Oh! How they laughed when first they heard the other’s name. This was a story some would dine out on, but not Dave and Dave. Dave, always Dave. Never David. Someone once asked whether it might be a little easier if one of the Dave’s used the full version of their name. Dave narrowed his eyes and told the wrong-headed miscreant, “Dave

is  the full version of my name.”

The other Dave said nothing. He didn’t see the point in repeating the same conversation all over again. Later, Dave would ask him if he was coming down with something, “yes, I think I am,” said Dave, “it’s very unlike me to say nothing isn’t it?” Dave nodded an affirmation, “especially upon the matter of our names,” he said. This was true. Dave is almost unique in being a supposedly involuntary truncation of David. Davids introduce themselves as David, not as Dave and at the very next opportunity a

certain type

will call them Dave. Not using someone’s name and using a different name is rude. It is name calling. Everyone knows this, but still they do it to Davids. They can also do it to Richards and Williams, but mostly, they do it to Davids, as though there is a secret society of rude people who have it in for Davids. Maybe there is. All descended from Goliath. Dave was glad that he wasn’t a David so that he could at least avoid a lot of that truncation-related trouble. Other than this wrong-headed suggestion, no one had ever called him David. Not even a strict, disciplinarian mother. She might have missed a trick there. Mothers who want to put the fear of the gods in their child need only to use the full version of their name. They teach this in Mother School along with a bunch of other useful weaponised words and violent exhalations.

Dave was also glad that he wasn’t a David, but only because he didn’t like the way the word clattered out of his mouth. There was something clunky and awkward about it. He once had a nightmare when, in the throes of passion, his celebrity crush cried out DAVID! He awoke screaming and filled with terror. This was not helped by his chrysalis state, swaddled in his duvet and struggling to break free of that word. David. His crush ended that night. He was so disappointed in her. He thought she was better than that. Today Dave was at the county fair with his best friend Dave, and they were competing for the most prestigious of prizes at said fair. They had been friends for as long as they could remember, which was not to say that they had been friends since childhood, no, they had awoken within minutes of each other on the same hospital ward. A statistical improbability, they had both suffered a severe bout of amnesia. At that stage, all they remembered was their name. Dave. As a basis for any relationship, this did not afford all that much. A single word. But Dave had this in common with Dave and so too did Dave have this in common with Dave. Then it dawned on the both of them that they also had another thing in common. They both had brown hair. Falling prey to that thing that so many people do, Dave and Dave missed the very obvious thing that they had in common, that they were both in hospital and they both had memories that had been almost entirely erased. They were too busy getting to know each other. Slowly. Frustratingly slowly. They shared that frustration and were kinder to each other than they were to themselves. They helped each other out of the fog of nothingness and built something to distract them from that fog, and that something was their friendship. After a couple of false starts and a bout of comfortable silence in which Dave contemplated the philosophical implications of having nothing and being nothing and what that meant in terms of a starting point in the midst of a life that had obviously been lived and then carelessly lost in the woods or aisle three of a budget supermarket, and Dave stared at his toes and wondered why he had an uneven number of them on each foot, but when considered as a collective came to a beautifully round ten, then went on to consider why it was that he’d lost his memory and yet knew his numbers and the labelling word for the small appendages on his feet, the Daves had a conversation. “I was thinking,” said Dave. “As was I,” said Dave, “a sometimes dangerous preoccupation, but it must be done.” “We have a fresh start,” said Dave. “And it isn’t a bad start,” said Dave. “How do you mean?” asked Dave. “Well,” Dave considered how best to translate his discovery of his ability to label and talk about his toes, “have you noticed that we have not lost language?” “I hadn’t,” said Dave as he thought about it, “and yet I had.” “In that you’ve been using language,” ventured Dave, “but had not noted it’s use until now?” “Something like that,” said Dave. “Funny old lark this life isn’t it?” said Dave whimsically. “Yes, I suppose it is,” agreed Dave. Dave smiled. Dave saw Dave smile and enjoined with him in the smiling. “I wonder how it is that we remember words, but not how we came by them?” asked Dave. “A different part of the brain,” said Doctor Dave as he strode into the ward and cut a fine figure of a man and of a doctor. Which was just as well, given that he was both a man and a doctor. “How do you know that?” asked Dave. “I’m a doctor and it’s my job to know things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk,” explained Doctor Dave. “He’s right you know,” said Nurse Dave, and Nurse Dave knew Doctor Dave was right because he was studying things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. He was also Doctor Dave’s lover and they had talked about things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk as they spent pleasant time together creating golden memories, such as the ones that Dave had carelessly lost, and Dave had also carelessly lost. “I suppose this is a good thing in a way,” said Dave. “And a frustratingly bad thing in another,” said Dave. “Yes to both,” nodded Doctor Dave, “now if you’ll just roll over for your rectal examination.” Dave gave Doctor Dave a quizzical look and wasn’t at all for rolling over. In return, Doctor Dave reached into his wardrobe of suitable looks and gave Dave a look that would not be denied, it was a strong look, so strong that Dave wilted underneath it and with a sad sigh rolled over, wondering as he did, why he had not asked whether this was strictly necessary when he had lost his memory, and, as far as he was aware nothing from up his bum canal. “Is that strictly necessary?” asked Dave. “Not at all!” exclaimed Doctor Dave, then he burst into paroxysms of laughter. Nurse Dave cracked up also, Doctor Dave’s hearty laughter being of the infectious sort and Nurse Dave’s soft spot for Doctor Dave making him all too receptive to Doctor Dave’s broadcasts, especially of humour and things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. They laughed and they laughed until they had to hold each other upright. It was the sight of the two men clutching at each other in order to stay on their feet that brought Dave late to the laughter party. Dave looked from the laughing Dave to the chuckling medics, “you were going to probe my bottom for a cheap laugh!” he protested. “They were going to do what?” asked Dave the Porter, but then the delayed meaning of the words Dave had cried hit him like a comedy blancmange and he burst out laughing, “Doctor Dave! What are you like!?” he boomed before wheeling Dave off for his bum operation. “Is that the doctor who will be operating on my bottom?” asked Dave timidly. “Oh no! Doctor Dave is strictly a head doctor,” Dave the Porter told him. “Then who will be operating on my nether regions?” asked Dave. “That’ll be Doctor Dave,” Dave the Porter told him. “Oh,” said Dave, “that’s all right then,” he said this for something to add. He didn’t know whether it was alright, he just didn’t like the thought of Doctor Dave operating on his behind and cracking jokes like that as he went about his work. “So that clock up your Jacksy?” said Dave the Porter, “tell me again how you slipped and fell?” Dave didn’t reply. Instead he screamed twelve times as the cuckoo in the ensconced clock celebrated the noon hour in the most painful of ways. “What was all that screaming?” asked Dave. “I think I’d rather not know,” said Dave. “I could hazard a guess, if you’d like?” said Doctor Dave wickedly. “Don’t wind them up doc. Can’t you see they’ve had enough already?” said Dave. “Dave! You’re awake!” cried Doctor Dave at the patient laying opposite Dave. “Too loud!” hissed Nurse Dave. Doctor Dave had indeed been too loud and Dave fell back into a deep sleep induced by the loud noise of Doctor Dave’s voice. Doctor Dave was not having much luck with Dave. Exploding a brown paper bag filled with air in an attempt to wake him from his coma-like state had backfired as Dave woke up a split second before the surprise that sent him right back to the land of nod for another prolonged stay. Then there was the time he dressed as a clown to celebrate Dave’s previous awakening. How was Doctor Dave to know of Dave’s morbid terror of killer clowns? It wasn’t like the fear of clowns was at all common. Quietly, Doctor Dave examined Dave. Having done so he shook Dave’s hand, “it’s been nice knowing you,” he said. “Does that mean I can leave?” asked Dave. “You could leave at any time,” Doctor Dave told him, “we’re not keeping you prisoner here.” “But what about my memory?” asked Dave. “What memory?” asked Doctor Dave. “My memory,” said Dave. “I don’t remember anything about a memory?” Doctor Dave said forgetfully. “Erm, Dave?” said Dave. “Not now,” said Dave, “I’m speaking with the good doctor.” “But I think he’s pulling your leg,” said Dave. “Oh…” said Dave. Doctor Dave scowled at Dave for ruining his fun, but the joke was on Dave, for he was retained in hospital for a further two days for a test that never materialised, or rather it did, because the test was whether Dave would realise he too had been subjected to a pull of the leg. Anyway, that was then and now Dave was at the county fair with his very bestest friend Dave. “Nice day for it,” observed Dave. “That it is,” said Dave. “Who’d have thought all those years ago that here we would be, basking in the sunshine and you’d be showing your prize boar,” said Dave. Dave nodded, “it’s a funny old life isn’t it? And here we are warmed by the Summer sun, you showing your prize bull.” “Have you ever wondered…” began Dave. “You know I have,” replied Dave, “frequently.” “After all these years,” said Dave, shaking his head and chortling, “neither of us has recalled a single thing.” “Probably for the best,” said Dave. “What makes you say such a thing?” asked Dave. “Well imagine it,” said Dave. “The myriad possibilities of our former existence?” said Dave. “Exactly,” said Dave with a dour dourness that really doubled down on the dour. “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” said Dave. Dave stroked his chin, “I have stroked my chin and thought on this to some considerable extent,” said Dave. “And?” asked Dave. “I can think of few outcomes that would trump the life we are living now,” stated Dave. “Really?” asked a sceptical Dave. “Really,” confirmed Dave. “But we could have a sizeable fortune awaiting us,” said Dave, “and a beautiful wife,” he added, “and wonderful kidlings.” “There is that,” conceded Dave, “but for every eventuality that promises to enhance these lives of ours, there is an army of dire consequences that would really put a downer on things.” “Do you really think so?” asked Dave. “I know so,” said Dave. “I do not understand your certainty,” said Dave. “Alright,” said Dave, in a way that conveyed that Dave had asked for it, so he was going to get it, “what if the one thing you remembered was wrong?” “I don’t…” began Dave, then the light of a dawning realisation arose within him, “you can’t possibly mean…” Dave nodded a frightful nod. “But!” blustered Dave, “I’m Dave and that’s all there is to it!” “Prove it,” said Dave. Dave’s forehead wrinkled with thoughts that were in the midst of having a car crash in the confines of his head and somewhere in this pile up was a horrible

