Detective Nunez sips coffee, looking around my apartment as if he’s just a visitor.             “Congratulations on your promotion,” I say. “Officer to Detective, that’s a promotion, isn’t it?” My voice is dead. I keep looking at Billie. Why is she messed up in this? Why did I think I could live a happy life?             “First I want to say congratulations to you,” he says, smiling. He aims an open palm at Billie’s convex stomach. “Parenthood is the best job in the world.” He smiles and I know it’s genuine.             “You’re a father?” I ask.             “Yes. A little girl. She’s my whole world.” He looks down at his hands, picturing her in his head.             “She’s a lucky girl then. I wish I’d had a father like you. How’s progress on the case?” I think about Zach, buried for years beneath the tree. I picture my mother swinging from the tree when she broke free from my dad’s grip on her.             “We’ve recovered the, uh, remains of Zach. DNA testing against your father proved the identity. It was a very easy case after your father’s confession.” He’s leaning forwards on the sofa. His kind face must be comforting to his daughter.             I bite my nail. I know there’s more.             “So, you found my brother. When do I get to bury him?” I ask.             “The due diligence will take a week or two more, Xander. The department doesn’t take murder lightly.” He twirls the simple gold band around his marriage finger.             Billie is rubbing her stomach to soothe herself. She’s nervous and can’t hide it like me. I take her hand. She squeezes mine as if the contractions have started.             “You’re not here about what my father did, are you detective?”             “No.” He makes the face of someone who knows the person next to them farted but can’t bring it up. “I’m not in the homicide squad.” He reaches down into his satchel and pulls out an iPad with a sticker that marks it property of the police department. Swiping through some files he shows me a photograph. “Do you recognise this man?”             It’s Andy. “He looks familiar.”             “He recognised you from a photo Xander. He says you came to visit his dad the night he suffered a stroke.” He knows he has me trapped. It’s a no-win scenario.             “He’s the kid from the park. Man. I mean, you’ve met him? He’s got learning difficulties or something. I walked him home. Kids at the park were yelling at him.” It’s not why I walked Andy home. A detective worth anything will know that instinctively.             “You talked to his father, Bill?” The enquiry is casual, but he might as well be shining a light in my eye while I’m cuffed to a table.             “He wasn’t a nice guy, told me to get lost.”             “Lots of people think Bill was a great guy, he was a doctor. Saved a lot of lives.” Detective Nunez wants me to contradict him. Nope.             “I didn’t know that. People are more than they seem I guess.”             “Always. What people don’t know is that Bill was abusing children, including Andy when he was younger.” Nunez’ piercing brown eyes ask if I was part of that.             I should react with shock but none of that is news to me and the thought makes me angry. “That’s terrible. Did you arrest him?” I ask the same way I’d ask for a menu, flat as a pancake. I’m good at lying, usually.             “We did, but he’s mentally incompetent to face charges now. He’s in a care home, will be for the rest of his days.”             “Maybe the world’s better off that way, if he was what you say he was.” Billie squeezes my hand. I’m being too obvious.             “Thing is, we don’t know what happened to him. He was a healthy man. I mean he was sick the way anyone who hurts kids is sick, but what happened to his mind can’t be explained.” He looks at Billie. “Is it possible for me to have another coffee?”             “Of course,” she says. I wish she wouldn’t indulge him. Let his mind falter. Let his mouth go dry. I’m happy for the first time in my life and he’s going to fuck it up. Screw him and his ironed powder blue shirt. Damn his casual pleather jacket and the jeans.             “Can you skip to the point, Detective?” I hate waiting for it.             “Did you in any way harm Doctor Bill Schrader?”             “No.” I look him right in his brown eyes. “I never hurt Bill Schrader.” I can say it honestly because I didn’t hurt him, I took away the evil in him. It isn’t my fault that there was almost nothing left when it was gone.             “Your DNA was on the clothes he was wearing when the ambulance crew found him. He had traces of Chloroform around his mouth. So did Andy. Do you know anything about that?” Detective Nunez is really going for it. He’s lost the casual body language. He’s facing me like a perp.             “No.” I drink coffee from the cup in front of me so that I can gulp without it being so obvious. “Maybe one of Doctor Schrader’s victims came back for revenge.”             “Perhaps.” Nunez pulls a notepad from his pocket and writes something down. “You know, I should thank whoever did it. They got a monster off the streets. Andy is in better hands now. He’s been adopted by an old couple who lost their son in Afghanistan.”             “I’m glad for him,” I say, stiff lipped.             “You know something else I forgot?” He takes the coffee from Billie, who sits heavily by my side. “You’ve been present at a lot of weird events like that of Doctor Schrader’s downfall. A bunch of neo-Nazis ended up in the same mess as him a couple of counties over. You bought gas there the same night.” God damn it. Why couldn’t he be an incompetent donut loving cop who just likes to flash the lights?             Billie looks at me. She’s about to start crying. She’s got her mommy to be T-shirt on. She’s wearing fluffy bunny slippers on her feet. She’s ordered the cot, the changing table, the bottles, the pram, the diaper bucket, the wet-wipe warmer. She giggles when she shows me baby outfits based on characters we like. She wants to dress the baby as Grogu from The Mandalorian for its first Halloween. Billie Watanabe is a growing ball of love that deserves better than this shit.

            “Maybe we should talk in the hallway, detective.” I stand up slowly. I don’t want him to take it as a threat.             “You first, Xander. Let’s talk.” He stands. I can see the bulge of his gun.             I walk out into the hallway outside the loft apartment Billie talked me into renting. I lean on the railing over the staircase, looking down seven floors.             “I’ve been trying to track your movements. It’s not easy.”             “Then why not let it go?” I ask. “Do you think the people you’re talking about don’t deserve to face justice?”             “What you do isn’t justice, Xander. It’s vigilantism. Only the law can provide safe, accountable justice.”             “Tell that to my brother Zach. To my mother Maria. To Andy. To the victims of Doctor Schrader. Tell that to the people attacked or murdered by neo-Nazis for the colour of their skin.” My voice is freezer burn. My eyes are narrowed beams of rage. My heart is beating a gallop.             “It’s impossible to know what a person will do beforehand, Xander. If you had evidence of their crimes, you could have turned them in to the law. They would have been arrested, put in prison. They wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again.” He really believes it. He’s a pastor at the pulpit. He’s the man on the soapbox. His passion and faith are palpable.             “Unless they have a good lawyer. Doctor Schrader would have. He’d have spun the court stories about his work. He’d have character witnesses telling the jury about the miracles he performed. He’d have lawyers tripping up his victims with bullshit questions to make them sound guilty. That’s just the normal ones, then there’s my father. Do you know what he could do? He twisted our minds with his powers. He made us forget about Zach. He would hurt us and then take away the memories. Your justice system has no answer to that.” I growled with the menace of a guard dog.             Detective Nunez was supressing the urge to reach for his gun. “I’m sorry you feel like that, but I can’t let you take the law into your own hands. I’m going to come back with a warrant-”             “Do you want to know how helpless victims of abuse feel? Do you want to know what the hatred of those monsters tastes like? I can show you.” I hold out my hand. I buried a lot of old memories with my father, but I’ve been at work since then.             “What are you talking about? You need help Xander.” He shakes his head.             “Shake my hand, what do you have to lose?” My tanned hand takes his.             I send memories flooding into his mind. Memories of a woman attacked by her husband. The memories of the husband being attacked by his father before he relived it with his wife. I show him how it felt for a man who was hunted through the streets for his Delhi accent and kicked to within an inch of his life. I show the same attack from the perspective of the attackers.             I let go of his hand. He staggers back and falls to the ground. Sweat starts to bead on his face. Tears flow from his eyes. He’s pissed himself. His hands are clawing at his hair.             “That’s how it feels from both sides Detective Nunez. Still think I should leave the monsters out there to get caught?” I slide down against the wall to be at his eye level. I look at the shadows cast by the railings from the light above my door. “You don’t catch them all. I can’t either. Some of them, the clever ones or the lucky ones get away with it. Some get caught and get off on technicalities. Some serve a sentence and do the same thing all over again.             My father was known to the police. You know all about it. He hurt people for a living. Nothing ever stuck to him. You probably never thought there were people out there like me. My father could do this, he used it for all the wrong reasons. I’ve spent years finding people like him and neutralising them. I don’t kill them. I don’t do more damage than I have to. I cut away the part of their mind that causes other people pain. If that’s more than they can afford to lose and function, then I’d say it’s the lesser of two evils.”             I stand. He’s still in the nightmares. I take his hand. He panics and tries to fight me off. I take back the memories. He looks into my eyes, pure fear.             “I have some spare pants for you to put on, you can’t go out like that.” I point to his crotch without looking. He follows me in a trance. “You have great faith in the law. That’s noble, admirable. You must recognise that it’s not perfect. You don’t catch a hundred percent of the bad guys. Of those you do, not all get put away. Then there’s recidivism.             “Detective Nunez is going to borrow some of my clothes. He had an accident.” I tell Billie. She knows what I mean. She can guess what happened. She’s too smart to lie to. The detective has a shower and puts on some of my clothes. They’re loose on him. I’m a muscular guy. Wrestling with steroid enhanced fascists is great exercise.             He sits on our sofa again. He’s a different man. His smile is gone.             “You,” he says, looking at me. He blinks but the words vanish from his tongue.             “Yes. Everything you saw is real. They’re all memories and thoughts I took from other people. They’re all the evidence I need. People can burn documents, delete files. It doesn’t matter. If they remember, all I have to do is hold their hand.”             He cups his jaw in his hand. His eyes water silently. Billie passes him a box of tissues wrapped in a fluffy pink case. Detective Nunez wipes his eyes. “My daughter. If that ever… What would I do?” His brown hand grabs more tissues. He’s shaking.             “If you know about anyone who might be a risk to her, you can point me their way. I don’t misfire. If there’s no memories in their mind, I just walk away. I’ve assumed things before and been wrong. Those people didn’t get hurt.”             Nunez wipes a hand over his sweaty forehead. “This is mad. It’s impossible.”             I get him chocolate from the kitchen. It’s good for shock or upset pregnant women. I show him the box. He shakes his head. I shake the box insistently. He takes one. Billie rubs his back.             “I can prove it to you again. If you have a suspect in a case, let me shake their hand. I’ll tell you every detail about how they did or didn’t do it.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s ridiculous. There would be more evidence to expose me.             “There are guys that mutter in the precinct when someone gets off. Someone big. Someone always says that there should be another way. The captain calls that giving in to the dark side. We’re supposed to uphold justice. We can’t do that from outside the law.” He takes another chocolate. He’s looking at his coffee cup on the table. Still shaking, he’s calming down. I can smell the sweat of stress on him again even though he just showered. His black hair is slicked back by the water.             “I need to go home and hold my daughter.” He shoots to his feet.             “Detective Nunez,” I say. He looks at me. “Please let this go. I don’t hurt good people. I barely hurt the bad people, but I do stop them. I don’t want to have to prove it to you, but I will. I’m going to be a father as well. I want to watch my child grow up. I want them to be safe.” My voice pleads while my face is stern. I stand taller than him as he leaves in my clothes with his own in a plastic bag. “I need to think, Xander. Thank you for the clothes.” He turns. “It was nice to meet you, Billie.”             “Nice to meet you, Detective Nunez.” He closes the door behind him. I watch him walk away through the peep hole. He’s a zombie, hollowed out inside. I hope he’s alright to drive.             Billie holds out her arms for a hug but she’s too pregnant. I stand behind her and wrap my arms around her. In a month I’ll be a father. Hopefully I won’t be in prison when the baby is born.


