Anyway , we’re here in one piece so there’s no need to go chopping out anyone into… more pieces?” “Where is here?” Daemon pointed at the giant billboard that read “Legal Demon Intuition”. “Context clues, Diana. Context clues. I thought you were a journalist, how can you be this bad at putting things together?” “And suddenly we’re back to murder.” Daemon took a step back. “Are you sure this is the right guy?” She asked as she stretched out her sore arms from the long arms. “Yup, Carbraken. He’s an ancient demonic giant from the age of Mayans. He’s existed longer than Christianity. If anyone can tell us about the last demon invasion attempt, it’s him.” Daemon slid closer to Diana. “And if you want to pay me back for this critical information by say… creating a contract with me?” Diana smirked. “But you’re already helping me. Why would I buy the cow when I can get the milk for free?” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought that was about sex?” “It can be applied to other things.” Daemon looked unconvinced. “ Can it? Come on, let’s go inside.” *** Legal Demon Intuition was on the top floor of a five story office building nestled in between a butcher’s shop, bakery, and fruit stand out front. Inside, Daemon breathed in the smell of rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla. “Ah, smells like home.” “Why would this smell like your home? I thought you were a Christian demon? And if he’s older than Christianity…” “There are multiple different versions of hell based on different human cultures that all live bunched together inside the earth called the hell realms. When a significant enough culture or religion is created with their version of hell, it gets added. As you can imagine, it’s pretty crowded down there. The hell realms are basically a New York apartment building inside the earth. Hot, sticky, terrible neighbors, and the faint scent of death which is—” “Rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla,” a male voice with a Mexican accent from behind answered. The pair spun around on their heels to meet a seven foot tall Mexican man with grey, spiky hair in a pinstripe suit. Wrinkles dominated his face making into the human version of a bulldog. He hunched over at a slight degree, but otherwise was looking pretty good for an ancient demon that was thousands of years old. A real silver fox type. The man smiled at Daemon’s tiny holes barely peeking through his curly red hair. “Ah, it's always nice to see another demon. Lawyers are good evil company, sure, but it’s good to see a true kindred spirit. Where are you from?” “Christianity,” Daemon answered. “Ah,” he said. “And you little lady? Where are your horns?” “Actually—” Diana began. “She’s Christian, too.” Daemon interrupted with a lie. “Lost her horns in a freak buzzsaw accident.” He mimed a buzzsaw going over his head. “A really funny, semi-tragic accident.” The man chuckled. “I bet.” Grabbing Daemon’s arm, Diana leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Why did you lie? I’m human.” “I doubt many demons want to spill ancient demonic history to humans. Especially ancient ones. They’re set in their old ways.” Diana rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just get the info.” Daemon cleared his throat. “I take it you’re Cabrakan?” “The one and only. I run this law firm with my brother, Zipanca, and some interns we underpay and overwork. What did you come here for? I doubt it was legal counsel.” Rolling back on his heels, Daemon said, “Actually, we were hoping you could tell us about the Great Demon War.” Before Daemon could finish the words ‘Great Demon War’, Cabrakan’s face fell and his gaze turned to ice. “I’d think we should step inside my office for privacy.” *** To say Cabrakan’s office was earth themed would be an understatement. Everything. Was. Brown. The walls? Brown. Carpet? Brown. The ceiling? A slightly lighter shade of brown. Why? Probably to keep it spicy even though brown is the second most boring color in the world. The first is beige and that’s brown’s pale sister that’s never seen the sun. The only pop of color was framed pictures of green mountains and canyons that hung on the walls. And strangest of all, was Cabrakan’s desk that had a mess of papers and a wooden tray with just a pile of dirt on it. A worm popped up in it and wiggled a little. Diana took it as a hello and named him Melvin in her head. Cabrakan took a seat behind the desk while Daemon took the only seat

in front of the desk meant for clients. Diana stood awkwardly,

pretending to be interested in a photo on the wall so she wouldn’t have to look at Cabrakan and face the reality that he was still taller than she was standing. Folding his hands on his desk, Cabrakan broke the silence. “Why do you want to know about the Great Demon War?” “We have reason to believe that Satan’s ex-wife may be planning an invasion,” Daemon explained.