what if

that masqueraded as a certainty. Try as he might, he could not unwrinkle his forehead and a dread knowledge began lurking in a foreboding manner that was most disconcerting. Dave experienced a pressing need to distract himself from this awful development… So he punched Dave. Dave promptly left the county fair with Dave the Pig, which was a shame because they missed the judges by less than a minute and the judges had come a-calling with the winner’s rosette. Dave cut a sorry figure as he stood by his prize bull. He had completely forgotten that he had entered his bull in the prize bull competition, his focus and mind were elsewhere. The judges almost turned tail as they rounded the corner and saw the figure that Dave cut, he had deteriorated from sorry to a much less cohesive state. However, the judges retreat was thwarted by the tannoy announcement. “This year’s prize bull winner is Dave’s bull!” There was a cheer right across the entire expanse of the county fair, for the prize bull competition was the most prestigious of all the competitions at the fair. More prestigious was it than the best jam, the best pork pie, the best cheese, even the most interestingly shaped, oversized vegetable competition was eclipsed by the prize bull competition, much to the annoyance of Dave and his eye wateringly large and intimidating marrow. In fact, the only competition that could hold a candle to the prize bull competition was the prize boar competition, and there was an unofficial assessment of the best of the best once the two winners were announced. This year, the piggy winner had been declared in absentia and so there could be no best of the best assessment and life was a little less rich as a result of this deprivation. The tannoy crackled, stilling the jubilant crowd and it burst into life again. “Yes everyone, this year’s winning bull is Dave’s bull, John…” A terrible hush befell the proceedings. Dave the Tannoy, had left the tannoy on as he held the card before him, “wait? That can’t be right? John? What’s that all about?” But Dave knew. Or rather John did.


TW: Death, burning Do you remember when we’d lay down by the ocean, sun beating on our backs until we were lobster red and hobbling back inside? When we would drink as many piña coladas as possible, not caring that we were one sip away from the bartender cutting us off? We must’ve been in our twenties. Twenty-three? No, twenty-four. That’s right. It was twenty-four.

There was that Friday night when we went down to the bonfire and Steven Long was there. Oh man, did you have a thing for Steven Long. He was that kind of tall, dark, and handsome man everyone was pining after, but he only had eyes for you. And you him. I remember being green with envy seeing that man stand beside my favorite person. Watching from afar, I would think, He does not deserve someone like her. Because it was true. Steven Long was held back for two years and you were a prodigy in all things academics. It was not yin and yang because you and I were yin-yangs. It was wrong, that’s what it was. Before the bonfire, though, Steven Long was just a stranger in our eyes. During those humid nights, our necks craned toward the sky to watch shooting stars while waves splashed the shore. I liked those nights. I liked when it was just us two and no boys. We would crack open a few cans and sing until our throats went dry and our lungs hurt from twirling around. The sand would scrape at our calves and knees, but how could we care? Do you remember that? When we would go inside and our lower halves were covered in the beach, but we were both too tired and too lazy to rinse them off. Your mom got all mad and her face would turn as red as our burnt ones. “Stop tracking sand into my house!” she’d shout, startling us both awake at 6 a.m. Remember how scared we were that she’d never let us back to the beach? We were too old for a scolding, but still young enough to have everything taken away by our parents.

“Let’s watch the sunset together,” you’d tell me every single day. And, if I wasn’t responsive, you’d pull me so close that I felt your lips at the shell of my ear. The tickle of your whispers would vibrate through me every time, and I embraced the shivers that rolled down my spine when you’d whisper the exact same phrase again. Observing the sunsets on your mom’s porch was the only time we had where we could be fully alone, where we could be ourselves. Before your mom came home and scolded us and after we were surrounded by other beachgoers. I cherished those moments when it was just us. Could we ever go back to that? Right. We can’t. It was that Friday that changed everything. There was no early Saturday morning after with your mom shouting at us for dirtying her house. There was no dancing or singing or sandy limbs. Because that Friday, I wasn’t the one on your mind anymore. Stranger Steven Long had your attention. He didn’t even know you and still, he called you to sit on his lap. I remember feeling the ghost of your fingertips on mine when you brushed against them as you left me behind. That wasn’t the moment when I knew it was over for me; it was when you looked up at him. I had never seen you look at me the way you looked at that stranger. Wide, curious eyes and full lips slightly open—my fingers inched to close your jaw for you. And then the two of you stood up. That was right before.

It was my heart beating too fast that alerted me something was wrong. Not the frantic shouts from the people around, but an organ. My shaky knees and the goosebumps that pimpled my arms were the telltale signs that something bad was about to happen. My body reacted before my brain. Isn’t that weird? And I kept telling myself, She’ll come back for me. She always does. You always did. But that was the first time you weren’t by my side. Everything changed in just under an hour.

Do you regret it? Choosing Steven Long, that is. Do you?

You do. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes, in the years of wear shown on your face. Just like the leather pants you wore that night. Yes, I even remember the pants. Tight enough to show off your curves, yet you claimed they were breathable. I guess they were considering how fast you ran off.

I’m still not sure what he whispered in your ear during the bonfire that had you leaping out of your seat before any of us. There are tons of unanswered questions I still think about so many years later. Like why my name never crossed your lips or why you never came to visit me. There were no more drinks at the bar by the beach or roasting in the sun. Did those moments matter to you as they did for me?

Sometimes I wonder if you even remember me being a part of your life.

Sometimes I wonder if you remember a life without Steven Long. Every day I wish we never sat around that bonfire. But now you’re here. Now you’re standing right before me years later. Shriveled skin and dark spots that show off the times we spent outside together. Unlike you, I look just like I did when we were twenty-three.

No.

Twenty-four.

That’s right. We were twenty-four when the bonfire got out of control. We were twenty-four when I felt my hair go up in flames, singeing my face and my eyebrows and my lashes. Tearing through my clothes like they didn’t exist and scarring my body, ridding the touches you left there.

Twenty-four when you walked away with Steven Long while sirens wailed in the distance. How does it feel being eighty-eight when I’m still twenty-four?


I miss the night. It belongs to them now. I miss looking at the stars with Dad and him pointing out different constellations. I miss the way the night air kisses the skin in that sweet, delicious way daylight just can’t. The world has changed so much since the vampires took over. They rule the night, and we, the remnants of humanity, are forced to huddle in bunkers when the sun goes down. Today, though, I’ve decided to defy the curfew. The longing for the stars, the memories of those nights with Dad, have become too overwhelming. I sneak out, my heart pounding with anxiety and excitement, and I move through the desolate streets, clinging to the shadows as not to be seen. The streets look different now. As I make my way downtown, I remember how the streets were once vibrant with nightlife. Now they are hauntingly quiet. I reach my destination and look up. My old apartment building. I climb the fire escape like I used to with my best friends Jenny and Kyle. As I climb, I remember a time before the vampire uprising, when the three of us would climb to the roof and sit there talking for hours. I reach the roof now, panting from exertion, and lay on my back, breathing in the cool night air.

The stars are vibrant tonight against the purple-black sky. They twinkle, mocking the dystopia we live in.

My eyes well up as memories flood back. My friends. My Dad. I try to remember what Ursa Major looks like. I wish, not for the first time, that Dad was here. I whisper to the stars, hoping somehow he hears me, “I miss you, Dad. I wish you were here.” I hear something to my right. Panic fills my chest and my breath catches in my throat. I turn my head towards the sound and everything goes black. When I wake, I am no longer on the roof. I am lying on a concrete floor inside a building, a warehouse perhaps? It is dusty and several of the windows are broken. There is an overhead light, far too bright, shining in my eyes. I blink and try to focus on the figure standing before me. I sit up slowly and hold a hand up to my forehead, trying to shield the light. The figure moves towards me.

“Why were you out there?” the voice demands. It is deep and raspy and belongs, I can now see, to a man in a dark trench coat. His hair is dark and falls around his shoulders. His eyes are almost black. A vampire. “I…I just wanted to see the stars,” I manage to stutter, my voice barely audible. I feel my face flush. Suddenly realizing how ridiculous my idea was. “Stars,” he mutters to himself. He pauses, a flicker of something crossing his face. Regret? Longing? It’s hard to tell. “It’s been so long since I’ve looked at them.” Confusion replaces some of my fear. “You miss the stars, too?” He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he seems lost in thought. Finally he speaks. “Have you ever heard of ‘Dry January?” he asks. I cock my head to the side, even more confused. “Dry January?” I ask, “as in abstaining from drinking alcohol?” He nods slowly, “more like abstaining from feeding on human blood. A group of us are participating in it. The human supply is dwindling and we are looking into alternative blood sources. If humans disappear…” I get where he is going with this. “Then you disappear, too.” I say He nods.

“We are following a program similar to human 12 step programs. Right now I am on Step Eight: making a list of those whom I’ve wronged and making amends for the harm I’ve caused.” I raise an eyebrow. Vampires with a moral compass? It sounds absurd, but as I look at him, I sense a genuine struggle within him. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, warily. He hesitates. “I needed someone I could tell my sins to. A human. When I saw you tonight, I figured it was my chance.” A thought occurred to me. “Are you the vampire who killed my father?”

He shook his head slowly, “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s possible. I am ashamed to say that the faces of my victims have blurred together. I am not proud of what I have done.” I stare at him, the revelation sinking in. A mix of anger and grief swirls inside me, but there is also something else- a glimmer of hope. Dad always believed there was good in everyone - no matter how bad they seemed. I wonder if Dad would extend that grace to a vampire. “So, what now?” I ask, my voice more steady than I expected. “Now you decide,” he says, his gaze sincere. “I can take you back to your bunker, or you can stay, listen to my story, and see if vampires are capable of change.” I weigh my options, torn between the world I’ve known and the possibility of something different - possibly better.