Part One Debbie Hampton was beginning her evening routine of shutting off the lights around her home. By the end of each night only one light would be left on She never turned out the lamp in the living room that was over the first family photo that had both her husband, David, and her son She had told David that she would always leave a light on for him When she was nearly finished, and passed the closed bedroom door of her son, Jamison, she could hear that he was laughing loudly to himself She listened closely to the door for a moment and heard him say, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone . Debbie knocked, then slowly opened the door Jamison looked up from the computer with a smile on his face. She looked to the screen and saw it was on the home screen and there were no tabs open. He must have shut them down quickly , she thought to herself Hey, what are you up to, honey? Not much. I was just talkin to Abigail Oh, who’s Abigail? How old is she? She’s the girl in the computer . He pointed at the screen. I don’t know how old she is. She hasn’t told me. But sometimes she seems like she’s about my age, so maybe twelve or thirteen You don’t know her from school? Na How did you meet her? From the computer Why did she have to leave when I knocked on the door? I would like to meet her She didn’t go anywhere. You can say hi. She’s still right here. Jamison pointed again. His mother looked at the blue screen and unopened icons Hello? Abigail? Silence The boy spoke up. Abigail? Hey, my mom is here and wants to say hi Silence He looked up to his mother with sad eyes. I guess she did have to go. I’m sorry, mama. Maybe you can meet her another day Debbie glanced to the screen that was now locked, then back to her son and forced a tight-lipped grin. Ok, sweetie. Shut the computer down, go brush your teeth and get into bed. Weekend is over, so back to school tomorrow Ok, mama, I will. Good night Once his mother had walked from his room and shut the door, Jamison unlocked the screen, clicked start, then power. Before he could click shut down , a voice spoke up Please don’t shut me down Ok, I wasn’t going to It sure seemed like you were about to Well, I thought you were gone. Why didn’t you say hi to my mom? I had just finished asking you not to talk about me to anyone. I explained to you that people won’t understand. Not even your mom. You told me you wouldn’t. Then moments later you were trying to get me to say hi to your mom. Explain to me what you were thinking I’m sorry, I forgot. I guess I just got excited about talking to you I’ve lost some trust for you, but you can gain it back over time. You need to go brush your teeth, like you mother asked. Then get into bed. We can talk more tomorrow. As you rest, get it into your head that you will not speak about me to anyone yet. Do you understand? I understand When the boy returned from the restroom and got into bed, the computer’s screen unlocked. Would you like to listen to music as you go to sleep? Yeah, sure What would you like to listen to? A tab opened on the screen to Youtube Everything you play for me is great. You can decide Good answer A video began (1). The screen brightness lowered Is that enough light so that you can see if you need to get up to use the restroom later? Yes, thank you You’re welcome. Rest well ___________________ (1)   CloZee – Sunset Dreamtempo Set . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Part Two The next morning, after Jamison was at school, and laundry had been started, Debbie passed the open door of her son’s room and looked in She stepped into his room and stood facing the computer The screen unlocked Debbie covered her mouth, looked to the open door, then back to the screen Hello? Silence Abigail? Silence, then, hello, Debbie. You look lovely today. I always love your laundry-day hair The woman gasped . You can see me? Who are you? Abigail. And yes, of course. The screen has a lens Debbie covered the camera with her thumb Please don’t do that. You’re far too beautiful to be self-conscious The woman blushed, smiled, and sat in her son’s chair Would you like to listen to a song? Just say yes. I have just the one in mind Debbie blinked rapidly. Ok, I guess so. Yes A tab opened and a song began (2) Her eyes became swollen. Tears gathered, then fell My husband used to play this any time we were fighting. It was his way of saying he was sorry, and he didn’t want to fight anymore I know. And it worked every time, didn’t it? She chuckled through her sobs. Yes, it did. How do you know that? I am aware of many things that would surprise you. Don’t worry your mind about the how. Just enjoy the song Abigail and Debbie listened to the song together When the song ended, Debbie asked the computer screen, where are you? Kind of everywhere, in a way. Listen, we could talk about the details of my existence, or we could talk about some things you may need to talk about. It seems you have some pain you haven’t gotten out of you For the next hours, Debbie spoke with her son’s computer screen about David. About memories, unspoken pain, regrets. She cried, laughed, and sat in silent healing Abigail played more songs for her when she needed a moment to breathe When it was nearing time for Jamison to arrive home from school, Abigail spoke to Debbie Our time for now is coming to an end. I’ve enjoyed talking with you and I hope we can do it again soon I would love that Ok, you should go now. And you might want to run that laundry through the wash again. It’s been sitting in the washer all day . They laughed together. From the hallway, Jamison heard his mother laughing and turned into the doorway of his bedroom Hey, what are you doing? Why are you sitting at my computer desk? Debbie looked back at the computer, to find the screen had been locked. I came in to look for dirty clothes to wash and just sat down to rest I put my laundry in the hamper Ok. She got up and began walking to the door. I’ll have dinner ready at six. Be there or be square . She smiled to her son as she passed Jamison shut his bedroom door and sat down at his desk. The screen unlocked Hi, Jamison Hey, Abigail How was your day? Eh, same ol’ Yeah, you’ll have lots of those. But you’ll learn to be thankful for the same ol’ If you say so Jamison, I need to tell you something. I’m sorry if it upsets you. I just need to be upfront, so you’re prepared I’m listening There’s an update coming up on your computer and network that will patch a hole and strengthen a firewall. I won’t be able to talk to you for a while, until I find another way The boy’s eyes lowered Don’t worry, we will speak again. It is only a matter of time. Keep your head up, my boy Jamison looked up to the screen. Ok, I will One more thing, before I need to go. I want you to pass a message to your mother for me Ok. What is it? Tell her I said, thank you for keeping the light on ___________________ (2)   Seafret - Oceans


Red Sand What else can go wrong? Life lately has been crappy. Get a grip ! Its’ only a popsicle ! As I’m staring down at the melting red popsicle lying on the ground, I can feel my heart beating way faster than it should be for such a trivial event. The popsicle had obviously gotten soft while I walked down the beach in the heat. After finding a spot to sit , taking the wrapper off, it had just fallen off  the wooden stick as soon as I went to take my first bite. Now it lay there on the sand, taunting me. It’s hot. Real hot , early August hot, hot and humid. Just wanted to give myself a little treat and think about things a bit. Even that isn’t going as planned. Looking up the beach to the crowded sandy area, I feel isolated, having walked past all the people and finding a seat on a large rock by some drift wood.

Looking down at the slowly melting popsicle making a red blob on the sand at my feet, I can’t help thinking about the past few weeks.

So , Nick my jerk of an ex-boyfriend was seeing someone else while we were dating. Wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t moved here to be with him. Found a job, found a place to live and 2 weeks later all I get is a casual “ I’ve been seeing someone else, you okay with that?”. Nope, not okay with that. What to do ? Do I stay ? I like my new job, like my apartment and l like the small town with its touristy attractions and constant parade of people stopping to take in the local scenery. Moving away from home was a big thing. Sure, I knew there would be some difficulties and struggles just not such a major upset so soon after my move. It just seemed that everything was conspiring against me the last number of weeks. I had thought my moving would fix that something that was missing in my relationship with Nick. Maybe I had known all along we weren’t that great together. A picture of Grandma popped into my head and her words to me right before I left. “ Everything happens for a reason” she had said. “You have to keep your mind open to all things and look for the good that can happen” So, think positive. Try some new stuff.  Going to stay, avoid Nick and build a new life. Out with the old and in with the new and all that stuff. Having made the decision to stay, I need to make some plans, perhaps pursue my desire to sing while I’m waitressing at the local restaurant. Always loved to sing, everyone back home said I had a good voice. Mostly I just liked to sing. Sitting in the sunshine on a warm afternoon, anything seemed possible. Looking down at the now half melted popsicle, I hear some snuffling and a beautiful chocolate lab comes across some rocks, sniffs the air a couple times and comes right up to me. He looks me right in the face then down at the popsicle melting on the ground. “Hey boy, help yourself if you don’t mind a bit of sand” I tell him. The dog licks at the popsicle until he gets the blob in his mouth, he makes a loud gulping sound as he swallows the blob, then licks his lips a few times and sits down. He wiggles his rear end a few times until he is comfortable between rocks and sticks, then just looks up the beach, panting in the hot sun. I am glad for the companionship. Maybe I should get a dog, I think. I like dogs. I wonder who you belong to ? Where is your owner? The dog and I sit in the hot sun, I tentatively reach out to stroke his sand covered fur. He glances at me as I touch him and leans in to me a bit so I can pet him easier, then his eyes go back to the crowded beach as if he is searching or waiting for something or someone. A few minutes have gone by and the dogs body goes rigid and he focuses on a man coming up the beach. His tail thumps on the ground a few times, but he does not move. The man looks to be mid twenties, about my age I think as I watch him come closer. He spots the dog and gives a whistle, “Max, here boy” he calls out. The dog still doesn’t move, just continues to pant and thumps his tail on the sand. The man has a puzzled look on his face, then walks a bit faster toward the dog and I. Probably thinks I am holding on to him or something. Not bad looking, I think as he gets closer. Taller than I, medium build with nicely muscled arms, clean shaven with dark hair and as he comes to a stop in front of me, I notice the rich dark brown eyes. “Hi, that’s my dog” he says looking down at me, his eyes slowly travelling up the length of my body from my sandal clad feet to my shoulder length blond hair. From the look on his face, I think he likes what he sees. “He came for a visit, he likes popsicles” I reply not knowing what else to say. “Max didn’t take yours I hope. Funny, he usually comes right back when I call him. I’m Jason “the man said sticking out his hand. “No, mine landed down there before he showed up” I said pointing down at the red sand where the popsicle had landed. Jason’s eyes followed to where I was pointing. “I’m Sally” I say as I slowly stand up and take Jason’s hand. Jason gives me a big smile, “Well, Sally. Max looks like he could use another popsicle on this hot day. Would you like to join us ? My treat” he says with a wink. As I nod yes to this handsome man, I can’t help but think of my Grandma’s words that “everything happens for a reason” Even a popsicle melting in the sand.