“And that reason would be?” Cabrakan asked. “We found a piece of paper with a partial part of a plan written in pencil on a desk in my school’s main office.” Cabrakan cracked a smile, leaned back, and chuckled. “So nothing serious then. That’s a relief.” Diana pouted. “It is a big deal.” “Kid, look, no offense, but it isn’t and you don’t want it to be. Demon invasions from any culture are bad news for everyone involved.” “What do you mean?” Cabrakan sighed. “Basically, the human world, earth, the surface—whatever you want to call it; it means the same—is a huge neutral zone. Demons of any hell realm or culture can come here to prey on humans that we all need to survive. Human cultures create and feed demons. Demons make deals to ‘improve human life’, as the propaganda goes. Humans and demons are intertwined and need each other. Now, if a demon or group or demons were to try and take over the human world, then that would be bad news for all other demons. All hell would break loose as everyone would scramble to secure their stakes or fight to gain more.” “Is that what happened during the Great Demon War?” With a grim expression, Cabrakan nodded. “And we have officially circled back to the reason we’re here,” Daemon said. “Care to tell us about it?” Cabrakan swished his head from side to side, trying to make up his mind. “Ah, what the hell. For a couple of love birds like you, I’ll do it.” “We’re not—” Diana began. Daemon cut her off. “My wife and I are so gracious.” She glared at him. As she leaned into his ear, she said, “I’m beginning to think this is just about you having a lying problem as big as your stealing problem.” Daemon shrugged and whispered back. His hot breath on her ear made Diana flinch; she swore he did it on purpose. “Probably. I am a demon, wifey . Besides, he’s talking now. Let’s just let him believe what he wants to believe.” “Fine.” She raised her voice to speak to Cabrakan. “You were talking about the Great Demon War?” Cabrakan closed his eyes as he imagined the memories before him. “It was roughly twenty-one to twenty-two hundred years ago. The Mayan empire was doing great, but on the other side of the world… not so much. I heard this new guy, Hades, god of the Greek underworld was causing trouble with Pluto, god of the Roman underworld. Both wanted to upstage the other since they were so similar. And the feud between Romans and Greeks certainly didn’t help. “Eventually, Pluto wanted Hades out of the game, so he launched an invasion on the surface and—as mentioned before—all hell broke loose. Everyone got involved seeing this as an opportunity or the end of the world. Most demons joined the fight—regardless of wanting to or not. They struggled over the humans and limited space for the hell realms. Millions of demons were destroyed in the process. It was a bloodbath.” Daemon swallowed. “So, hypothetically speaking, if another invasion were to break out…” “Satan would draft your butt and a skinny lad like you would get killed the first day,” Cabrakan said.

“Oh man, we need to stop this invasion, Diana.” “You finally got on my page, huh?” Diana remarked. Cabarkan continued. “My brother and I fought for the Mayan mythology, though we didn’t have a lot of demonic beings on our side. The fighting didn’t come to an end due to some demons winning—no. The Romans conquered the Greeks and the demonic world stopped shortly after due to that. Not a lot of pride or power to defend when your culture gets dominated. However, the demonic war surely did have an effect on the humans’ battle because—” “Humans and demons are intertwined,” Diana finished.

“Exactly.” Cabrakan said. “In the end, nothing good came of the Great Demon War. Few gained anything and over the years, the hell realms shifted back to normal. This really stops the idiots from trying. What stops them is other demons with more than one brain cell not wanting to go through all this again. The human world must stay neutral.” Cabrakan relaxed into his chair. “I hope that satisfies your thirst for knowledge.” “So… the world was almost destroyed so two gods could hold a d*ck measuring contest?” Diana asked. “Pretty much,” Daemon agreed. “Demons really aren’t the rational type, are they?” “Why did you say that like you’re not one?” Cabrakan asked. A panicking red blush spread across Diana’s cheeks. “I just talk about myself in the third person sometimes. It’s a perfectly normal thing for Diana to do.” “Look who’s lying now,” Daemon whispered in her ear. “Only to cover yours.” “Wives and husbands have to stick together.” “Wives also kill their annoying husbands. Ever seen Snapped ?” “Again with the murder? Don’t you think you’re repeating yourself too much?” Diana pressed her lips together. “Let’s just go.” “Whatever you say, wifey.” *** As she strapped her seatbelt in for the trip back, Diana paused. “Wait, so all we learned is that we have to stop the invasion or things could get bad? I could have inferred that from the words ‘demons’ and ‘invasion’. We still don’t know how to stop the invasion. This trip was a huge waste. I got car sick for nothing.” “Not true. Now, you have me on your side,” Daemon chipped in. “You were already doing what I wanted you to do.” “Yes, but now I will do it with a n x i e t y because my ass is suddenly on the line.” “Great. So, it was pointless.” “If I stop for a plate of nachos on the way back, will that make it less pointless?” “Better make it two. If I’m gonna throw the first one up, I can at least find the silver lining with the fact that I get to each more.” “Smart.”