The stars twinkle above, indifferent to the choice I have to make. I consider his words, my mind racing with conflicting emotions. The night air blows in through the broken windows and hangs heavy with the weight of my decision.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I ask. He nods understandingly. “I don’t expect you to trust me right away. But, if you stay, you ight see that not all of us are monsters. Some of us are trying to resist our addiction - trying to find a way to co-exist.” Reluctantly, I agree to stay - for now. As the days pass, I find myself caught in a strange alliance with my vampire captor. He introduces me to a group of vampires participating in ‘Dry January’, each with their own tales of regret and redemption.

The abandoned building becomes a makeshift haven for this unconventional support group. Vampires from different backgrounds and eras, united by the common goal of breaking free from the endless cycle of feeding on humans. They share stories of lost loved ones, of the pain they’ve inflicted, and the remorse that haunts them.

As I listen, I begin to see the humanity buried beneath their supernatural exterior. It’s a revelation that challenges the very core of my beliefs. In the midst of our uneasy coexistence, the vampire who brought me here - whom I’ve come to know as Marcus, tries to make amends in his own way.

He teaches me about the constellations, pointing out stars and sharing stories from a time when he was still human.The night, once a source of fear, becomes a canvas for shared memories and whispered confessions. As the days turn into weeks, I navigate this new world with cautious optimism. The vampire support group, against all odds, becomes a fragile beacon of hope in the darkness. However, the outside world is relentless, and rumors spread of a rebellion among the vampires who reject ‘Dry January’ and continue to hunt humans.

Caught between two conflicting worlds, i realize that the choices I make will not only shape my destiny, but also influence the fragile balance between humans and vampires. The night, once lost to creatures of the dark, now becomes a battleground where alliances are forged and tested. In this unlikely alliance, I discover that redemption is a complex journey, one that requires courage, understanding, and a willingness to defy the established order. The stars above bear witness to a changing world - one where the night may no longer solely belong to vampires, but to those who dare to challenge the shadows and seek a path toward coexistence.


"What are you doing!?" We broke the trance that we had encaptured ourselves in. For a moment I relaxed from the voice that had prevented what he was going to do. "Luan, what was that I was just seeing you do now?" I got off of him, crawling onto the stairs and slumping down. My eyes traveled to the new voice in the room with curiosity. "I was not doing anything Lona, I don't know what you are talking about." It was a girl about the same age my guess as the male. She was remarkably beautiful. She had long cascading white hair that was twisted into the loose but neat braid. Her skin was as black as the night sky in a forest with no light. She wore a white pair of white pants, over her entire top -and most of her legs- she had on a baby pink knit poncho sweater. She had on a pair of tall golden boots that had stilettos heels with had tips of white. She moved swiftly with grace, and ease. Luan got up onto his feet and bowed, "I swear." I paid no mind to what they were even talking about as I admired the girl... Well, I guess I shouldn't say girl, I should say woman. "Your lying to me." She took quick strides over to Luan and stared at him. She looked angry with him for some reason. Looking at her closely, she had the same pointed ears as Luan. It was present that she had the same blue-grey eye color in her eye, but it was in the opposite eye. In her other eye was this light yellow color it was like looking into a small star on a dark night. Her angered face turned into one of happiness and she took a step back. "Aah, why bother getting angry at you when we both know you only lie the most then." She pulled off her knitted poncho and threw it up into the air. There were shining particles that surrounded it, with a warm flow of air it moved through the air with ease. The poncho landed on a chair like it was placed there by human hands. That relived what was underneath the baby pink poncho. It was nothing to be excited about, just a yellow shirt that matched the tip of her stilettos. "So who is he?" She pointed over to me with a curious look on her face. Luan turned his head to face me as I got up on my feet. "Lona, this is Ash." I gave her a smile and stepped down the golden steps, standing next to Luan. Then, I reached out my hand to her, "Nice-" "I see what you were doing just now Luan." Lona hissed at Luan and glared at me from the corner of her eyes. "He is a human." Luan let out a loud laugh and shook his head. When he was done laughing he composed himself then cleared his throat. "I think your time in the top has made you go paranoid, he is not a human. He is just a fieldland elf that needs to learn to tap into his power." She scoffed, "Really? You think I am going to believe that he is a fieldland elf? Brother, you are really something else." Her hand began to have this aura glow around it. "Where ever you found him, take him back. He is a human and both know that." She spat out, her voice beginning to echo off the high ceiling of the ground treehouse. "Sister, I am not going to fight you over this. But he can't get home and I wanna help him get there." Luan moved to stand in front of me with a protective stance. 'They are brother and sister?' I thought to myself briefly. Lona's mood completely changed, the glowing aura around her hand disappeared. "Oh, so you're trying to get him back?" Luan nodded his head, "Yeah." She gave him a small smile then patted his shoulder. Luan didn't smile back at her, all he did was watch what she did. "Use, your fire magic on my arm and I'll report you for treason." Lona pulled her hand away from his shoulder, "Your the one who would be charged for treason, not me." She stepped back and walked over to the chair that her poncho was laying on. She picked it up, "Well, If you were a real elf then I would have stayed to get to know you. But, I don't wanna be in the company of a human and get questioned about it by the high council." She pulled the baby pink poncho over her head and looked back at Luan, "I came to see you because the council got word that you were in the healer with an unknown creature. For once I thought you had a secret mate that had gotten hurt, but alas, that was not the case. How disappointing you are to me." And with that, she was gone in the blink of an eye. "You don't even have a mate yourself, Lona." He muttered through gritted teeth. I took a small step back and walked around him. "...What happened just now?" I didn't look up at him or anything, I just looked down at my hands which were holding each other. After a moment of silence, there was a loud sigh. "My 'oh so great and mighty' sister showed up rub something in my face probably. Possibly something about being on the elf council or something about a new mate she has. I don't even wanna know when it comes to a pain in my side like her." I looked up at him and laughed, "She is that bad?" He nodded, I watched this little piece of hair bounce up and down when he did so. It was really quite cute. "Thanks for telling me there was a piece of hair in my face." I watched him run a hand through his black hair making it even more of a mess than before. I looked down becoming flustered with my thoughts, "You can never keep your thoughts to yourself can you?" He placed a hand on my head and patted it softly, "Haven't we already established that?" I back away and looked up at him. "Yep." He smiled softly, then he reached down and grabbed my hand gently. "Since you are going to be staying with me for a little while, you should get acquainted with someone who is very special to me." He turned around and started walking up the golden stairs, he held my hand tighter than before the more and more we got ascended. As he climbed higher I could hear the low rumble of what seemed like a snore. "Please stay quiet." He said in a whisper as he pulled me around him. There was a huge red velvet curtain that hung in front of us, "Now, open it." I nodded slowly and placed my hand above where his hand was, where I slowly pulled open the curtain. Behind the curtain was an animal that was at least fifty times the size of a polar bear. I stared in awe at the creature who was a beautiful shade of midnight blue. It was a bird. Slowly, Luan pulled me into the room behind him and the curtain closed behind us leaving us in a dimly lit room with the giant bird. Even in the darkness, you could see white twinkles flicker off of its body like a million stars. "Coco... Sweetie, wake up." I could feel the loud vibrations of the snores stop. Then there was a movement in front of me and Luan, "Hi little sleepy girl, how was your nap?" Luan spoke in a cooing voice that dripped with sweetness. There was a small chirp, and then a louder one. "I am going to turn the lights on now." When they came on I was blinded by them, the room was just dark and my eyes had already adjusted. I covered my eyes with my hands which pulled Luan closer to me and I didn't even notice. When I put my hand down I then noticed how much closer I pulled him, I opened my mouth to speak but he covered it with his hand and shook his head. There was a loud chirp and I looked over, my eyes almost popped out of my eye sockets. It was even more amazing in the light. Her head was littered with white, black, and glowing blue feathers. She had a rounded beak like an eagles that was white. Her body was mostly black with the exception of the glowing blue feathers and little white twinkles. She looked like her body was trapped in a consolation. "Luan, why do you always wake me up when I am having the best dreams?" The bird is talking?! THE BIRD IS TALKING!? "Oh? You brought me a visitor this time?" I took a step back as her huge head got closer and closer to me. I could hear Luan laugh quietly, "I did, but he isn't used to seeing creatures like you Coronitha (coro-neath-a)." I watched as she moved her head away from me, then she curled up into a ball. Her head rested on the floor, "Luan, bring him over here and have him touch my head." The black-haired male pulled me over to her and forced me to touch her head right in between the dark purple orbs she had for eyes. She moved her head away, "He is not human. There is not a single shred of magic in his body." She didn't sound mean about it, she sounded very calm. Moving her head closer to me she rubbed against my face with the soft flat part of her head. "He seems nice though. Are you keeping him? Does he have a name I can call him?" I let go of Luan's hand and wrapped my arms around her head. I felt my feet start to get pulled off of the ground and two hands get placed on my waist. I let go of the giant bird, my body was softly placed onto the ground but then I was pulled into a back hug. "His name is Ashton, but we are going to introduce him as Ash because it sounds like an elf name. He is a human who appeared here and they don't know how they got here. All I am trying to do is get him back home but with the snowstorm outside and the fact that I have to help him with everything it will take a while."  Luan rested his chin on my shoulder as he leaned on me. "Mm, that makes more sense. Well, you know I am always here when you need help." I looked down at the ground, "Now get out, I need my sleep." There was a cold swirl of wind and the fires went out. "What are we going to do?"


The ink reservoir dropped. Straight out of the holes in the ceiling tiles and onto my desk, branding my nose on its way.

I wouldn’t say I was waiting for the moment, but the seat in which it happened to be dangling above for the past two months, was known to be mine. I’d spent hours absently staring up at the ceiling in History class, just waiting for something to happen. Brendan Marshals and Scotty Parnell laughed. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said Mr Andrews spun around from the whiteboard, dragging the marker with him and crossing out the word “treaty”.

‘Kayla, get out of my class! You can go see Ms. Fox for that.’ ‘It wasn’t even fucking me!’ Kayla said. Mr Andrews blames Kayla for everything. All the teachers blame Kayla for everything because she shows potential. They want to convince her that it’s not worth spending time around me. They don’t realise that we’re basically like sisters—best friends since preschool. She’s not going to ditch me just because these idiots see something in her. ‘I said it,’ I declared proudly, standing up. ‘And I don’t give a fuck I’m outta here! Who’s with me?’ I’d imagined this moment before, dreamed about it. I never thought the remnants of a pen-shooter would be the catalyst. Kayla stood up immediately and then Becca—our faithful follower. Brendan and Scotty stood up too, any excuse would’ve worked for them. Mr Andrews looked straight past me to address Kayla again.