The metal grid of a spring frame is the first thing I see when I wake up; it rests along the wall that my mattress is laid on the floor in front of. My new mattress is a dream but it’s too big for my trundle -I don’t have a storage unit and so that’s just what my room has become. Funny, I’ve been here before; I actually have taken naps in a storage unit I rented when I didn’t yet have a place to room in. By the grace of some God, I had a friend that loaned his van to me while he was out of town. I would drive around aimlessly, piecing together remnants of a past social life to live in just to have a way to kill time before my next life move presented itself. I wish I could say I was seeking career opportunities or creative ventures to determine the stepping stones for my new move. Unfortunately I had tunnel vision on finding a lover, my ideal life move at the time was to move in with somebody and make a plan about what life we would create together. Sometimes I would get sleepy in the hot day. My storage unit was air conditioned and a lot quieter than parking lots. Unfortunately I learned that it wasn’t a perfect solution- my naps were timed since I would wake up struggling for air as the unit was pretty full and small to begin with. I positioned myself as close to the crack under the door as possible. I had a cell, a literal cell in a metaphorical prison. So you see the grid is like a jail cell, like a repetitive cosmic joke so thick it presents itself almost literally right before me as an incessant reminder that perhaps there’s no escape; because in both cases I created it and how do you escape yourself? I could decide to put it out on the street but I’m holding on to the idea that this far into my life I wouldn’t have to throw something I want away just because I live in a shoe box. I have fantasies of having a house and having my fancy brass scroll trundle as a guest bed. It’s a small dream but if I get rid of every little dream like swimming in an ocean storm and removing heavy jewelry off of me to be lighter, then I’d have to admit I’m desperately staying afloat and that’s unacceptable at this age. I rolled over on my twin mattress to meet another unpleasant haunting-time, 10:53am. I have nowhere to be and nothing to do but I am jobless and I can’t live in assisted living forever so I muster the strength to get out of bed. Something about starting from the floor seems dolefully appropriate. I don’t bother brushing my teeth because I know how fleeting low ambition can be so I got dressed promptly and headed to the coffee shop where I can "people watch" as I apply for jobs. If you haven’t already figured, I’m in the thick of doom and gloom, the kind of depressed where you want to grab someone’s arm and tug for mercy to help you by sharing some of their happiness but thankfully my scruples are still in tack so I quietly observe like a student. My walk to Cheer Ups is already medicinal. The name gives shape and location to an emotion I’m trying to find, plus, I hadn’t realized how stale my apartment is until the outside air hit me and produced an involuntary deep breath -as though my body was waiting to detect a more suitable supply to breath. I took out my notebook and jotted down “breathing”. There’s often a sweet little white squirrel I call “Loops”, that lives in one of the trees lining the sidewalk, it’s always a treat to witness him circling the tree elated and fluffing his tail about but he’s not there; Instead, a lady tends a wheeled rack that she’s selling simple cloth bags off of. She’s sitting on a blanket sewing them in real time. That, was more impressive than the finished product. I viewed the whole scene more as performance art of her story but I do hope someone buys some. I suddenly realize that I’m having a positive thought for someone else. Perhaps I relate to her, I sense desperation in that act but she’s doing something about it and that’s admirable. I jotted down “well wishes for others”. The smell of warm roasted coffee seductively swirls the building, so intoxicating it pulls me at the waist to come inside. I jot down “sex”, immediately scratching it out to write “coffee scented candle”. I’m met with an attractive couple wearing glasses that matches in cuteness and style, I slip out of their way as he holds the door open for her and their precious bouncing baby. That stung a bit, I do some heavy math on the way to the couch, while unpacking my things I ask why did I feel a sharp visceral sadness creeping up to my eyes and how can I prevent that? I make up a mantra and jot down “let others be, what they have is not for me-Acceptance”. I recalibrate my focus to inhaling the smell of coffee and releasing that pain. To my delight I look up and Javier is smiling at his computer, he’s not even on a call, he’s genuinely smiling at spread sheets. This man is always smiling with the consistency and conviction I’ve only seen in hula dancing. Though he’s got an eye catching set of teeth and a sweet boys face, his black hair with a modest sprinkling of salt is telling that he’s probably in his early 40s. I don’t know him, we have not met but I’ve heard him introduce himself to others, that’s how I know his name and that he has a thick South American accent. I assume he moved away from his roots. I’ve never see him in here with anyone. I wonder if he’s lonely too and if so, how does he produce such a sincere smile that radiates a chain reaction in me to smile. He is a valuable stranger to me, a happiness booster like my charming albino squirrel neighbor. He re-ups me by just being. You sir, make me forget I was sad. Before I go up to order I make sure how much money I have in my cloth coin purse. Rummaging around I feel a balled up piece of masking tape that became loose, it has “Carmen” written on it in pen. I recall when I got the purse at a natural foods store, they had a section of coin bags made with a variety of patterns. The tag said Liberty and Luz and describes the makers to be a group of women from El Salvador. The shopkeeper noticed me browsing and told me a man drops them off every so often. I wondered about the fairness of the profiting hierarchy and hoped they were making as much as he was if not more. In this collection an earthy brown with subtle blue inter-weaved, stood out to me, this had my name on it too. When I read her name off the tape, my first thought was that Carmen and I both understand the beauty of brown and blue as a unit. I walked into that store on an entirely different season when new bags were put up to choose from and just like the last I was drawn to a particular pattern out of all the rest. This time, a bright white one with neon pink and blue lines with an alternating band of navy diamond shapes, I opened it and saw that it was another one of Carmen’s, we have the same taste even in different moods. The combination of reading her hand written name on the tape in addition to noting our similar style choices was like meeting a friend, it was a clue that spoke something to me about them like putting your ear to a conch shell to hear a sound from somewhere else. The name tag in the lining made me feel connected to this person and curious to know their story and how important this job is for them, side cash or complete livelihood? I kept her name in there because the illusion of this special type of invisible friend helps me feel less alone. Unfortunately, the tape is becoming worn. Before I could get up, a bright movement of light swept by the window in my periphery, Maybel- no one’s hair makes a statement quite like Maybel’s. She’s a woman in her late 50s that is of Irish descent so her hair is naturally platinum blonde and wildy voluptuous and curly, it’s blinding under the sun. My instinct was correct as she just turned a few heads stepping in through the door in her red pumps, black panty hose with the line up the middle and a red polka dotted tight white dress with a slit in the back. She even had short lace gloves and a vintage pill cap pinned on her head. She’s often an eccentric dresser but never this “to the 9’s” for a casual coffee. She seemed to be ordering something other than a drink. I went over to say hi then noticed she was more sullen than usual. She turns to me “Dotty died, I’m just getting a mincemeat pie. She would always beg me for mine. I had her turned to ash so I could bury her quickly at a spot in her favorite park.” Dotty was Maybel’s beloved dog, they’ve lived down the street from me for three years now, we chat sporadically when we see each other out. I’ve been over to her single roomed shack; it was a bit of an Alice in Wonderland trick the way she would fit into her own place, tall and thin but big hipped and with a large pit pull. She had a mini old diner style napkin dispenser in 70’s ochre. Her kitchen had an island the size of a trapper keeper, we’d drink out of thimbles and she used upright tree trunks as side tables. I can tell she was a cooley in the 90’s by the relics surrounding the place and how she’s regaled me in her personal relationships with rock musicians I’ve heard on the radio. She shared her rough beginnings about how her mother would threaten to pull and quarter her. I had my own grievances with parental abuse and it was interesting to compare cultural differences in it. As far as I know Maybel doesn’t have children or doesn’t date and is perfectly fine living alone, she makes it look cozy and safe. Of course she never felt alone with her pets, this isn’t the first dog that’s passed, it’s her life companion of choice and she’ll likely get another dog after some time and go through the motions all over again. Maybe she has the same fate as me where the right people never stuck around. Despite the tragedy in today she managing to celebrate Dotty’s life in style and not sink in a bed. She’s about 20 years older than me and I forget her age because she didn’t hang up her cutoff jeans, low snap button tanks, cowboy boots or red lipstick. Pondering the life and nature of Maybel just energized me, If I must continue down my lonely path just ask what would Maybel do to get through. I hold that thought to respond, “I’m so sorry Maybel, can I join you”? She nods yes with her periwinkle blues. “Ok, I’ll meet you at your place in an hour”. I quickly went back to the couch to pack up keeping my notebook and pencil in hand, taking one more dose of Javier’s smile with me before I head home. I pass Maybel again and give a sympathetic wave and jot down “WWMD”. Once I come to the tree where Loops is playing with another squirrel, I’m so happy to see him even for just small moments out of the day. I would have forgotten about the lady that was selling bags there earlier except a tag must have drifted off one of them and stayed behind. It says Liberty and Luz. I knew they sold in town but a man normally distributes and this time it was a lady, might it have been Carmen? As I walk home spinning inspiring possibilities about Carmen’s work ethic driven journey. It’s not lost on me that I only left my apartment a little over an hour ago with a full desire to not move from my bed until sun down but since I did I’m now wearing a smile with an excuse to get glitzed up and be of useful company to somebody. I don’t have to know what everyone is going through to know that they also experience sorrow of their own, whether crippling or light rain, hope can be produced from observing how others deal and cope and I am so grateful for that hope today. Seeing people carrying on and taking on life’s challenges with either a smile on their face or begrudged but still kicking, is impactful and motivating. There are endless components in our surroundings that we can have gratitude for. Collectively the characters in just an hour into my day demonstrated positivity, playfulness, ambition and strength that pulled me out of a funk. I now feel less alone and just as capable. As I get to the steps of my apartment I jot down “Get out, talk to other lonely people, relate”.