The Last Light The last of the world’s artificial night light just went out. Crusted with rust, the flashlight has served its function, and now the last bit of power from its batteries has come to its end. People huddled as they watched the flashlight flickered, and then darkness. Pitch black surrounding enveloped them. They will never know that it is the last artificial night light in the world, as different cities in the world are no longer able to communicate with one another. Before, the world was brimming with light. Fossil fuels and nuclear power plants powered homes and different industries. Bitcoin consumed a lot of energy and produced a lot of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere. Industrialization, despite the progress it offered, led to the depletion of natural resources. Oil wells are now depleted, and explorations for new oil reserves are suspended as the oceans are now filled with trash. As our Mother Earth suffered and cried for the destructive acts of humanity, innovators sought after “green solutions” as the world was warming up. People turned to wind energy, biomass, solar energy and hydroelectric energy. These solutions were too late. Acid rains damaged infrastructures, killed trees and damaged innovative solutions for clean energy. Glaciers melted, submerging one-fourths of the cities of the world.  Scientists left Earth in search of a new planet, a new home for everyone but they haven’t returned to Earth for 13 years. The last lamp just went out. People cannot use open fires as the air is now highly combustible. A single match lit on the first day of the worldwide blackout caused an explosion that killed residents in a city in China. Similar incidents happened to wherever fire is generated. Since then people are afraid to make a fire lest they suffer the same fate as those who perished. As dawn broke on that same day, they all rejoiced for a moment. The pitch black night is consumed by gray light from the sun. People came out of their shelters to forage and scavenge for anything to put in their empty bellies. They collected grass (those unaffected by acid rains) and boiled them in water, to provide sustenance they need for the day. A starving boy sat on a window sill of their shelter, wondering why people are still fighting to survive even if Earth is dying. He just sat there, looking out in the horizon, an endless sea of trash. He thought he saw a cockroach scampering around the trash and he went after it. “Food”, he thought. Unfortunately, he have said his thought aloud and now a dozen more people are going after the prized cockroach. A woman caught it and gave it to her little girl who was watching the spectacle from their shelter. The girl bit the cockroach hungrily and with a second thought, offered half of it to her mother but her mother just waved her off. The starving boy, at the present, is cursing himself for being so careless. If it had not been for his fat mouth, he could have secured the cockroach. Unknowingly, he had trodden on a path towards the city circle. He heard a baby cry in a distance. He suddenly remembered his little brother, who died in his sleep because of hunger. He had to bury him the next day, and he had felt so alone. A crashing bottle brought him back to the present. A group of teenagers are throwing bottles on a nearby building, and laughing hysterically while they are at it. A shard of glass pierced through the sole of his foot, and he immediately removed it as blood gushed out in a steady stream. He ripped his worn shirt and wrapped it around his foot to stop the bleeding and he made a mental note not to cross that part of the city again. His quest for food resumed. He saw a group of old women coming from the west with bundles of weed, laughing heartily for their day’s forage. He knew better than ask them for some for when his brother was still alive and tried to beg for some food from an elderly man, he was just met with a heavy hand. Now, he ran towards the direction the group came from and he slumped at the sight. A patch of newly dug soil. The old women had greedily took all the weeds, including the roots. His stomach growled. He instantly went to his knees and search the patch of land for any root or seed that was left behind. He has collected three seeds and is now feasting on them, savoring each one with a miserable longing for food. He went back to his shelter with a trail of blood. He removed his makeshift bandage and examined the cut. It was deep and the blood is still gushing out. As the last of the daylight faded, his strength also decline. His temperature rose, and he started shivering. He started remembering his better days. When his father, mother and little brother were still alive. When his father brought them a rat the size of a chicken, they had a feast and he reminisced his little brother dancing to his mother’s upbeat songs. He reminisced when his mother fought with other women catching a cockroach. It was such a spectacle. Claws and hairs were everywhere. A low chuckle slipped his dry lips. He dragged himself to where he was keeping his rusty tumbler. The water was slightly acidic and his stomach complained as he gargled half of the contents of the tumbler but he couldn’t stop. Afterwards, he clutched his rusty tumbler to a peaceful sleep. A new day has come. He took his last breath. As his vision shifted from the gray color of sunlight to a blinding white, residents of the city are awakened by a loud crash. From a distance, the people saw a lifepod and a white clad man. The white clad man climbed out of his pod and shouted jubilantly to the spectators, “We finally found a new home”.


Again.

It's the first thought that goes through Alice's mind, when a text of her boyfriend pops up on her phone screen. — ‘I got caught up on something. Gonna be a little late. Love you.’ , — it said.

There comes a moment when you see that things aren't how they used to be, and you have to decide if they're worth fighting for or if it's better to just let go.

Alice's mom's voice echoed inside her brain as her fingers wavered on the call button. No. She wouldn't call. It's been a long time since he called to justify his actions. Or even to ask how she was doing.

The woman's freezing hands clasped the phone together, as if keeping herself to giving into the anger flowing inside her body at the moment.

Again.

Alice didn't get up from the bench beside the fountain, using the excuse that the big warm coat she was wearing kept her there, not letting her move. She was so tired.