‘Straight to Ms. Fox you hear me, Kayla.’

‘Fuck you,’ Kayla yelled back. Then, without warning, she picked up a chair and hurled it across the classroom, just missing him. For the first time, he held the entire class's attention. Eyes darted back and forth between Kayla and Mr. Andrews. Kayla looked at me as if she too were surprised at what she’d just done and didn’t know what to do next. ‘You deserved that,” I said, breaking the silence.

He cowered, dropping his head onto the desk, cradling it with his arms. Siren-like wails poured out from the depths of his head cavern.

I’d finally broken him. For exactly two seconds I felt sorry for the blubbering mess of a man — but then I remembered the canteen incident. Last week, Mr Andrews’ pointed the finger at me without a second of thought and zero evidence, as the prime suspect in the canteen burglary.

Boxes of Zappos were distributed around the school that day—anonymously. No one owned up, so they shut the canteen for three days. We were spewing. No one would dare come forward now, not with a mob of dim-sim deprived teenagers on the loose, they’d be asking for it. And Mr Andrews knew that, when he publicly announced his illegitimate suspicions in front of the school assembly. ‘I don’t even eat Zappos,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘They make my pores sweat.’ ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’ ‘The most ridiculous thing I’ve heard is you accusing me of stealing Zappos when your pigeon hole is full of Zappo wrappers,’ I finished, taking my seat. The whole school started booing him until he gave up and the weekly announcements went on as if nothing happened. Kayla had overheard him throwing my name around the staff room the day before when she was in the sick bay and had arrived at school that next morning armed with Zappo wrappers to plant. She’s always got my back like that. We storm out of the classroom leaving the history of Australia on the whiteboard with a mission to make our own. We march through the outdoor, red brick corridor with our bad girl bucket hats and flared jeans trailing threads behind us.

The door to the girls bathroom swings open revealing the silhouettes of two girls emerging from a cloud of smoke. They’re spraying impulse aerosol like there’s a bee on the loose. Vanilla musk barely masks the acrid waft. It’s Danielle Diblassi and Teegan Myers.

‘What are yous doin?’ Teegan asks, twisting her infected nose piercing and scratching the crusty ring around it. Becca tells them we’re staging a walk-out because we’re sick of the teachers treating us like a pack of dogs. I can see she’s pissed off that the two of them are back to being best friends again after Becca backed Teegan in a punch up against Danielle last week. Becca's broken acrylic nail is seemingly all for nothing. We let them join us but Teegan has to pay Becca fifteen bucks for her nail repair first. I lead the pack with Kayla and Becca to my sides. All public schools need a triumphant leader that will take a stand and lead them to victory. And that leader was me.

We’d had enough. Becca’s mum once told us how it was, “back in her day”. “Sister Margaret would whip our ankles if our skirts were too short”, She’d told us. Our school doesn't require floor length skirts. Our school doesn’t require skirts at all. Our school doesn’t require much of

anything really. The information sheet that replaces a handbook at our school refers to it as ‘dress code’. We wear what we want... so long as the teachers like it…or like us . Which is why this morning, when Laura Mayfield walked into the year 9 sub-school wearing a low-cut,

halter neck, midriff with glitter bra straps hanging out each side and a silver belly chain with a Jesus cross hanging from it, Ms. Fox remarked, “What beautiful chain Louise, I didn’t know you were religious”.  She isn’t.

Then when I walked in behind Laura wearing a white t-shirt with two hand prints printed on the boobs, Ms. Fox ordered me to change immediately, claiming she wouldn’t tolerate such inappropriate innuendo. I told her I didn’t bring any other clothes. Her eyes actually twinkled like some kind of anime cartoon when she said, ‘Well aren’t you lucky that I have a box of spare band uniforms.’ A musky pile of navy blue polo shirts lay in a warped cardboard box beneath her desk. They smelt like the music storage cupboard—damp and sweaty, with a touch of someone messing around inside. ‘This is discrimination! Why don’t you get up Louise for having her whole belly and half her tits showing?!’ She ignored me. I snatched a shirt from the box and gave her the finger as I walked out. At recess we impaled it on a stick and hammered it into the oval like a flag. Kayla’s given me her adidas hoodie to wear for the rest of the day on the promise I give it back to her before the bell. Apparently her mum’s starting to get pissed at how many of her clothes are going missing. ‘They’re not missing, they’re at mine, I’ll

bring them back,’ I told her, questioning her sudden lack of trust in me. We continue past the science labs where Mr Archibalds class is left unattended, copying instructions from the whiteboard. Amber, Caitlynn and Jessica Day-Mitchell join us after we holler an invitation through the window, then surprisingly Matthew Benningham; the innocent school prodigy, who had just reached his daily quota of bullying intake after Royce Adams told him his diagram of a Bunsen burner looked like a dildo, also grabs his bag and joins us. Matthew is the kind of gifted that repels friends, but today he’s welcomed into our pack with thanks and praise as we try to gather numbers. Questionable noises come from behind the blackened windows of the darkroom as we pass the media building. ‘Get some!’ We all hurrah and bang on the glass. Amber's sister once told us how the photo lab was off limits to all year ten students for an entire year in 98 because Evan Summergreen was caught fingering Tara Tepiatu in the dark room. “You bitches are lucky. I missed out on a whole year of mucking around in there”, she’d

told us. I wondered why a photography teacher would forget to knock before entering a dark room. We reach the end of the brick corridor and come to the open courtyard. We’ll have to cross it undetected to get to the final corridor, marking the last part of our journey before we can get off school grounds. Mr Verna emerges from the music room demountable with four students and five sets of bloodshot eyes. They’ve all received special permission to skip regular classes to practise for next week's assembly, practice clearly involves the occasional puff of a joint. Three weeks ago they performed a song called, “My prostitute” that they’d written under Mr Verna's guidance, at the talent show auditions. Lachy, the lead singer, said he was going to dedicate the song to Kayla. I told him if he did I’d smash him.

They dedicated

it to Sammy Jakes instead, who pretended to be embarrassed—as if she couldn't believe anyone would think of her as anything but an innocent virgin. But we all knew inside she was celebrating the advancement of her reputation as the “school slut”, which she wears like a badge of honour. They didn’t make it through to the finals.

Lachy says weed helps their creativity. Mr Verna is just depressed. But no one’s meant to mention the latter unless they want to be banned from private music class invitations. Mr Verna looks like a deer caught in headlights when he sees us parading across the courtyard.

We wave, he stays frozen for a minute, then smiles and winks. I wink back, both pretending we haven’t seen a thing.  Miss Jennings’ Indonesian class spots our group as we approach the home stretch.

We hear Maggs sitting in the back row call out, ‘Miss! I think I see Jamie Jones wanking in the green house again!’ ‘Right!’ Miss Jennings huffs. Her lips purse together, twitching like there’s an evil spirit trying to escape. ‘Remain seated everyone and continue reciting the Indonesia Raya.’ She leaves the room and twelve of her fifteen students jump out the window to join us. We continue on gathering students from food science, Maths and French along the way. There’s no hope for Miss Clabells business class. She’s already locked the doors and threatened two weeks of after school detention for anyone even thinking about leaving class. It’s her first term at our school after leaving a private girls school and so far she’s managed to stand her ground. We’ll wear her down soon enough. We March past an English room where everyone is nose deep in Dolly magazines for silent reading. Jono spots me from his window seat. He hates my confidence, but I know he just wants to be me. He opens the window. ‘Miss, something smells like heroin!’ he yells in my direction. ‘Heroin doesn't have a smell Jono,’ I laugh. He mumbles something. He’s never been good with comebacks. His two best friends Mitch and Noodle stand up and leave him to join us. ‘Wait, What? Are you for real?’ He asks them. They’re totally for real because Principle Greason confiscated all the cone pieces from Noodles bag last week which he was going to

take to Mitches after school. They didn’t get their arvo cones that day and Mr Greason wouldn’t even give the cone pieces back either.

Two teachers wait at the end of the final leg blocking the gate after being tipped off by one of these prison guards presumably. One, is our science teacher Mr Jones. Mr Jones has just finished teaching us about magnetic fields occurring in natural minerals. From his classes, I’ve learnt that If Kaylas boobs were iron, then Mr Jones’ eyes would be magnetite. Shannon wastes no time calling him out as we approach. ‘Getcha eyes off ‘er tits ya perve,’ she sputters in his face. ‘Shannon Bates, how dare you make such accusations,’ Mrs Warren defends, her face flushes to match the bright red suspension slips she holds in her shaking left hand. Kayla turns to me,

‘I don’t think I can afford another suspension. Mums gonna kill me.’ ‘What? We got this far, I thought you were with me?’ ‘I was…but, I’ll be grounded! I won’t be allowed to go to platform eighty-eight on Friday and the hot Blockbuster guy is going to be there!’ ‘If Kayla's out I’m out,’ Becca says. Becca’s always been quick to turn but Kayla’s shook me. After everything I’ve done for her this is what I get?

Murmuring rises throughout the pack of once-dedicated students. The red slips have turned everyone.

I face the group. ‘Kayla, are you going to let Mr Jones keep drooling into your cleavage every time he sees you? Guys, everyone has a reason for being here today, are we just gonna cop it?’ Mrs Warren is ignoring me, pretending to write names down on the red slips, ‘Mrs Warren’s been here two fucking weeks guys! She doesn't know any of your names! Are we all just going to take this shit?’ I look at Kayla. ‘I did this for you.’ Kayla looks like she’s about to cry. For some reason I don't care. I turn to walk off bidding everyone a sarcastic

farewell on my way but just before I leave the gate Kayla calls out to stop me. ‘I need my hoodie,’ she says.