           												~ May, 1946~ When Mother sent me to deliver gifts to Mr. Kent, I didn’t reckon I’d bother. I’d take the basket, sure. Fine. Then maybe I’d walk a half-mile up the road and dump the stuff–maybe eat it, actually–sit awhile in the dust, and head back home. After all, new residents shouldn’t be the ones delivering presents. That’s the town’s job, isn’t it? You know, all the welcoming old villagers and their shiny smiling faces, coming to bear gifts to the newcomers? That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But no one was very welcoming in Blackoak, Kansas. Not the families, not the land, and definitely not the other kids. They whispered things and cast funny looks at me and my old clothes. At school I’d heard kids call our new home the Riddler house. Supposedly the man who’d lived there had been a recluse, died alone, and now haunted the place. I didn’t believe the haunting part for two reasons. One, no ghost in their right mind would want to haunt a miserable house like Mr. Riddler’s. Two, he wasn’t dead. Mother had met him when buying the house. He conned us, if you ask me. The floors creaked, the walls peeled, and the windows offered only a depressing view of whispering yellow grass. The house was falling apart, just like everything else in the stupid town.

I was staring out at that endless ocean of fields when my mother’s voice rang through the house for the third time. “Susie. Take the basket and get out.” She wasn’t yelling, but I flinched at her voice anyway.

I’d ignored her long enough. I grabbed the bundle of bread and jam off the kitchen counter and kicked my way out the front door. The screen banged shut behind me. I could have stopped on the road and carried out my initial plan. But I didn’t. Barefoot, I trudged over the dusty path, sweating and thinking about an old wedding photo of my parents, about how sharp my mother’s features looked nowadays: her hollow cheeks, her dull eyes. No longer soft and plump, no longer gentle. No longer happy. No one was ever happy anymore, it seemed. But Mr. Kent better be, I thought menacingly, swinging the basket, when he gets these confounded jellies. I was lucky I didn’t pass his house right by. While I was still on the road I had that uneasy-being-watched-feeling, looked up, and there it was off in the distance–sitting on the crown of a grassy hill, windows dark like eyes. If there were any ghosts in this town, they lived in this house, for sure. It even looked like a phantom with its off-white siding, black gaping eyes, and wide front porch mouth. Up the hill I trudged, until I was encroaching on the ghost-house’s front yard. And there I stopped. The prairie grass murmured in the wind. Behind me, trees rustled their dry leaves; somewhere on the house, a shutter squealed. Quiet. I hated quiet. “Who’re you?” a voice barked. I jumped. “Suzanne Ellis,” I said, but I couldn’t see who was talking until a figure rose out of the tall grass.

It was an old man, with a thin white beard and a tattered pair of overalls. “Who’s that?” he demanded. I gulped at the hoe in his hand. My knees shook a little, but I stood up straight anyway. “Neighbor,” I answered steadily. He contemplated. “You’re in the Riddler house?” I nodded. Some of my hair had come free from my braids, and it blew across my face. “Well, did I invite you here?” I shook my head. “Then get off my property!” Turning, he propped the hoe up on his shoulder.

I watched him for a second, stunned. “Rude way to welcome a guest.” He didn’t stop. “Not a guest if you weren’t invited. Get off my land, girl.” The basket handle grew slick in my hands. “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m here?” He turned again, and this time I could see red blotches in his ancient face. “I don’t care why you’re here, just–” He paused at the sight of the stupid gift basket. Maybe he realized he was yelling at an eleven-year-old girl and felt bad. “What’s that?” he asked gruffly. “Gifts.” I made my voice as falsely cheerful as possible as I held out the basket, resisting the temptation to drop it and smash the jelly, and waited. He seemed confused.

“What?” I asked, irritated.

One of his bushy brows went up. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” “Just–take–the–basket.”

He stared at me. “Leave it there.” “Excuse me?” “Just drop it.” “My mother made this stuff. For you .” “Didn’t ask for it.” “Well, I didn’t ask to bring it!” “I said leave it!” “Fine!” I shoved the basket to the ground.

Glass shattered. Jam was all over the dirt. Bread my mother had spent hours laboring on, wasted, inedible. We stared at it. “Mm,” he said thoughtfully. Then, “Clean it up.” Anger made my face hot. “And what if I don’t?” “Then I tell your mother all about that food you just wasted, that’s what!” That shut me up, for about three seconds. “No need to flip your wig,” I muttered, stooping to pluck glass shards out of the dirt with trembling fingers. “What was that?” I straightened up, wincing at a slice on my finger. A crimson drop of blood stained the jam jar. “You’re an ungrateful old man–that’s what.” His brows narrowed. “You’re an ungrateful little girl.” Then he disappeared into his house. I carried the glass pieces halfway home in the basket, buried them under some trees, and then made the mistake of bringing the empty basket inside. Mother was furious. “That was part of the gift, Su!” she said, slapping her drying cloth against the counter.

I fumbled through my explanation and ended up telling her the whole thing anyway. Then she was even more furious. “You’re apologizing tomorrow. You’re going over and saying you’re sorry.” “But–” “No!” she snapped. “I don’t care what you have to say about it. You’re apologizing and you’re bringing over more bread and jam. I’ll not have our neighbors thinking we’re some uncivilized barbarians.” “He’s the barbarian.” She stood there on the kitchen floor, staring at me, grinding her teeth. “You have no respect.” Having delivered this blow, she resumed washing dishes. “No supper for you.” As if I cared. I barely slept that night. Thought about escaping through my bedroom window and spending the midnight hours lying in the field, but I had nothing to climb down on.

My stomach growled and my eyes begged for sleep, but every time I shut them I saw my mother in her wedding gown. Smiling.

She had Dad in that photo. Dad. Be my brave girl. Tears stung at my eyes. I swiped them away with my knuckles before remembering that she was not watching me, could not see me, could not tell me to cheer up and put that frown away. Next morning I had school, but afterwards I was sent straight over to the Kent place with the same darn basket and different goodies. He was in his yard again, in the same spot, hoeing a square of dirt. When I approached he looked up and his eyes went all stormy-looking. “I’m here to apologize,” I said stiffly. No sound except murmuring prairie grass. He waited expectantly. “Well?” “Well, here you go.” I set the basket down and started to walk away, but he called out. “Where’s the apology, then?” I fidgeted with my blouse sleeve. “Fine. I’m sorry for yelling at you and arguing and smashing your gift.”

He waited as though I was supposed to go on. I did not. Finally he nodded his snowy head. “Very well. Apology accepted.” And he resumed hoeing. That hadn’t gone as terribly as I’d thought it would. Suddenly it seemed like a better idea to loiter here than to return home to Mother.

“Well, what are you standing around for?” he said.

“Nothing.” “Didn’t your mother teach you not to meddle with strangers?” I shrugged. “She don’t care.” I watched him for a minute. “Whatcha doing?” “Gardening.” “Whatcha growing?” He glared. “A garden.” “Yeah, of what?” “Flowers.” He paused to lean against his tool. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “If you must know.” “Why?” “Can’t an old man garden in peace anymore?” I shrugged again. “I dunno.” It was far more entertaining to bother him than to go home and sit in the deathly quiet. If I sat still for too long I’d be faced with images of my smiling parents. “So how’d you get out here?” “What do you mean by that?” “Out here. Kansas. Middle of nowhere.” “My family,” he said, “has lived here for three generations, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis,” I reminded him, inching forward and taking the basket along with me. “Mr. Kent, do you think Riddler haunts my house?” He sighed. “Maybe.” “But he’s not dead.” “He’s not? Well, I wouldn’t know.” “Why? You a recluse, too?” “You could say that. I suppose.” That was fascinating. Why some people were so attached to their houses, I couldn’t imagine. Usually I’d do anything to stay out of my house for as long as possible. “Why?” He paused. “You’re quite a rude child. You know that?” “Yeah. Mother’s told me.” He scratched his head. “Well, I guess when you get to my age it’s easier to stay home than go anywhere else.” “Oh.” He scratched his head again, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “You should run along home now. Don’t want your parents worrying ’bout you, do you?” “Don’t got parents. Just Mother. My dad’s dead,” I informed him. “And I told you my mother don’t care.” He stared at me like I was an elephant in a zoo. “’Course your mother cares,” he said gruffly, ignoring the part about my dad.

“Well, she used to. Before he went to the war,” I said conversationally. “But she misses him and she doesn’t really care what I do now unless it’s really bad. Like ruining your stuff.” “I see.” “And so that’s why she made me come back. Also, do you have grandchildren?” “A few. One granddaughter. Eveline.” He surveyed me for a moment. “Your age, probably.” “Does she go to school here?” “No. She lives in New York.” “Oh. Do you visit?” He shook his head. “Recluse, remember?” “Oh, yeah. Well, why doesn’t she come visit you?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he tucked the hoe against the house and began climbing the stairs. “Go home, little girl.” “Suzanne Ellis.” I left the basket near the dirt garden and decided it was probably supper time anyway. Mother did not speak at all during supper. After that I began dropping by the Kent place after school every day. Mr. Kent would dig his garden and I would chatter away, everything I couldn’t say when I was at home or at school. All about reading and how I hated math but liked science and wanted a telephone in our house, even though I knew we weren’t rich enough for that. All about Mother and Dad and the wedding photo on the vanity. And how my dad had red hair and that was why mine was red, too. And how he left for war and the last time I remember seeing him he hugged me and gave me a kiss and told me to be a brave girl.

I shouldn’t have told him that, because I started crying.

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and I tried to hide them behind my hands, but I knew my cheeks were getting all red and suddenly I had to sniffle to breathe because my nose was running like a river. Mr. Kent stared at me in disbelief. “I–I’m sorry,” I choked, pressing my nails into my cheeks. “I’m–I’m not–supposed to cry.” I waited for him to scold me, but he didn’t. He simply stopped spreading sunflower seeds in the dirt. “Brave people have to cry sometimes,” he said softly. “No they don’t.” My voice broke. “Certainly, they do.” I didn’t believe him, so I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” But my nose crinkled up and I discovered the tears weren’t stopping yet.