Tired of waiting and waiting for him. Waiting for someone who would never be on time on her life in the moments she needed most. Or to simply just be there, without a reason to.

She doesn't remember the last time they said I love you with actually meaning and not because they were used to say the three words.

It was always rushed. The last thing to say in a call. The last thing to type in a message. The last thing to say when one of them left the house. But it hadn't actually meant something in quite a while. Like a forgotten letter left to waste in a pile inside a box somewhere in your moving stuff: it must've meant something to you some time in your life, until it stopped being important. Later on, you probably won't remember it anymore. Or need it.

The worst part was that she was the one feeling those things. Alice didn't remember what loving Harry felt like, not anymore. She wanted to. She really did.

So, as her hands played with a butterfly sticker some kid must've glued on the bench she was sat at, her mind wondered through possible outcomes their conversation would have once he got there.

A few minutes later that felt like hours, a panting and grumbling sound startled the thoughtful woman sitting alone by the water fountain, evoking her to search for the unknown source of it.

A man on the oposite side of the monument had his hands on his knees and breathed heavily, as if he had just finish running a thousand miles marathon.

Alice would recognize that worned out shoes anywhere.

He must have sensed the stare and looked up, finding her dark brown eyes in a flick of second, before she swerved away. A curl falling asleep on her face due the action.

Harry walked to her after straightening his back, not realizing the gloomy atmosphere he had brought with the moment he stepped into the park.

“— I'm sorry.” the man begun, ready to apologize like he was so used to “— I had an emergency meeting to attend and I couldn't miss it, when I looked at the time it was way past nine and no reservations could be available at this time...” Harry sat down beside her, sighing. He sounded defeated, apologetic.

She was glad, he should be. But why would he schedule a reservation today?

“— I didn't forget our anniversary, okay?” Oh. “— I just didn't have any time to- actually, that sounds worst, doesn't it?”

Alice blocked out everything he said next due her mind alerting today's date: 7th of July, when they made it official.

“— ... if you want. ” Harry's voice came alive to her again. She blinked, staring at the ground. He wasn't the only one forgetful in this relationship. “— Love?”

“— Hm?”

“— Are you mad?” He moved to put a hand on her tight the way it used to always sooth her no matter what had happened, then deciding against it. That reminded Alice something had changed.

“— No.”

She just didn't think they were worth fighting for anymore.

When she finally glanced at Harry, he seemed conflicted on feeling bad or relived about her answer. He was inclined to feel relieved. It was an easy way out, anyway. She didn't blame him.

He took a glimpse at her hand resting on the bench, contemplating whether or not should intertwine with his. Why is he hesitating?

“— I can't do this anymore.”

He paused his fingers from reaching out, eyebrows furrowing. “— Do what?”

“— This.” she said as a simple conclusion in an essay.

“— What?”

Now the woman really didn't know if her boyfriend was just playing dumb or trying to absorb what she was talking about.

“— Alice?” he questioned after a pregnant pause, tone getting desperate to grasp the why's of that conversation. “— It's okay for you to forget a few traditional movie nights,” Alice said, resting against the bench after feeling discomfort on her back for the previous position. A cold wind breezed past them and she grasped onto the memory of he holding her against his body to warm her up in the cold streets of the city “— or a few walks in the winter.”

Harry suddenly felt the need to interrupt, but his tongue seemed tight as a rope.

“— Even two dinners at my mom's during the last weekends. That's okay.”

Harry knew it wasn't.

“— It's okay for you to keep me waiting on friends gathering or dinner dates for most of these last two years,” she bit her cheek, he saw it. “— Or at home, because you had something important to do and I missed you.” his heart clenched at the last sentence

“— Alice-”

“— It's not okay...” her tight voice interrupted him abruptly, not really caring for what he was going to say “— For things to stay exactly how they are right now.”

She turned to him completely, pursuing her lips, ready to throw the bomb

“— I can't, no, I won't, keep waiting for you to realize these things or waiting for you to have time to talk about it.” Harry stared, not reacting at first “— I won't keep waiting for you when there's nothing to wait for anymore.”

He back away as if he had been slapped.

“— What? Alice-” he sputtered out “— What are you talking about? We can work this out. Do something else tomorrow-”

“— You still think I care about an anniversary, Harry?” she shook her head, avoiding the hurt look on him when she said an anniversary, as if it was no longer an important matter “— I'm just tired. We both stopped putting efforts in this relationship a long time ago.” Alice concluded, getting up.

Harry shook his head, quietly protesting inside his head and leaving his hair disheveled.

As her hands seeked comfort and warmth on her overcoat, he eyed the girl he was supposed to be in love with for the rest of his life, but that was long forgotten too. She was right. He didn’t want her to be.

“— I’m sorry, Harry.”

She really was.

“— It’s okay.”

He really was. And she heard on his voice and saw in his eyes that he was tired to.