It was a day to remember—the great walk out of “01”. We gathered 53 students as we made our way through the school and to the edge of freedom before 49 of them backed out. We could have made a difference—showed them who's boss, but instead they came down harder, even bringing in a school uniform to wear. I blame Kayla. She doesn't get in trouble anymore, even when she’s done something shit like robbing the canteen. I only think about her when I see her hoodie impaled on a stick in my backyard


Giving his goodbyes to his love ones, he was excited to go on this new adventure that life afforded him. He walks to the depot. He hears a whining and weak crying. He continues to walk the sound gets louder. He hears men laughing, speaking his Arabic calling this her a whore, plotting for the next man turn and what they were going to do her. I tried to ignore what was being done. All I could think about is what if that was my sister. I would want someone to help her. I walked softly back to the corner where I could pick up my bags and run once this was over. I peeked around the corner of the alley. I saw three men. They looked highly toxicated. The woman hands were tired and balled up cloth in her mouth. She cries. The other guy slaps her because she cries. He tells her that she should be enjoying this pleasure. I was getting sick to my stomach. I felt for my knife. It was in my secret spot. I walked around the corner. I see what happening. I tell them to stop. They laugh and began to threaten me. I threw my knife. It hit the third guy in the throat. I used my martial arts skills to break one neck and knock the other unconscious. I pick her up from off the ground and got my knife. She was bleeding from her vagina. I untied her, grabbed my bags and ran to the depot. It was perfect timing, the bus came. We rode and sat quietly. She held my hand so tightly that I wanted to say let go. I was all she had and she was all I had now.       When we got to the train station, I purchased her a ticket while she was in the bathroom changing clothes and getting the bleeding to stop. Our seats were beside each other. She whispered in my ear “my hero”. I know I wasn’t nobody hero. I was trying to figure out where she could go or where we can hide?  Once the train started moving, she feel asleep. I rested too. My mind was wondering where would she be safe. She woke up from a nightmare. She was completely drenched in sweat. I got her to calm down, her breathing slowly went back to normal. She looked at me pause, says “no me dejes”. I stopped and looked at her. I wondered how did she know. She speaks Spanish. How did she get here?       She started telling me a story about a casita and this family. She told how the father met this man. He seemed nice and very business minded. The father ran into a financial issue. The father agreed to work for him until the bill was paid in full. The father became ill. He couldn’t finish working for him. The man sold his wife and children. One day, the youngest child got away. She ran to the aunt and uncle for help. They found the aunt and uncle. She got away. She continues to run.       While he listens his heartaches. He didn’t know what to say or do. He knew his next step is to get to the airport. When he got to the airport, he trades his ticket in for two tickets to Asia. This gave me a few days to create her an id and other documents. I didn’t want to call my family to let them know. I picked up the phone but I couldn’t dial. I would just beat the phone. I was free! Now, I have freed someone else. She is so grateful. The more I get to spend with her I am falling in love with her. I get her to see a doctor. She can’t have any children due to the damage of those monsters.       We made it to Asia. I decide we go to Thailand. We stay in a little village that is quiet and wholesome. We found work and built our lives together. For months we would cry, for all the pain we felt. The healing began to take place. I still didn’t call my family. She went to school. She built her career. The opportunity presented itself for her to go to the United States. Twenty years, I am finally here. She took care of me, just as she promised. Things was going well. We were looking into adopting kids and preparing for family life. I never told her how much she meant to me. How much I was in love with her. I admired her for taking advantage of the opportunity that was presented to her. I was angry with her because she was the reason I couldn’t never return home.       She went to work like any other day. She drove her dream car, the BMW. Where we stayed it was hills and countryside. She was driving down the hill. A truck was on her side of the road. It hit her car and knocked her off the cliff. I didn’t’ know why I was crying 3:37p.m. She was coming home early from work to surprise me. It was my birthday! She had been acting moody a lot lately. I had found a note she had left on the bed for me. It read “I’ll make it up to you”, smiley face. That day felt like any other usual day. This time it wasn’t usual. I sold the house.       I finally picked up the phone. I called my family. I didn’t say a word. My mother soft frail voice said I know. I love you. The line was silent. I threw away the phone. I sit on this park bench, wondering, wishing, what it would be like if she was here. One day, I just stopped wondering, wishing and began to live just as she would want me too.

      That day I went to the park as usual. This time I had a cup of coffee. Coffee was something she always enjoyed. I sat there watching the sun rise. I am holding the card that said you was three months pregnant. Today, we would have been parents. As I take a sip of the coffee, from the shadows a beautiful golden retriever come sit at my feet. I laughed without a tear.


Warm, humid, and dark, the cloud bank high in the sky didn't look like it would be going anywhere anytime soon. The air was heavy with moisture, making everything feel wet. Caroline glanced ever so quickly at the sky, confirming what she saw: a full-on solar eclipse casting an eerie shadow over the landscape. The brightness of the day never had a chance to show itself, replaced by an otherworldly dimness as if nature itself held its breath. Caroline couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. It was a rare event that just made those of this morning that much more troubling. As Caroline walked back in through the front door of her home, she took one last look  before slamming the door shut behind her. Looking around her living room, she turned on her heel, looking out the front window to the grassy lawn outside. Shades of green and yellows blurred in her vision, a beautiful array of colors against the otherwise bleak sky. Bleak day, really. It had all started out so normal. Picturesque, even. Just this morning she had sat outside on her back patio, taking in her beautiful lawn. One hand held her hot coffee; in the other, her Kindle. Her cat lay lazily in her lap, both of them listening to the singing chorus of birds. She was enjoying her day off on the rare overcast, humid day that almost always seemed to evade Phoenix. It had all started so peaceful, so serene.  As she now stared out the front living room window, fatigue setting in from this morning's events, her vision narrowed in on the brown patch in her lawn from the newly dug grave. Her cat sat tensely in the chair, his tail swatting back and forth frantically, licking his bloody paws, as he tried desperately to clean himself. Caroline wondered how she got from peaceful to chaotic. "Stand By Me" played in the background as she just stared, trying to figure out what to do next.  She had already attempted to call the emergency line. "Please stand by, all circuits are busy now," is what the robot voice said on the other end. She wrung her hands together, trying to rub off the reddish dirt covering her hands and arms. She wandered away from the window into the hall bathroom, stealing a glance at herself in the mirror. Rays from the overhead skylight streamed through, showing her scratched up face, tear and blood-stained. She barely recognized her own face. Turning on the hot water, waiting for the mirror to steam over, she plunged her hands into the almost boiling water and splashed her face, still keeping constant eye contact with herself. "Why?" is the only question she could think to ask herself. Well, that and how in God's name did none of her neighbors hear her screaming, her pleas for help, frantic throwing of yard equipment, the ghastly sounds that the mower made when she fired it up - the only weapon she seemed to have handy at the time. She didn't even know you could do that with a mower. Resting her forehead on the mirror, she fished her cell from the pocket of her pajamas and pushed redial. She had kept her phone on the emergency-only setting, hoping that she would be contacted, thinking if she hung up someone would definitely call back. Or they would send someone to your aid. She didn't understand what was happening. Nothing seemed to make any sense.  She heard the familiar beeps and the same message she had heard from her dozen or so previous calls. The all-too-familiar robot voice: "Please stand by, all circuits are busy now." She wanted to scream, cry, yell, throw her phone. To what end? Maybe she should knock on her neighbor's door, see if they were even home. Would a call from a landline would yield better results? Did her neighbors even have a landline? Does anyone have a landline anymore? Caroline raised her head to the mirror to take a critical look at herself. To take stock. She had wanted to hurry and knock on her neighbor's door, but the hot shower was all too inviting. Caroline was pretty sure she had never taken such a long, hot shower in her life. She was grateful for the hot water against her sore muscles. She must have shampooed her hair five times in order to get all the dirt and blood out of her long, dark hair. The bleeding from the scratches on her face seemed to have subsided. Eventually she deemed herself appropriate to venture outside, thankful no one seemed to notice her appearance earlier. She found herself now standing on her neighbor's porch, knocking. After several minutes, she impatiently tried again, "Hello?" Caroline walked to the edge of the porch to peer around the corner to their adjacent carport and saw no car, then immediately admonished herself for that not being the first thing she checked. The absence of her neighbor's dog, Duke, should have been a clear sign too. She leaned her back against their front door and slid to the ground, burying her face in her hands as tears threatened to sting her eyes. Caroline took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and clear her head. What should I do? I could try my cell again. She looked at her call log, noting the twenty previous times that she had tried to call emergency services to no avail. Drive to the police station and report a crime? Was it a crime? How do I even begin to explain something like this? Deciding she didn't want to get into her vehicle, she couldn't help but wonder why no one had bothered to come check on her. She had been so loud, so vocal, so hysterical. It sounded like she was being murdered. In all fairness, that is exactly what almost happened. There was an attempt on her life; the whole thing was self-defense. At least Jack had been there. If it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have even noticed that her life was in danger. She got back on her feet, straightened her back, and took another deep breath as she scoped out the rest of her neighborhood, analyzing who else might be home.  Living in an older neighborhood meant that almost no one had garages. Driveway or street parking was pretty much the only way you could store your vehicle. The city was pretty strict about how and where you could park your car. The city liked telling you how to do anything on the property you owned: where to park, what kind of lights you could have, when and how much you could water your grass, even how high your grass could be. Right now Caroline did not see a single car in sight, which seemed almost impossible. She supposed, however, for a late Tuesday morning it wasn't unheard of, assuming most people were at work or on their way to work. Since Caroline worked from home she recognized that she easily lost track of days and the conventional rhythms of the day. She walked up and down the street looking for some indication that someone was home. Spotting an older model Nissan Sentra a block over, she approached the home and knocked as loud as she could. After receiving no response, she tried again. "Hello?" Still nothing. She knocked louder for a third time and shouted, "Hello! Is anyone home?" Nothing. Feeling dejected and even more confused on how to proceed, she walked along the quiet streets back in the direction of her home. She walked up to her front stoop, fished her keys out of her pocket, and unlocked her door. That's when the chorus of sprinklers came to life. Everyone's lawn timers were set to go off at the same time every morning. And she realized she could hear them. She not only could hear the sprinklers, she realized she could hear them echo and reverberate from all over. It was the only sound.