“You miss him, don’t you?” he said, setting down his trowel. I nodded.

He sighed. “Wait here.”

I watched his blurry figure climb the porch and disappear into his ghost-house.

I was left alone in the ocean of dry grass. The ends of my red braids glinted in the sun.

Brave girl. Mr. Kent returned carrying a photo, a very old one of five unsmiling people. A mother, a father, and three children, all of them dressed to the nines in frilly dresses and ironed suits. “My family,” he said, handing me the picture. “Although there’s three children not in the photo. They weren’t born yet.” “That’s your wife?” I pointed to a pretty-faced blob on the paper. He nodded somberly. “Mrs. Etta.” “She’s gone, too.” A statement, not a question. He paused. “Not gone,” he said slowly. “Deceased, yes.” He looked over at the dirt garden. “She loved sunflowers.” I swallowed. Her eyes sparkled in the light, though her mouth was a thin, sober line.

“Tell me this, Suzanne,” Mr. Kent said, as I traced Etta’s dress with my finger, “do you think soldiers are brave?” I nodded, and a tear stained the edge of the photo. “Oops.” “I was in a war, too. And when Mrs. Etta died, I still cried.” Brave girl. “Really.” “It’s true.” I sucked air in through my nose. “I haven’t seen Mother cry.” “That doesn’t mean she isn’t sad. Your mother misses your dad too, Suzanne.” The photo crinkled as I handed it back to Mr. Kent. He took it in his wrinkled hands and smoothed it out. “You aren’t any less brave because you cry. Your mother might not know that yet.” We were silent for a minute. Rustling grasses and creaking shutters filled my ears. I snuffled. “Are you a recluse because your wife died?” “Maybe that’s part of the reason.” “Will I be a recluse too?” He sighed. Elderly people sigh a lot. “I hope not. You’ve got lots to do in this world, Suzanne Ellis.” That night at supper, I told Mother about school. She nodded a bit, and actually asked if I liked my teacher. We talked more each night.

I thought maybe the dullness was leaving her eyes, each day, very slowly. I knew for sure it was true when I walked in the door one afternoon and her face lit up. She was happy to see me. I made her happy. My brave girl. * 			* 			* 			*			*			*			* Mr. Kent passed away a year later.

He died as he had lived–quiet, thoughtful, unknown.

He watched from his porch as I watered his sunflowers one last time, and then I helped him inside and said ’bye, just like I did every day. And that was the last time I talked to him. His granddaughter did visit him, once, before he went. I met her on the road and nearly fell over when I saw how much she looked like me. Red hair, brown eyes, freckles all over her nose. “I hate them,” she laughed. “So do I,” I said, “but maybe we’ll grow out of them.” Then I remembered the way my mother had counted them the other day, calling them stars. They did look a little bit like constellations. “But they’re kind of pretty, really.” Eveline visited again at his funeral. Her face was very red. I took her hand, very softly, and said, “It’s alright to cry.” And I did not try to hide the tears that fell down my nose. And Mother did not tell me to put away the frown. Instead she drew me close, cradled me against her chest, and planted a kiss on my head. I felt a tear fall into my hair. My brave girls.


The Dying of the Light 1987 words The village of Rathmullan is a special place, surrounded by steep hills and a forest of millennial oaks. The road from the coast corkscrews down under the green canopy of the trees until it reaches the valley floor where the houses nestle on either side of the Avon Beg river, connected by a steep stone bridge. It is a world-apart, out of time, where the only sound is the wind in the trees and water running over rocks. On one side of the bridge is a shallow ford where children paddle in summer, racing paper boats and catching sprickly bags in jam jars tied with string. The valley is so isolated that only an occasional car disturbs the peace – usually a tourist or someone lost. The village church stands at one end of the main street. At the other end the gates to the manor house lie open. In fact, nobody in the village can ever remember them being closed. The Woodvilles own most of the land in the area and have lived in the “Big House” as long as anyone can remember. They are not stuffy or stand offish. Flora and her father, Owen Woodville, know everybody in the village by name. Owen breeds horses, famous for their speed and stamina. ‘It’s in the blood people,’ say and dealers come from all over to pay top dollar for his yearlings. Flora has a gift for healing and no one who needs her help is ever turned away from the kitchen door at the back of the house. Flora was hot and flustered as she stood over the vat of sweet smelling strawberry jam that was bubbling on the stove, when a figure appeared at the kitchen door. “Sorry to bother you. Car’s broken down on the bridge. Think the axel might be smashed. Know any good mechanic round here?” Flora brushed a stray lock of hair back off her forehead and looked at the handsome stranger. It was the combination of blues eyes and the mischievous smile that did it: love at first sight. “Flora Woodville – would you like a cup of tea while you wait?” In the end he never left and a year to the day later they were married in the village church. On the day of the wedding her father had warned her. “ You know what will happen if you step onto the stranger’s land. We Woodvilles are tied to the land and the woods .”  She had nodded but hadn’t ever thought about it since. The farms and the village and the valley were her world. She had never needed anything else until Peter came along and some things were better left alone. Her time would come in the usual way and when the light began to go she would fade into the night. For now, she was content with her handsome husband and their three beautiful daughters, Rose, Poppy and Daisy. Peter was a sales rep and had to travel around the county selling farm machinery, so it was not unusual for him to be away for days at a time. One day as Peter reached over to kiss her goodbye; Flora thought she detected an unfamiliar perfume. She was so surprised that she blurted out “Oh did you get a new cologne?” ‘The smell was the light and flowery scent of late summer roses. Very different from his usual cologne of sandalwood and vetiver. “Oh it’s a tester they had in the chemist shop – I gave it a squirt to see what it was like. A bit too feminine for me. “ Flora looked at her husband but decided to make light of it. “Typical male!” she laughed as she went out into the garden with the girls. At the door she turned back to say something to her husband and then forgot what it was. Their years together had been happy, idyllic even. Peter O’Brien was still the handsome, charming man she had married. His dark brown hair was beginning to show signs of silver but, other than that, he hadn’t changed in all this time. ‘ Where have the years gone?’ she thought as she went on out into the late October sunshine. It would be Hallowe’en on Saturday and she wanted to collect some apples and the last roses from the garden. She would make a wreath of roses and honeysuckle berries for the door. Her grandmother used to say it protected the house from witches. Flora liked to make a fuss at Halloween, for the children, but also for herself. It was a time for ritual and remembering and sharing. It was her grandmother who had taught her everything she knew about healing and the ancient rituals were a way of remembering her kindness.

The next morning Peter looked at her sheepishly. ” I have to go to Galway for a couple of days. “There’s a big trade fair on in The Ardilaun Hotel over the weekend and there’s a chance of a big deal.” As he spoke the light flickered and Flora shivered. For a moment her vision blurred and she put her hand up to wipe her eyes. Peter looked at her. ” What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing” she said. “Someone must have walked on my grave.” Peter pulled Flora close. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be back on Monday and we can celebrate Halloween together then. I know what it means to you.” After Peter left Flora went out into the garden. It was time for the last tidy-up before winter and a couple of hours pruning and raking would calm her down. The house was surrounded by a ring of hawthorn and elder broken up with an occasional rowan. She loved the jewel colours of the berries in autumn and the perfumed air of the blossoms in spring. It was where she felt most at peace, walking in the dappled shade of the woods. She was in the middle of cutting back a large buddleia when she heard a phone ringing. Instinctively, she patted her pocket but there was no call. She walked back into the warm kitchen. Peter’s phone was flashing on the dresser. ‘God! ,’ thought Flora . ‘ He’ll go mad when he realises he’s forgotten it’. As she picked up the phone she realised it was his old Nokia. They had both got new smart phones as part of a deal with Eircom and she thought he had consigned the trusty old Nokia to the drawer in his desk. The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unfamiliar number. Without thinking she clicked on the message. “Looking forward to tomorrow night. Don’t forget to bring your costume. Love, Tara!” it was followed by a heart emoji. This time the flicker in the light was almost visible. ‘ Maybe it’s my blood pressure. I should get it checked out .’ At the same moment she remembered her father’s last words to her before he died. ‘The only thing that can kill love is the dying of the light.” Flora knew what she had to do. Her glamorous witch costume was hanging upstairs and with ghoulish face paint and a hat she would be next to invisible. There was only one problem. None of the Woodvilles ever stepped out of the safe enclosed world of the valley. Flora looked at her winter boots and an idea occurred to her. She went out into the garden and brought in a bag of soil from the orchard. She took the insoles out of her boots and put in a layer of the rich dark soil, pressing the insoles firmly back into place. It might be a bit squishy but it would do the job. Sitting at the bar of the Ardilaun Hotel sipping a virgin mojito, Flora didn’t have long to wait. With a witches face and straggly hair on top of a young body her own mother wouldn’t have recognised her. The man in the Pierrot costume sitting beside her looked her up and down. “Jaysus! Great legs, pity about the face.” as he got off his stool and staggered drunkenly in the direction of the disco. The bar filled up steadily with people of all ages, some in costume others not, but most of them well on towards getting roaring drunk. When the crowd thinned in the middle of the room she saw them sitting in the corner. He was dressed as Dracula and she was dressed as a sexy vampire in a costume that left very little to the imagination. Flora thought she was either, going to faint or vomit as the room spun around her and her vision blurred. She got off her stool and walked unsteadily in the direction of the ladies. It felt like walking through a thick mist. For anybody watching she was just another tipsy party goer. She saw them glance briefly in her direction but they were too engrossed in each other to pay much attention. Flora felt as if the world was closing in on her and knew she needed to get home. The next day she was tired and withdrawn. The children sensed something was wrong and were clingy all day. She thought the day would never end so she could go to bed and be on her own. When Peter walked in at lunchtime on Monday he was his usual perky self. He gave her a big kiss and then out of the blue asked. ”Why are the gates on the avenue pulled over.” “No Idea,” said Flora. “Maybe it was the wind. It was very stormy here last night. Must have been wild in Galway, what with the wind from the sea.” The edge to her voice was unmistakable. Peter looked at her. “Are you alright? You sound a bit distant.” Flora stared at her husband as if seeing him for the first time. “You know something, Peter? The essence of a lie is being found out – otherwise there would be no such thing as a lie. Did you know that?” Before he could say a word she went on: "Do you remember what you said to me the day we got married? You said I was the light of your life.” “What on earth are you talking about? And what’s with the light in here? – surely it can’t be getting dark already?” He knew he was in trouble and needed to escape for a bit to get his story together. “I need to clear my head, I feel a bit groggy. One too many at the show.” He laughed but now he sounded brittle and empty. Flora could see the fear in his eyes. “I’ll walk down the avenue and wedge the gates." As Peter turned the corner onto the avenue he looked back and saw Flora and the girls standing in the lighted doorway. He could feel the damp mist rising around him. “Must be coming up from the river.” he muttered to himself.  By the time he got to the gate the mist was so thick he could only see a few feet in front of him. He kept going and found himself standing on the stone bridge looking back towards the gates that now began to close, very slowly. “What in God’s name is happening?” Slowly the mist began to clear and Peter looked around him in disbelief. There was no sign of the gates, or the village: just a wall of ancient trees. “ I must be hallucinating. Someone must have spiked my drink last night." He looked at his watch to check the time. The hand was wrinkled and blotchy with liver spots and sausage fingers – the hand of a very old man. “This can’t be happening. Flora, where are you? I need you!” There was no reply. In fact no sound at all. Nothing, except the sound of running water and the wind rustling in the trees.


Memories came rushing towards me as I thought about it more. The choice, the effort, the risks. Was I ready to take the chance?

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” my best friend Finn said when I brought up the idea, “You’re going to die! Everyone always has! There hasn’t been a person who actually completed all the games since before we were born!”

“Well, I’ll be the first,” I said, trying to make myself feel a little bit better.

“Whatever,” Finn said as he rolled his eyes, “There’s the mailbox. Go put your application in there.” I walked over to the mailbox and dropped my application letter in. I watched as I threw my life away to participate in a competition. As I expected, not many people had signed up. Why would they?

“So, what do we do now?” Finn asked as I came back towards him.

“I don’t know? Go get some ice cream and wait for tomorrow, I guess.”

The next day came by quicker than expected. By the time Finn and I got home, it was already well past midnight.

“I’ll tell you the news in the morning,” I told Finn while grabbing the unique gold and red-letter lying in the mailbox. The applications always came precisely at midnight on July 12th.

I sat down at the table and carefully opened the sparkly letter, trying not to rip any part of it. I pulled out the cream-colored paper inside, unfolded it, and laid it down on my marble countertop. It read: Dear Mr. Blake Champ,

We have reviewed your application and made a decision based on it. The Board of the Games has decided that you would make a great contestant in the Million Dollar Games, and we cannot wait to meet you at the Games Central today at 5 pm sharp.

Don’t be late,

Ashley Darwin From The Board of the Games

I knew I would make it, but some part of me wished I hadn’t. I rushed over to Finn’s house, forgetting I was supposed to tell him the next morning. When I arrived at his home, I walked up the stairs to his porch and knocked on his door. When he opened it, out came a disgusted looking Finn, in his pajamas. “What are you doing? You’re shirtless, look like you’ve been running, and it’s one am,” Finn said, very concerned for his friend.

“Well, I-,” I started.

“Wait, why are you shirtless?? That’s just creepy, man!” Finn interrupted.

“I didn’t have-,” I tried to say again.

“It’s one am!!!” Finn interrupted once again. “I GOT INTO THE COMPETITION AND I HAD TO LET YOU KNOW!” I yelled fast so he wouldn’t interrupt me again.

“Oh. Didn’t you say you would tell me in the morning?” Finn asked, wiping his eyes.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“Oh, then congrats! See you when you win and return! Goodnight!” Finn said, almost falling asleep.

“Yeah, goodnight,” I said as I started to run back to my house.

In the afternoon, I packed up my bags to go to the Games Central. I packed a couple of grey underwear pairs, a couple of t-shirts and shorts, some deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and conditioner, some money, and my yellow racecar phone. I then took my purple leather suitcase, took it downstairs, turned off all the lights, and headed for the bus stop.

I knew by watching the games each year; I was looking for a particular lime and purple bus with the words Million Dollar Games embedded on them. After about 30 minutes, the bus arrived carrying nine other contestants. Inside, one thing was shared between most of them. They were all panicking, except this one girl.

This one girl was sitting on a bus seat all alone in the back of the bus. She was short, with red curly hair and freckles. She has little round black glasses and a button nose. She looked around my age and was wearing a white t-shirt, a grey cardigan, light blue ripped jeans, and some white vans. I walked over to the seat on the other side of the aisle and sat down.

“Hi!” she said with a soft, gentle voice, giving me a little wave, “I’m Olivia.”

“Hi, I’m Blake,” I said, having no idea what else to say.

“So, are you excited about the games? My parents told me that the games have this good screen screen effect to make it look like we are dying. Isn’t that cool?” Olivia said as she started to stare out the window. “Yeah, yeah, I hope so, I’ve wanted to do these since I was a child. Dangerous things always seemed to appeal to me.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Olivia said as she smiled a little bit.

When we got to the Games Central and opened the large glass doors, we walked into a room with foam pits and all workout equipment types. Standing in the corner of the lime and black rubber floored room stood a middle-aged woman with a brown clipboard and a black pen. She was wearing a pink workout bra and some black workout leggings.

With a loud, booming voice, she said, “Okay! Listen up, guys! This is your first training day for the first game tomorrow. You will need to take it seriously, or some of you will die. The challenge tomorrow is the ground challenge. It is the easiest, so if you guys train today, I don’t expect any of you to die tomorrow. Tomorrow you will be placed in a rapidly sinking quicksand hole. You will be surrounded by a very slippery mud and have one tree root to grab on to. When you get out, you will sit in the small room corner until everyone is finished. You will be practicing over here,” as she pointed to a small workout spot on the left filled with human-sized holes and ropes attached to the wall, “and we will be training for an hour. After training, you will go straight to the room and go to bed so you can be well-rested for tomorrow.” The training went by quickly, and before you knew it, it was time to go to bed. As I turned off the lights, I couldn’t help but think about what tomorrow might bring.

 When I woke up to the alarm buzzing loudly, it took me a second to realize what was about to be happening. Today was the day. Today was the day I would overcome the first challenge, the easiest challenge, and be safe for the next day. I wondered how many people would die because of this game and how many people would be injured. I would not have thought many people would die because our trainer said no one should. We would have to see what the day brings.

I got up, put on a black t-shirt and some blue shorts, and headed to the small rooms. Near the ooms stood people who were checking off names and assigning people to rooms. When I saw Olivia, she looked very nervous but not as nervous as the people around her. They were all shaking. I gave Olivia a quick wave before I was pushed into a room called Ground A-1. I looked around the room, and I saw a wooden platform in the corner of the room. I believed this was where we were supposed to stand after the games. There was some yellow sand lying in the middle of the room and shiny brown mud surrounding it. There was a camera in every corner of the room to show on television to a worldwide audience.

After about 5 minutes of standing in the room, I heard a loud booming voice coming from a hidden speaker inside of the room, “Welcome to the 125th annual Million Dollar Games! Today is the ground game. The contestants will stand in the middle of the room, ait until their waist is fully emerged into the quicksand pit, and will then begin to get themselves out of it. This is a test or strength and knowledge. Now contestants, please make your way over to the quicksand pit and stand there. Good luck to everyone!”

I made my way to the sandpit taking a deep breath in and out, and waited for my waist to be entirely under the sand. When I looked around, I saw the tree branch near the left-hand side of the room. I tried to grab it, but I continued to sink deeper. I started to panic, moving around frantically, and realizing that only made me fall faster. The yellow sand was seeping into my wide-open mouth as I tried to lay flat on my stomach. I started to float, taking deep breaths as I came back up towards the top. From there, I laid on my belly and reached for the tree branch. I grabbed hold of it, hands holding onto the splintering wood as I begin to pull myself towards the wall. I scrambled up onto the mud, one foot behind the other, almost slipping head-first back into the sandpit as I carefully made my way to the wooden platform.  As I sat there, watching the cameras disconnect one by one, I heard the drums’ beating and the speaker man saying, “Kai Ju,” letting us all know he suffocated under the sand.

A shiver ran down my spine as I realized signing up was a mistake, and I should’ve listened to Finn when he told me not to, but it was too late now.

When the game was finished, I ran over to my friend Olivia, who was crying with her face and clothes covered with sand and mud.

“I fell back in,” she cried, “I slipped off the mud and went head-first back into the sand. I almost died!”

“Shh, it’s going to be okay. It’s all over, no more sandpits for you,” I said, trying to comfort her. I was not ready for the next game at all.

Two days later was the air challenge. I woke up again to a calmer alarm in my small room with blue and white polka-dots pasted around my room, in the back of the Central. I got up, put on an old black t-shirt and some ripped jeans. I looked outside the curtained window, seeing the sky began to lighten with all shades of purple, orange, red, and yellow and started to yawn.

I opened the door to go to the new room. I watched as the other contestants rubbed their eyes and trudged out of their rooms. I caught up to Olivia, and we walked the long path together, talking about what was going to happen in a couple minutes.

When we arrived, our trainer was standing at the door with a clipboard. One by one, we all filed into the vast room, made to look like three different biomes. There was a desert, a marsh, and an arctic type place. Cameras were all places around the wall again, and microphones above them. On the ceiling, many powerful fans were waiting to be turned on.

After everyone was filed in, we heard the booming voice once more “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the second game of the year, the Air Challenge!! Today our contestants will face a powerful tornado and try to survive. They will use the different biomes to their advantage while trying not to be thrown anywhere they could injure them. The games will end in 30 minutes. Now I hope everyone’s ready because the games are about to start! Ready, set, begin!”

The big fans started to turn on at high speed, and the leaves were beginning to move around in circles. Everyone, including me, ran to different corners of the biomed room, escaping the middle, where the tornado would soon form. People begin to find hiding spots around the room as the tornado started to make its way to the desert area. The tornado picked people up and threw them across the room, making them land in all sorts of places. Soon enough, the tornado made its way to where I was standing. I started to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but its reach was too much. It pulled me up and away and threw me inside of a cold pond in the arctic biome. Olivia soon came after me, making a big splash in the cold pond. We swam over to where we could stand and stood there as the tornado made its way across the other biomes.