His eyes slowly fluttered. They flinched, closed shut again, but fought to remain open. The eyelids were heavy as sleep overweighed on them, like little bricks forcing them shut. It was dark and cold, the night’s void of any warmth. He didn’t shiver, but he couldn’t move. Lukewarm liquid, like damp grass, grazed his numb fingers, and the night’s breeze, right under the full moon, playfully slapped his face. Usually, these nights, despite of their coldness, pumps warmth in his heart. When he was young, he gathered around the fire with his parents, grandparents, neighbors, and friends for a weenie roast. He longed for that night under the starry night when his grandfather starts the camping party with, “Once upon a time…” He groaned, his breath hitched. He’s in pain, and he wants to cry. Usually, such a pain would force a scream, but his voice was dry. He recalled once falling down the stairs after running off from the school. And because of his rush, he fell down, broke a leg. He’d never felt such a pain before, so he cried and was carried to the hospital where he hugged his mom. He allowed himself, his younger self such a treat, to be spoiled by his mom’s warmth. Unfortunately, that warmth dissipated today. Only the coldness of the night wrapped him like a burrito. His vocal cords were frozen, and his veins flinched in pain. “You’re always clumsy,” his mom once said, “You never look over the bridge of your nose!” He looked down at his shoes, a huge pout masked his face. Whenever his mom yells at him, whenever he does something bad, he feels all the negative emotions overflowing in his eyes, forming embarrassing rivers that barely holds back in the sockets of his eyes. Slime drools from his nose, so he sniffles because it’s embarrassing. And in the end, he gets a cheek pinch from his mom, who won’t seem to be mad anymore every time that happens. But that doesn’t mean he’s not clumsy if his mom forgave him every single time. He always tripped by everything, even his shadow. He exhaustedly smiled; it was bitter. His smile explained the lifeless situation he’s been in because of his clumsiness, only lulled by the bright memories of his younger self. Although he’s an adult who has children, he’s still as clumsy as before. He moaned when he shifted… What happened to his children? To his wife? Where are they? He forced his pupils to tour around the vacuum to find his childhood friend who had turned to be his wife, the one who held his children. He couldn’t spot that smooth blond hair he always sifted through, the one he threw a bucket of water at when they were in elementary school. He couldn’t spot those glassy blue eyes, the ones he once goofily said, “They look like magical orbs,” making his younger self wife blush. He couldn’t find her, only strolling in his memories, in his dreams. He closed his eyes and touched the gash where his lukewarm liquid, he knew as blood, seeped. Something like a film rolled all his lifetime events before his mind’s eye. They were mostly the ones where he was extremely happy… He recalled himself when he first discovered his love for art. He cried too much to get his first easel for kids. He did chores, became a good kid, and washed his dad’s car every morning until he got it. He bickered with his parents for stopping that day, however, it was such a good memory to reminisce. Back then, he went to his best friend, his wife, to tell her about his parents’ gift. She was flabbergasted to know about his interests; it turned out, she likes crafts. It was one step closer to her heart before he could camp in there forever. They crafted art, lots of art. From their fashion clothes, to their dream home. She wanted that big house with a pool and a gym, but he wanted a blonde wife, specifically with magical blue orbs, and two children in a small and cozy apartment. When she laughed at him, he laughed with her, but he said, “I’m serious. A home sweet home is hardly a big Villa.” She slowly stopped giggling, looked at him, probably thinking. “A home sweet home is being happy with family,” she replied, and he nodded.

Happiness to them was to be engulfed by warmth. Now, that warmth of his mom, of his family and wife, dissipated. It left him alone in a dark pool of blood because of such a clumsy mistake that led to a car accident. He wondered if his wife’s cold too; he wondered if her body’s lying far or just closely enough to his. His children had their seat belts on, so they might be stuck in the car. He wondered if he’s going to be born again, if will he have the same life as this. Was he good enough to be lucky twice? He wondered if he’ll be able to ever fly the red kite with his brother, or to eat barbeque with his family. He wondered if he’ll go back to the same school, meet his wife again and softly bully her into loving him, or not? He wondered if he’ll face the same pain of breaking his leg, or he’ll get a good omen of “Break a leg in there,” when his gallery finally sees the light of life, like he always dreamt. Life doesn’t have enough answers to a lot of questions, but humans live in the hopes of finding the answers of what confuses them the most. They keep fighting like he is now to make sure he’s the only one dying, not his memories with his family and friend. He didn’t want to leave. However, when his younger self showed up inside his dreams, a red kite in hand, he couldn’t miss the fun, so he went with him…


There it was, at the corner of Linden and Mulberry, the Heishardt House, ripe for the selling. An 1839 mansion built in Gothic style. 6 bedrooms 1 bathroom, two floors, on a double lot. You can’t find beauties like this anymore.

Just as I was about to get out of my car and walk the hundred feet or so to the house, I got a call from my boss. It was the usual thing: I’m $300,000 below quota for the quarter and If I didn’t make it... Hell, the house could be possessed by a demon for all I care, this has to be the one.

As I got to the front door, it opened just a crack. A girl with bubble gum pink streaks in her hair poked her head out. She had big eyes which were accentuated by her excessive use of black eyeliner.

“What do you want?” I was taken aback at that. “I got an email from Mr. Heishardt asking me to visit. I’m here to help him sell his house. Is he home?” “You mean, Dick? Yeah come in, but take your dirty-ass shoes off.” she said. I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of her attitude, but as long as the house sells, she can spit on my shoes for all I care. I walk inside to see an immaculate home. It looks like the kind of thing that Martha Stewart would have designed if she lived in the 1800. The ornate central staircase dominates the foyer. A grand chandelier seems to hold hundreds of real candles as well as thousands of pieces of delicately cut glass.

This could easily be a half-million dollar home. Maybe more depending on what kind of renovations are needed. A woman with short silver hair enters wearing a polka dot dress and a red frilly apron that says, “Kiss the Chef.”

“Oooooh!” she cooed. “I thought I heard someone enter. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Susan Heishardt, but you can call me Suzy. Stephanie, you haven’t been rude to our guest, have you?” The girl with pink streaks in her hair rolls her eyes, “Ugh, no mom.” “Well don’t be a stranger, come on in,” said Suzy. “I’ve just pulled out a fresh batch of cookies. Richard is waiting for us in the kitchen.” The kitchen looked thoroughly modern for the 1950’s. It would certainly need a new stove, fridge, and dishwasher. New counter tops wouldn’t hurt either. I was practically salivating as I sat down at the dinette kitchen table and handed over my very last business card to Richard Heishardt across from me. We made the usual small talk for a few minutes until the cookies cooled and Suzy placed a plate between us along with a tall glass of whole milk.

I was in the middle of explaining the current housing market, and that’s when I heard it… A rumbling sound. Some sort of deep shudder echoed throughout the house.

“What was that?” I said. “What was what?”

“That rumbling sound. You didn’t hear it?”

Richard looked confused. He looked to Suzy. They both shrugged and looked back to me. “I must have imagined it. Anyway, as I was saying-” I then went on to explain the best way to price a house in order to maximize profit. In my head, I was chanting, “This has to sell. This has to sell.” over and over. In the middle of my spiel, I heard… a thump. The plate of cookies jumped slightly off the table. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “Did you guys hear that?” Richard looked to Suzy who looked equally confused. “Hear what?” they said to me.

My Ex-wife always called me crazy, but not this kind of crazy. Maybe if I walked around the house I could tell where it was coming from. Maybe it was “water hammer” from someone turning the faucet off suddenly. “You know, I think I’d like to take a tour of the house.” “Actually, I don’t know about you Suzy, but I’m ready to sign the paperwork.” I was shocked at that. In all my years of being a real estate agent, I had never had a seller so eager. “I haven’t even told you what my fees are.” I said. “Oh, I’m sure they’re reasonable. I’m sure we can trust you. There’s no reason why we can’t trust you, right?” “No! No reason at all.” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically. I whipped out my briefcase and popped it open. I pulled out page after page and had them sign each one. It took about 15 minutes. The whole time, I had this bad feeling, like I ate something rotten, except it was all over my body. When we were finished, I insisted on a tour of the house. “Why don’t we start with the basement?” suggested Suzy. “Actually, I’d like to see the ground floor, then the 2nd floor, then the basement, because that’s generally how potential buyers will tour the house.” Suzy looked to Richard for his approval. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…” Richard said hesitantly.” “It should be… fine.” said Suzy. I’d already seen the foyer and the kitchen. They took me to see the Dining room, Living Room, Parlor Room, the Study, and the Servant’s Quarters. The wood was polished so that the rich mahogany stood out against the moss green of the carpet. The rooms were filled with plush chairs and ornate tables. Ancient paintings adorned the walls, honoring the illustrious line of Heishardts throughout the ages. Back in the foyer, Stephanie was sitting on the bottom stair, playing on her phone. We ascended the stairs to the second floor and I admired the delicate pattern of the runner under my feet. It’s those little touches that bring a half million dollar house to a six hundred and fifty thousand dollar house. At the top of the stairs was the master bedroom. To the left was the only bathroom in the house. Adjacent to that was the second bedroom. A corridor led around the corner to the remaining three bedrooms. We toured them all and I was deeply impressed by the excellent condition of the house. I was starting to calculate the commission I would make, when I heard it again. That thump sound. I could feel it in my bones and it made me feel nauseous. Again Richard and Suzy didn’t seem to notice it. I told my hosts that I was ready to see the basement now. As we descended the stairs, I noticed something wasn’t right. Behind me should have been the Master bedroom, the bathroom to the left of it, and then the second bedroom. Instead the three bedrooms were behind me. But there was only one staircase in the whole house. I retraced my steps through the corridor to the Master bedroom, and there before me… was the stairs again. Stephanie was still sitting at the bottom and still playing on her phone. “Is something wrong?” asked Suzy nervously. “No no. I’m just... I think I ought’a sit down.” I said. “You don’t look well at all. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll have Suzy make you some tea.” I sipped on some Earl Grey and felt much better and ready to see the basement. Suzy flicked on the only incandescent bulb that lit the stairs down into the deep, dark, basement. She led the way, then me, Stephanie, and Richard at the rear. I swear I could hear a munching sound, like a tiger gnawing on a bone. But no one else seemed to hear it, so I chalked it up to another imagination. Once we were on solid footing, I heard a deep grumbling, and a heavy metal chain dragging across the floor. It was still dark. The only illumination came from the single bulb upstairs.

“You got him, Richard? I need to find the light switch” said Suzy. Richard grabbed me by the neck and one hand on my wrist. I was so shocked that I froze in place. I had no idea what was going on. “Gosh. It’s so hard to find. Sometimes it’s just easier to cast the spell.” Then she said something that sounded like Latin and Russian combined. A glowing white orb appeared out of nothing and floated a foot above our heads. Then I could see what was making those noises this whole time. An eyeless, hairless, grey monster. It didn’t have lips, just two jagged rows of vicious teeth that protruded outwards in every direction. A thick rope of saliva dribbled out of it’s hungry maw. It snarled and took a step closer. I tried to back away, but Richard had me firmly in his grasp. The beast took another step closer and Richard squeezed harder.

It opened up it’s jaws, much wider than any human would be able to, and lunged at my face. A heavy gauge chain that was wrapped around the beast’s neck and tied to the wall snapped taught and saved my life. The beast snarled and chomped at the air hungrily. Suzy began chanting in that strange language. Stephanie interrupted, “Dick, I don’t want to go through with the ritual after all. “We already have a sacrifice. We should complete the ritual and then we can talk. Now help your mother with the chanting.” said Richard. “You can’t tell me what to do, Dick.” “I’m your father, and you’ll do as I tell you.” “You’re my step-dad and I’m 78 years old! I’ll do whatever the hell I want to do.” Stephanie said. She walked up to Richard and shoved him much harder than I would have expected from a girl her size. Richard let go of me and fell on the floor and I could hear a little, ”snick” sound. Richard grabbed his hip and winced like he’d been stabbed through the heart. Suzy was just as shocked as Richard and just as speechless. Stephanie grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the stairs. I didn’t need any urging. I raced up those stairs like my life depended on it. She walked me out the front door. “You forgot your briefcase in the kitchen.” “That’s ok,” I said as I wiped the sweat off my forehead. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”


Encasterated in a god knows forsaken place as I lost track of time; left to rot in a devious place as I tremble in fear. A twisting wave of panic, shock, helplessness dashes through the deepest regions of my soul. Regretting not having to let go of this earlier. Let me tell you how I found myself in this nerve wracking predicament in pain and sorrow…

A long time ago, when I was free as a bird, I was the daughter of a rich business woman: Ella. Gaining everything that I wanted, therefore not being able to learn how to let go.

I am always bullying other kids and forcing them to give me what I want, but good things don't last forever and I put my life at risk. Once I saw my babysitter’s daughter -Hazel- had a doll that I‘m obsessed with: it has ocean blue eyes, blonde hair that lights up the night and with the most eye-catching pink dress that I had ever seen. Not even having an ounce of doubt, I snatched it from her hands. Furiously, she pushed me to the ground and I went berserk; who does she think she was?! I was about to push her back, but a destructive plan came up in my mind. Smirking, I made an ear piercing scream and fake tears started rolling down my cheeks. The door was burst open by my mum and my babysitter. Her face turned purple after what she saw, my mum shot my babysitter a menacing look. “ Gloria, what is it about!” my mum spat. “ Sorry madam, please give me another chance, I’m.. ” my babysitter tried to explain, but was soon interrupted by my mum: “ There’s no such thing as sorry and chances aren't that easy to get

Gloria! You and your little devil get out of here or I’ll call the security!” My babysitter was about to say something, but all her remaining words were gulped down by her esophagus. Staying silent, my babysitter gave me a distraught look and my eyes started filling with tears-my heart started feeling a little bit shallow somehow. Burning with anger, Hazel hissed as she passed me: “ I will never forget this Ella, and you will too! You will regret this! ”

From that time, her words were like sculpted into my heart; every time someone said the word ‘hazel’, I shivered uncontrollably. Luckily, the memory slowly faded away and thinking everything had passed-I was back to the bully I was. As time passed by,

I was more and more known. One peaceful year, or so I thought, my best friend Tracy came up to me: “ Hey girl, looking extra fancy today!”

“ And you looks like we have a new target” I smiled, “ I guess nothing can escape your eyes Ella.” She laughed. I winked,“ Can't argue with that, and who is our new GUEST?”

“ The new girl, duh!” she exclaimed, but seeing my curious expression, she rolled her eyes and continued: “ AKA… wait! What is her name again? Ugh.. it doesn't actually matter, the thing that matters is that she is our new target!” I just shrugged and said let’s go and not even have a second of doubt. Confidently, we walked up to the new girl. Strangely, the new girl seemed familiar: she had silky, black, wavy hair that laid down on her shoulder and her eyes were a tranquil green pool, flecked with brown and gold in the sunlight. Tracy smirked: “ Hey new girl! Isn’t it the time to hand over some money?” The girl just shot her a deaf glare and asserted: “ And isn't it the time for you to buy some manners and respect, your HIGHNESS?”

“ You! ” Tracy screamed, but it clearly seemed like she was speechless. She nudged me on the arm: trying to get help from me. Sadly for her, I wasn't paying any attention. The coldness and sound of the new girl’s words ringed over and over through my ears and a bolt of lightning shocked my mind-she was Hazel! This prediction shocked me to the core and I was frozen by the fear in me. My eyes widened. Cold sweat rolled. Temperature dropped. Standing like a statue. “ Ella! What is up with you!” Tracy roared like a lion, while interrupting my thoughts. After hearing my name, the girl’s eyes become sharp, menacing and maybe even deadly! “ She is Ella?” Hazel asked. Full of coldness and anger as she spoke. Tracy frowned.

“ You know her? Ella never told me anything about you. What is your name and what is that ghostly tone for?” Tracy asked, confused. “ My name is Hazel and the thing that happened between us is none of your business!” Hazel exclaimed. “ Lady, technically it does! She is my BFF!” Tracy answered. “ Not anymore!” Hazel barked. Then she just stomp of here, but before she goes, she whispered to me: “ It seemed like you hadn't changed at all Ella, and I keep my promises.” My heart started beating wildly after what I heard. I knew what she meant. I ran into the library, hoping that she wouldn't find me. That night I couldn't sleep: I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't fall asleep.

The next day, I had panda eyes.

“ Ella, what happened? You guys seemed to know each other?” Tracy asked, hoping to find out what was the secret between me and Hazel. “ Go away Tracy, Hazel is correct! It is none of your business!” I exclaimed. “ What is up with you Ella! I thought we were best friends!” Tracy asked. “ I thought that too Tracy, I also thought we were best friends, but you are so clingy! I need some space!” I shouted, the anger inside of me exploded. “ You snake! I had been by your side all the time just to be your best friend! I bully people because I want you to notice me! You don't deserve everything, and you totally don't deserve our friendship, you spoiled brat!” she cried. Tears started pouring down her cheeks like a fountain. “ Just back of Tracy!” My eyes became watery. I know I couldn't be myself without the company and love of Tracy, but I'm too angry to apologize. She put her hands on her face and started to run away.“ No please, I beg you, please come back! Im… I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please come back!”I cried. I can't hold my feelings anymore, it came out like my tears. I chased after her and ran as fast as I could, but soon she disappeared in the corridor. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. I was distraught. Sunderly, I tripped and my head fell onto the icy, cold floor. It went all black.

When I woke up, I was imprisoned in a dark place with mice crawling around my feet, but it didn't matter. I had lost my best friend, the only, only friend who had ever cared about me. Thinking back, in my life I'm only feared, no caring friends like Tracy. My heart started feeling shallow like when I kicked out my babysitter.

“ Feeling distraught like how I felt all these years Ella?” a trembling voice cried. Looking up, it was the one that had locked me up: Hazel.

“ You totally don't know that my mum is sick and she is still looking after you because we were in debt right?” she continued. “I…” I tried to explain, but was soon interrupted: “ No explanations Ella, just like what your mum mercilessly did to my mum. And thanks to you guys, my mum died of illness. This is unforgettable and unforgiveable!” she cried. I was shocked. I was about to say something, but she just walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She will let me out one day, won't she? Sadly, the answer is no. I stayed in the room day after day, desperately trying to get out, and living in shame. I remembered what I did in the past few years, regretting everything I did, hoping every breath that I took will be my last.


“ I’m drunk and I’m sad and it’s 1:00 in the morning, I’m so sorry,” I sob into the phone. “ I shouldn’t be calling so late. I shouldn’t be such a baby.” Nobody sees me cry, except maybe my husband and even that’s only been a handful of times in our 26 years of marriage. Not my counselor, or counselors I should say.Years of counseling actually. Not my foster parents. Not even my children.  “It’s ok,” Richard responds, “you can call me anytime, and you’re not a baby.”  “I just hate her so much!”  “I understand,” he says. His voice is low and his speech slow. It’s always been like that He speaks with the same speed as molasses in winter. Now his voice has gotten gravelly as his illness has progressed and it is interjected with bouts of coughing.