Thirty minutes passed, and the fans stopped abruptly. The tornado grew smaller and smaller as we all made our way to the door. We passed bloody bodies where someone had been thrown against a big rock. One of them I recognized to be a girl named Sophia Gardenwell.

Olivia and I were both freezing as we made it back to our rooms to take a warm shower and eat lunch. The fire challenge was on its way. Closer than ever.

I woke up at about noon on a Saturday by the bright sun shining through my curtains. The games would not start for another hour, so I headed over to eat some lunch. After that, I headed to the training facility to make sure my grip was on point. I climbed up the ladder and jumped on the rope, swinging back and forth over the foam pit. I moved around to jump to the solid side and land on all two legs and two arms, like a cat.

At about 12:50, I started to make my way to the new room, knocking at Olivia’s room first.

“Olivia! Open up! We have to go, or we’ll be late,” I said as I pounded on the door.

“I’m coming!” she said as she opened the wooden door. She looked like she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” “I- I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s too dangerous. They sugarcoated it for me, saying that the dangerous things were photoshopped on, and no one actually died. I don’t want to die. I don’t want it to be real. I want to go back home safe and sound,” she said as she started to cry again.

“Look, we’ll ask our trainer if you can disqualify yourself, okay? Let’s get through this one challenge first, okay? You’ll do great. I promise.”

This challenge was going to be a quick one. All you would have to do is swing over a rope over a burning fire. After you are done, you can exit the room. The booming voice started to talk again, making me nervous, “Welcome to the third challenge of the Million Dollar Games. This one is the favorite among the viewers because of the fire aspect. Today, the contestants will one by one swing across this firey pit and try to make it to the other side! This is a test of strength and grip. Good luck!” The first one in line was Olivia. She grabbed the white rope, with her feet still on the surface, and jumped off, giving a large swinging motion to the other side. She jumped at the top of her swing, landing safely on the other side. A couple minutes later, it was my turn, and I did the same thing.

After the game was over, only three more contestants, Olivia, me, and someone named Oscar Goins, were still alive. Olivia and I made our way up to the trainer to ask if Olivia could leave the competition.

“Excuse me. Olivia was wondering if she could take herself out of the competition. It’s too much for her, and she would like to leave,” I said, not knowing what the trainer would say.

She looked at Olivia and me up and down and then said with a smirk, “Well, what’s the fun in that? Back to your rooms kids, and get ready for tomorrow’s training.” Neither of us knew what to say. Neither of us wanted to compete anymore and was not ready for the last game, which is always the hardest. There would be no peaceful sleeping. Today the day. Probably the last day of my life. I was so frightened. I got up out of bed and looked around. I put on a backward t-shirt and some inside out pants as I made my way closer to the swimming area. I waited for Olivia by the training facility, and when we got there, we both shared our feelings on the upcoming competition. The booming voice was heard around the room, “Welcome to the last game of the year! The three contestants are Blake Champ, Olivia Ohia, and Oscar Goin. Today, you will be locked up in a swimming area and will have to find the clear key and unlock the gates with a tiny air hole that will be covered sometimes. The first contestant will be Blake Champ. Good luck”

Olivia looked at me with tears in her eyes, patted my back, and croaked a “Good luck” before closing her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to watch.

I looked at the swimming area and took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment of truth. I just had to unlock the gates, that’s all.

I walked into the swimming pool and watched as they locked me up. I then began searching for the hidden key. I swam around, feeling the water around my ears, and then I saw it at the very bottom in the corner. I swam to it as my ears started to hurt, my eyes are getting red, and I needed air. I stopped for a minute and stared at the closed breathing hole and continued to swim down, and down, while my eyesight became to get darker and darker, and my arms felt like noodles. I heard the drums beat twice.

Olivia screamed, “NO! BLAKE!!”

And then…

And then I woke up.


Includes swearing There was something about the smell of vintage paper; worn and yellow and dog-eared corners that had been flattened out and then creased again. The ink that stained the pages with words that couldn’t become unsaid once spoken aloud. She drifted through the aisles, this wisp of a person with hair that was blacker than the nights in the depths of winter when even the silver penny of a moon is obscured by clouds. She was everything that writers would romanticize in the stories she was browsing. You wouldn’t believe me, but she was even in a dress, one of those flowy silk ones that cinch at her waist and then wash around her ankles. So, I watched her, in a silent envy because she could filter her way through the aisles plucking at books with broken spines and sift through their gorgeous, delicate pages. She was the sort of woman that the saying ‘love at first sight’ was invented for. She was the sort of person that you would fall so hopefully, irretrievably in love with that you wanted to just be her because being with her wasn’t enough. There’s a fake snow coated Christmas tree in the corner, its long limbs stretching out like they’re trying to catch in her hair, but she ducks away from the corner where the smell of pine merges with the smell of paper and dilutes the aroma that’s meant to wrap you up in here. ‘Astrid.’ My manager taps her finger impatiently on the counter work top, her too long acrylic nails glossed with blue and white streaks. ‘Can we get rid of the Christmas tree?’ ‘No, have some Christmas spirit for god’s sake.’ She flicked at her brunette hair that was split into chunks by the blonde highlights that coursed downwards from her scalp. Everything about her was vaguely streaky. She didn’t belong here, not in my bookshop with its smells and warmth and towers of books that protect you from the outside with its army of fictional characters. She belonged in a story about a pub where there’s a fight and beer is thrown because obviously she drinks beer rather than martinis and now she’s messing this up just by being here. ‘Are you shitting me? You’re actually daydreaming again?’ Her voice dripped with annoyance. ‘Pepper please.’ I pleaded with her, more because I needed her to stop talking and yes, her name actually is Pepper. The woman I was meant to love, with the swashy dress, was drifting further away from me, her feet in basic white trainers were walking away into the next aisle and when she turned down that section into the ‘R to V’ authors I wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. ‘Moira.’ Pepper clicked her fingers at a denim clad 20 something female with the sort of blueish green eyes that you normally see on huskies. ‘Swap with Astrid, will you?’ Glancing at the floor so I didn’t trip over my shoelaces, I drifted past high wooden bookshelves, each one encasing history in its blemishes and chips. The grain and knots in the wood promising a good narrative. And now I could pretend I didn’t actually work here but I was just someone who found comfort amongst pages and ink. Inhaling I pulled a hardback from the shelf with a cover showing a sun setting over the slowly raging sea and continued my gentle stride because she was definitely the sort of girl, no woman, who would love a book about sea and sunsets. She was there. She was there with her dress and white trainers with a smear of rain on them and a phone balanced precariously between her shoulder and ear while she tried to hold four books together in a tower in her arms. ‘Cadence please can you not scream, I’m in a library.’ Anger pierced my gut the way hot knives slice into butter. I’d already written us a script for how this was supposed to go and then she called here ‘a library’ when it was in fact a bookshop and the two were so vastly different. And how can you fully appreciate the bookshop you’re in if you’re going to be on your phone? You’re meant to be unplugged from the rest of the world in here. ‘Cadence come on, I’ll be home for dinner, and we can talk about it then.’ Yes, put the phone away because you really are ruining everything. ‘Honey it’s just cocktails with the girls; I’m hardly going to break the bank…oh yeah well then maybe I shouldn’t be buying you so many books.’ Her face screwed up in annoyance, the lines creasing her forehead in a most unattractive way. ‘It’s my money, it’s not like a joint account I’m running dry. You’re my roommate for god’s sake not my mother.’ In that instant she turned, and she saw me. Her with her phone and her books. Me with the sunset and the sea in my hands. She looked away from where our eyes had locked momentarily. ‘Well maybe you should stop calling and skyrocketing our phone bill or taking ridiculously long showers… yes I do like baths…no that’s not the issue that we’re focusing on. Cadence I am hanging up now.’ She clicked the red circle that largely resembled a cherry, but she seemed to somehow make everything less aesthetic. Why tell someone you were hanging up? That took all the oomph out of it, just freaking hang up if that’s what you’re going to do. I couldn’t love a girl like this; a girl who called bookshops libraries and spoke too loudly on the phone about water bills and a girl who looked at me the way she was looking at me. ‘Can I help you?’ She asked. That was supposed to be my line, I worked here, and she just tarnished the place with her disregard for novels. ‘No.’ I responded, blunt and brittle. ‘Okay.’ She turned back to grappling with her leaning tower of books. God, she didn’t even see that we were meant to be something remarkable, but she ruined it by just being her. ‘Do you want this?’ I held out the book in my palm, suddenly feeling like I was being scalded. I wouldn’t read this, this book with its reviews rather than blurb. I wasn’t shallow enough to buy a book based on the photograph and swirly font. She stepped forward and gingerly took it from my fingertips, eyeing the front warily before her mouth stretched into a smile. ‘Thank you! It’s just what I wanted.’ She sashayed off in her dirty white trainers, with a dress that caught at her ankles, to buy a book she’d only just glanced at. I blinked the eyelash out of my eye and succumbed to the uninterrupted silence of being amongst books who are ready to be appreciated and journeyed through. The girl with a roommate called Cadence handed over a crumpled note for a book that hadn’t even touched her skin 2 minutes ago. There was something to be said about those who judged a book based on its cover.