 “That’s not true, I don’t hate her. I want to hate her but I try so hard not to. Because not hating her Is the right thing to do. No one ‘normal’ hates their mother. So everyday I make up my mind to forgive her. It’s a constant battle,” I confess. Although that’s not actually true. Most days I don’t think of her at all. I think of her on my birthday or Mother’s Day. Or when I see my kids achieve something she should have been there for. Mostly I think of her when I have to fill out the section on the medical forms that asks for family history or when I’m drunk. Richard’s the only person besides my husband I’ve ever told how much I hate her. Mostly I don’t tell anyone anything about her, unless I’m drunk and weepy. There’s a theme there I guess. If I have to tell someone something about my mother I pretend I’m over it. I pretend I’m well adjusted. I pretend I’m normal. My brother and I continue to talk and cry and laugh for close to 3 hours. It feels good. Cathartic. We’ve never been close. Not really. She prevented us from being close. She made choices for us that we couldn’t change. Or let other people make choices for us. Despite her, we love each other. We always have a connection to home. So it feels good to tell him how I feel, what I remember. He’s surprised, I think, by all that I remember. I remember Detroit, our hometown. I remember the streets and the smells. I remember our cat, our house, our life. Before we say goodbye he asks the question I’ve been dreading.  “Are you coming for the funeral?”  “Yes of course I am. I would never let my feelings for her stop me from mourning the loss of our brother. It’s just us now, we have to stick together.”  “She’s going to be there..” he reminds me.  “I know. Gabe said he would like to come. He misses you.”  “I’d like to see him, we miss him too.”  “I just wish she wasn’t going to be there. She was and is a shitty mother and she doesn’t deserve to lay her eyes on my son,” I stress. My children have never met my mother. They are all adults now. They could meet her if they wanted to, I’d never stop them. I don’t encourage them though.  “I know, you’re right. But you’ll still come, right?” He asks. Like he even needs to ask. Of course I’m coming. It seems the only reason I come home anymore is for funerals. I was born in Detroit. The city of Detroit's motto is We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes. That’s where my mother left me on the side of the road, in Detroit, when I was 4. Those are the ashes I’ve risen from. A home burnt to the ground by the home maker. I think she was always a terrible mother. If I’m being honest, I think she is a terrible person. She let men rule her life. They were always more important than her kids. She would always choose men over her kids. She would do whatever it took to be “loved” and taken care of. Financially that is. Even letting her children be used and abused. Then there was the drugs, the drinking, and the whores. The parties, the stealing, and the homelessness. If she couldn’t sell herself she’d sell her belongings and that included us. But I digress. Detroit is where the funeral will be. It’s where my oldest brother, Richard, still lives. It’s where Gary and Marty lived. All 3 of her boys stayed close to home. I was in and out of foster care for the next 14 years after she dumped me and my older brothers on the side of the road. My childhood was nothing but cinder and ash left from the bad decisions she made. Terrible “parents”, more abuse, and trauma.I met and married my husband, we made our own family. I rose from the ashes. I made a better life. I never went home again.

 I’ve lost 2 brothers now. Marty from a heroin overdose when he was 35 and Gary from a meningitis infection that spread to his brain. He was 51. Richard’s not far behind. He has something wrong with his lungs. Won’t tell me what, but he’s on oxygen now. He can’t walk from his bedroom to the living room without it. I blame her. Marty never would have been an addict if it weren’t for her. Maybe Richard and Gary would’ve taken better care of their health. If she had been around, maybe they would’ve known to go to the dr. Maybe they would’ve made better choices. Sometimes I think, no I know, that this way of thinking is ridiculous. I have boys. I’ve taught them as well as I could’ve. They still make bad choices. But at least they can always come home.  Of course I’ve been back to Detroit. Detroit has so much to offer. I've been to the Eastern Market, the Vernor’s plant, and the Institute of Art. But I’ve not been “home”. As a matter of fact I arranged for Marty’s funeral to be at my church. As far away from home as I could get. In hopes she wouldn’t come. But she was there. She tried to get me to come home, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even look at her. Richard and Gary flanked me, one on each side so she couldn’t sit next to me. That was the day I realized I hated her. I didn’t hate her because of the men or the booze. I hated her because of what she did to them. I hated her because of what she did to us. We were just children.  I don’t think I can avoid coming home this time. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to say. How I’m going to act. How do I introduce her to the adult grandson she’s never met. I should come up with a snarky comment. I should take the high road. I always take the high road. I won’t become her. All that aside, I still decide against taking the high road. I deserve a little fun, a little payback. So maybe I’ll burn the whole damn house down. Richard won’t care. Gary and Marty are dead. They were the only ones that really loved her. They were the most messed up but also the most loyal to her. Maybe that’s why they were so messed up. They always defended her. Marty wanted nothing more than to be a family again. He could never wrap his head around the fact that that would never happen for us. We could never go home again. And just like that I had decided to burn it all down. All the pretending, all the hopes I had of being normal, and all the ideals of being a family. Until Richard calls.  “You don’t have to worry. She’s not coming.” He says.

 “Of course she’s not,” I laugh.

 I guess I won’t be going “home” after all.


           The door was waiting for him. Already open for a quick entrance into the inconspicuous car. Tony ran as fast as he could, chucking the duffle bags full of money into the back as he more or less dove into the passenger seat.        “Drive!” Tony screamed at Jackie, “Drive, goddamn it-

drive! ”        Jackie Scaletta did not need to be told. Before Tony had even entered the vehicle, he had popped the clutch into DRIVE. Before the passenger door was even closed he tore down the road like a bat out of hell.        Tires screeched like a woman getting murdered as the unnoticeable but powerful car growled down Lexington Street. A traffic light had just turned red as the car ran through it, narrowly avoiding collision with an expensive luxury vehicle.        The driver honked loudly, laying on the horn in shock in frustration but neither Jackie nor Tony D’Amato gave it much notice. They were too fixed on the wailing of police car sirens already going off in the distance. Coming after them.        “We did it, Jackie!” Tony screamed more than said, “We just robbed Lexington Bank, the cream of the crop! We are gold, my friend.”        Jackie only nodded in reply. He was too busy focusing on the road, maneuvering cars, hopping onto the sidewalk and the wrong side of the roads to say anything. Tony was shaking and excited as a child who had just scored the game-winning touchdown in a Peewee football game, but Jackie was calm and collected. A professional getaway driver if there ever was one.        “just a little bit further we’ll be over state lines- then after that, on our way to Mexico to live like kings, Jackie. We did-

whoah look out! ”        A wall of police cruisers was creating a blockade to the entrance of the interstate. Tony grew nervous immediately, visions of himself and Jackie being torn up by a barrage of Tommy Gun fire flashed through his mind. Torn apart by bullets as they did to Bonnie and Clyde. However, Jackie had prepared for this. He knew what to do.        “Hold onto something,” Jackie said with the coolness of an ice-cold killer. His face was determined, his eyes focused.        “Hold on?” Tony shouted. “Hold onto wha-“        He reacted just in time as Jackie popped the wheels on the shoulder of the entrance, scraping the passenger side of the car against the cement barriers that blocked cars from falling down the steep hill.        “Fuck! Fuck!

Fuck !” Tony shouted. Sparks flew like crazy fireworks off his side of the vehicle, he noticed with wide eyes.        The getaway car had attacked the weak spot of the barricade. Cops dove out of the way in fear as the driver side of the car clipped a police cruiser in the rear bumper, the collision was hard enough to knock the law enforcement car on its side. Gunshots fired harmlessly as the getaway car merged with the interstate traffic. The road to freedom.        “We made it! Holy shit, Jackie, you old sonuvabitch! We made it!” Tony hollered. He was shaking in excitement and fear. A bit of shock had also clouded his mind- he vomited quickly but violently out the window.        “Calm, down,

paisan ,” Jackie said calmly, “we aren’t free yet. Look behind us.”        Tony swore when he turned his head to see black and white cop cars following behind. Traffic had pulled over to the sides of the road to allow a path for the police to drive through. Tony had visions of Moses parting the Red Sea upon seeing this.        “What do we do?” Tony asked horrified again.        “You let me do my job,” Jackie told his childhood friend calmly. “You did your part, now it’s my time to shine.” He gunned the accelerator once again, the engine of the car growled like a lion on the attack, except they were the antelope and the police the lions. The rear windshield imploded with a sharp

snap!  as glass fell to the floor of the car.        “They’re shooting at us!” Tony yelped, another bullet hit the metal of the car’s exterior with a loud knocking sound.        “Well,” Jackie told Tony like a father teaching his son a lesson, “fire back.”        Tony reached between his legs for the weapon. A Thompson Machine gun with a 50 round drum loaded. He racked the first shot into the chamber, aimed intently at the leading cop car, and squeezed the trigger.        The gun went off, sounding like a barrage of drums, vibrating off the walls. The car Tony had been aiming at lost control and collided with a semi-truck that was pulled over.

One down, how many more to go ? Tony asked himself in his mind.        “Good job,” Jackie said calmly, still focusing on winding through the traffic on the highway, most drivers had gotten the message and pulled off where they could, but a few stubborn ones kept on going like nothing was happening.

Great, now we have a cop murder to add to our list,  Jackie’s mind told him. He shook his head to clear the thought away.        The car stank of burnt gunpowder and a ringing accompanied the ears of both men as Tony loaded another drum into the rifle.        “Don’t shoot unless they shoot first,” Jackie spoke, “Or if they get too close, even still, try aiming for the tires.”        “Don’t worry, I don’t intend on killing anybody unless I have to,” Tony replied. Jackie was thankful for this sentence from his friend. They weren’t murderers. There was no one else Jackie would aid robbing a bank with.”        A bullet shattered a small hole in the windshield. It narrowly missed Jackie’s throat. His blood went cold as he felt the ripple of air pass by his skin. A second one ripped another spot through the windshield- this one hitting its mark.        “Fuck,” Tony yelped, throwing his right hand onto his left arm. Blood stained his fingers. Another barricade stood ahead- this one three rows deep with paddy wagons and cruisers blocking the interstate.        “Tony!” Jackie shouted, momentarily taking his eyes off the path to look at his friend, “Are you okay?”        “Yeah,” Tony spoke through gritted teeth. “Just took some muscle and skin- missed the bone.”        “I need you to lay some covering fire when I say,” Jackie told him.        “What are we gonna do, buddy?” Tony asked, his pain was- at the moment- dulled by the fear that their escape had come to an end. No Mexico. The bullet would have to be extracted from his arm.        “Just wait,” Jackie replied, his voice getting lower and lower as he repeated, “Wait. Wait. Wait… Okay, now!

Fire!”

Jackie screamed, Tony leaned out the window and sprayed a barrage of bullets out of the end of the machine gun- aiming over the cops’ heads.        It was enough to scare the uniformed men to duck behind their vehicles as Jackie screamed the car over the grassy area between the lanes of the interstate, straightening on the wrong side as family cruisers and semi-trucks came dangerously close to head-on collisions with them. He rolled back onto the right side of the road once they had cleared the barricade, passing a sign that happily welcomed the two into the next state.        “We made it!” Tony shouted, “Holy Christ, Jackie! You did it we are clear!

Bravo paisano! ”        They had made it into the next state. Tomorrow morning, they would ditch the vehicle and get into another one to make the drive into Mexico. They were not safe yet. There was still the worry of a nation-wide manhunt or getting stopped at the border, but for now, Jackie Scaletta and Tony D’Amato were safe. They continued down the interstate.