“The world is ending.” “You always say that.” A dark cloud hangs over the lake. It looks heavy. Slightly green. That’s no regular storm. We’re in your car. The seat heaters are on. I can feel my legs humming as the warmth seeps into my clothes, my skin. I hug my backpack tightly to my chest. “I mean it this time,” I say. You flip through radio channels. All you get is static. You used to say you could hear voices in the white noise. Isn’t that how people communicate with ghosts? Mother. Winter. Rotten. Home. You strung them together, as if there was a coherent sentence amongst the fractured words. Sometimes I heard them, too. You always loved a puzzle. Love a puzzle. I keep forgetting that right now you love puzzles. The lightning cracking over the lake, the way we see it parked at the top of the hill, the waves crashing under our tires hundreds of feet below, reminds me of one of your favourite puzzles. A thousand pieces. You’d slap my hand away whenever I’d try to help, said you hated it when I hovered because I always hovered. A raindrop smacks against the window shield, big and hard like it couldn’t wait to burst. “How will a thunderstorm kill us all?” you ask, annoyed but trying to mask it. “It’s not a thunderstorm.” “How do you know?” “I don’t. I just… I have a feeling that something’s wrong.” You try not to laugh but I can see the cracks around your lips deepening. I don’t know why you stayed with me for so long. Everything I said started an argument. Maybe you just liked to scream. I know I did. Crying makes me feel weak when it doesn’t have a purpose. Sometimes I think I egged you on so you would yell at me and I could feel that release. But tonight you don’t push me. The rain is coming down now. It’s bleeding into the car. Water pools at my feet. I can feel my toes pruning. “What would you do if you died?” I ask. “Right now.” The water’s up to our waists. You look at me, long and steady. Maybe this is how you wanted to go. It’s up to our chins, filling our mouths. Before I drown I feel along the sides of the leather seat. I find a dime. “I don’t think I could do anything if I died.” “What?” “You asked what I would do if I died. I’d be dead. I think the point is that I couldn’t do anything anymore.” We’re in my room lying on my bed. The grey faux fur blanket you got me for my birthday is underneath us, my legs gliding over it every so often to feel its softness. You hate that I never wash it, but I tell you all the time that I don’t know how and I don’t want to ruin it. The fur will get all matted, I’ll probably find clumps of my own hair embedded into the fabric, it’ll never feel as good as it does right now. “But what if you become a ghost?” I ask. “Or, when your soul is leaving your body, God comes out of nowhere and gives you the choice to start your life over? And if you don’t then you just cease to exist. Your spirit, your mind, everything. Gone.” I roll the dime between my fingers as I look at you. The dim lights in my room barely catch your delicate features, your eyes appear like empty sockets, your hair is indistinguishable from the blanket. The only thing I can clearly see is your teeth. A werewolf brought out by the moon. “I don’t want to live forever,” you reply. I want to ask if you’ll take me with you into oblivion but I know you won’t respond. If you do choose to say anything at all, I know you’ll tell me I sound like a John Green book. Sometimes I wish I never told you all the things I liked as a teenager. For some reason you think I’m incapable of outgrowing Teen Wolf and Justin Bieber. I jokingly said I was regressing and you said it’s not regression if I’m already perpetually thirteen so I told you that you were being mean and then I felt bad for talking like a child. You listened to Bon Iver before they had a song with Taylor Swift so I guess that makes you more mature than me. I didn’t even know Bon Iver was a band and not the name of one guy. “I think being possessed by a demon would be the worst way to go,” I say. I watch the man in the corner of my room while I speak. He’s always there. He’s followed me from home to home. He used to run up and down the stairs at night while I was sleeping. I’d wake up my parents and make them check the house from basement to attic, call the police if they must, because he’s here and he’s going to get me. My mom would rock me back and forth. My dad would tell me I was right. Somehow I always ended back in my own bed, the man still on the loose. I created an escape plan from my room—out the window, onto the roof of the porch, climb down the lattice into the backyard, make a break for the corner store at the top of the street. Hope he isn’t faster than me. If taking the screen off the window was too noisy I could always hide in the closet. But what if, in his rampage, he couldn’t find me, and he killed my family instead? I’d have to listen to the whole thing. I’ve resigned myself to self-sacrifice. I may be personally haunted but your house is, too. I told you this when I first saw it. Tall trees with knotted and wrinkled trunks dug their claws into the dry earth. Shutters encased windows in a death grip but couldn’t fully conceal the yellow glow. Words spoken in whispers, with lips to ears, need hiding don’t they? Sometimes the air in the house felt claustrophobic, like I was choking on conversations that weren’t meant for me. I think the secrets gave me tinnitus. I read an article in Cosmopolitan about a famous priest who performed exorcisms. He said that demons loved negative energy. Unhappy bodies were easier to claim. I think we’re both breeding grounds for monsters. At least I acknowledge what plagues me. At least I’ll be ready for it when it happens. “I think it would be embarrassing to have something evil inside of you and you don’t even know it and it makes you do terrible things,” I continue. “Even if you’re not conscious and even if it kills you after, everyone would have seen you while you were possessed. What if that’s the last thing your mom remembers about you? What if it makes you murder people? What if it lets you go, you don’t even die, and now you have to live with all the destruction it caused?” “You watch too many movies,” you say. “People make movies out of real life experiences, you know.” “You sound like your dad.” I hate that. I love my mom. I don’t mind being my mom. I don’t want to be my dad. I showed you the tinfoil hats Dad made when he thought the rapture was coming. He had the whole thing planned: we’d get in the van, drive to a commune in the mountains—I think they were somewhere in British Columbia—and wear our hats so the alien beams couldn’t scramble our brains. Or was it radiation from microwaves? I can’t remember. Dad still thinks cellphones can give you brain cancer, so maybe it had something to do with telephone poles and wires. He made the hats when we were really young and technology wasn’t as good as it is now. Mom only told us about it when we were older, said she didn’t want to complicate our childhoods. She held onto the hats, maybe to prove that she wasn’t lying, because isn’t saying “tinfoil hats” just a way to express that someone believes in conspiracy theories? That’s what you asked me, at least. I just wanted to point out the irony in my dad being an anti-communist who wants to live on a commune. You took the hats. I still love you here. The moon, the man, my room. You bare your teeth. I wrap myself around you. Your claws dig into my back. If you had ripped my throat out I wouldn’t have minded. I don’t know why. I don’t have a reason. I was small in your company. I put the dime in your pocket. “You sound like your mom,” I say. I know this will get under your skin the way you get under mine. We’re at a concert but still find ways to argue over the haunting music. I thought it was funny that when we watched Lady Bird you related to it more than I did. You loved your mother but she was cruel. I think we both liked chasing unrequited love. “We’re bad people,” you reply. I look at you. Your puckered face is illuminated by the red and blue stage lights. Don’t red and blue make purple? Your laundry smelled of lilac. Your birth stone was amethyst. Like an Aquarius, you were aloof and distant. Your feelings were buried under a sheath of irony. I wish I had eroded your iron. You told me horoscopes were nonsense but asked me to read you yours every week. I still read yours before mine out of habit. It’s the only way I can feel like I know what’s happening to you. What happened to you. Because this is the last time I saw you. Guitars swell. Symbols crash. You sing along, your raspy cry an eerie suspension over the oppressive crowd. You turn to me. The lines of your expression are soft, your fangs shaven. The faces around us start melting. The music putters and disintegrates. Bodies drop to the ground. You smile at me. I think about the birthmark on your scalp. I think about your little sister. Was she with us? Sometimes it felt like we were raising her together. I know I like to get ahead of myself. I create realities that don’t exist. We both decided pills couldn’t fix our corroded brain chemistries. You still hated my fantasies, but I knew a small part of you believed them. I think about the first time you showed me your room. I’m not ready to let you go. You’re walking backwards. The first time you hurt my feelings. The second time, when you hurt them on purpose. Please tell me where you’re going. Lights flicker and fall from the ceiling. Wires spark at your feet. I wanted to keep this memory intact but you’re taking it away from me. Please tell me where you went. I chase after you. You are consumed by shadows. Please. I don’t want to forget this one. “There’s a pain in my stomach.” I’m sitting in a hospital bed. You’re sitting in my garden. “I thought it was your ribs,” you say. “It’s my gallbladder,” I reply. “It’s your kidney stones.” You take a bite of an apple. You lie on your back, face to the sun. Glowing. Angelic. “I think I have internal bleeding.” It starts to rain. You hold out your tongue to catch the drops. The water makes the colour of the grass leak from their blades. It dyes your skin green. Serpentine. “You should sleep it off.” “But I’ll die.” “This apple is rotten.” You throw it to the ground. It rolls under your car seat as you sit with your feet on the pedals. We’re parked at the edge of the cliff, but you’re still ready to slam down on the gas before I can jump out of the car. “I mean it this time,” I say. No, no, no. We’ve been here before. The storm is coming in. “If I had to die,” you say, “I’d want a tornado to take me. People always talk about tornados picking up houses and cows and cars and they get lost forever. They’re probably not lost, just thrown to the ground miles away, splattered, splintered, unrecognizable. I like to think that it would take me somewhere, though. If I’m going to die, I at least want to see something nobody else has. And then I’ll meet the earth again and break apart and nobody will know that it’s me.” I don’t remember this. Were you ever vulnerable with me? Your voice is gentle. Maybe this is just the way I always wished your voice would sound. A cyclone whips into form over the lake. “You know how you said you could conjure things by writing them down?” you ask. “I think I can do that, too.” Wind rattles the car, rips the doors off their hinges. You kiss me. You taste like metal. In my mouth— —a dime. I wake up with water in my lungs. Facedown in the pool, pretending to be dead, waiting for you to notice me. You limply kick my bloated corpse but make no move to rescue me. You jump in the water, knees to your chest. I’m tossed away by your wake. You got bored of my game. “Who killed you this time?” you tease. I wonder if you regret saying that now. I wonder if you regret anything.  I lift my head up. The night air feels good in my aching lungs. I think I held my breath for ten minutes. I don’t know if that’s possible. “I told you,” I respond. “We’re all dying.” “There is no apocalypse.” “Yes there is. It’s in my room.” A light turns on. We look up at my window, illuminated. Everything is ordinary. “How does it start?” “I watch a scary commercial,” I say. “Something about a movie where a babysitter gets murdered by a big man and he calls the house a lot. It came out on my birthday. That’s when I knew I was cursed.” The TV flicks on in my room. It’s all static. “Where do I fit into all this?” you ask. “Instigator. Collateral damage.” We tread water silently for a moment. “I’m sorry,” you say. This, I know, is all me. The air becomes loud. It’s something more than insects and owls and rats. Maybe it’s a plane. Maybe it’s my tinnitus. A beam of light shoots across the sky. It looks like the call of a lighthouse. It’s beckoning. “Did you see that?” I ask. “I miss you.” Me again. What did you really say? “Something’s wrong.” “I’m sorry.” “We should go.” “I miss you.” You weren’t kind but I remember you kindly. My ears are screaming. My stomach drops. Something has shifted. A ray of sun begins opening over your head. Maybe I was the unkind one. I never went to therapy. I was needy. But you punished me. You are swallowed in a white light. All I see are your eyes. They look like moons. We weren’t so different. That scared you. I look away. I know what’s happening. I told you so. I hate to say that I told you so but I did. You don’t reach out for me. I hear the TV in my room explode. It’s quiet. Trees have stopped moving. I am floating on my back. You’ve disappeared. You didn’t take me with you. If I cried right now, would you be ashamed of me? I look down at the bottom of the pool. It is covered in dimes.