\-The Turn, short horror story. Emma sat in the back seat of her mother’s car watching the line of cars on the other side of the interstate. They weren’t moving and occasionally she would see kids playing with passengers nearby stretching legs. Her tablet had died earlier that morning and she was still cross with her mother for not letting her plug it in. She said she needed to keep her phone charged, and she thought to herself that “maybe she wouldn’t need to charge it if she wasn’t constantly reaching for it - trying to call people or answer when it rang”. Not that it made a difference. Every time it rang, she would talk for a few minutes in a hushed voice before spattering “hello, hello” as the connection was lost. She mulled over the thought of asking her again to use the charger but thought better as she would be home soon anyways. Mother was upset, and she didn’t want to chance getting rejected again. They had been in the car since before the sun crossed the horizon. Now after lunchtime with her stomach rumbling, she was just happy to be heading back home where she would finally be able to get the snacks her mother had hastily left at the house. Emma’s mother, Bernadette, a slightly heavy set woman with short chocolate brown hair, focused on the road in between attempts to wipe the tears from her eyes. She had been a single mother since Emma was two. Between the booze, the lost jobs and the fists she couldn’t take it anymore and somehow convinced her worthless husband to move out. As she drove back to her modest house in the country she wondered if she made the right choice. At least maybe he would have been able to protect them. She shook the thought from her mind as they passed a sign “Knoxville - 25 Miles”. She refocused as she knew the 321 exit would be coming up shortly. She could feel her heart begin to race. The thought of vacating the main interstate and leaving the safety of all those other people brought the dread from her stomach up into a lump in her throat. She felt sick and thought for a minute that she might pass out. She shook that thought loose too. Right now - she needed to get home. Get her and Emma home, then she could worry about what they would do for the night. They lived in the small town of Wears Valley, Tennessee. Just on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains and Dollywood where she worked cleaning hotel rooms. Bernadette had lived there her whole life. They lived in the house her daddy had left them after he’d passed. A small house with two bedrooms and a single small bathroom. It was a sturdy house, besides the sagging porch and thinned glass windows. She always thought “it had good bones” and “they don’t make them like this anymore”. Now thoughts of what heavy furniture she could push in front of the windows, and could she pry up those old boards from the front porch raced through her mind. As four lanes turned to two Emma began to see things she recognized. It wouldn’t be long now before they were back home. Then she could plug in her tablet and eat some snacks. What a strange day it had been for Emma. She could see the shops, gas stations and homes she’d seen a hundred times, but they were different now. Boarded up, dark, men with guns sitting outside scanning the distance. One of the men she recognized, Lloyd Houston waved frantically at her mother from outside the Smoky Mountain Grocery, a small corner shop. He was a nice old man and she always liked seeing him. He would buy her a pack of gum or a candy bar whenever they would go to the store. Bernadette pulled her car into the gravel parking lot and as close to Lloyd as she could get. He propped his 12 gauge against his lawn chair and walked to the window. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on Bern? I thought you were going to Atlanta” he whispered through the window. Bernadette, not able to fully control her voice snapped back “We tried Lloyd; we couldn’t get anywhere close to it. They were turning back cars as far as Cartersville.” “Jesus” Lloyd said again “Tom couldn’t come meet you, to talk to them - or let him take them with you?”. “No, he’s just a deputy - they had the National Guard with jeeps and dogs turning us around on the median. One of the cars got stuck, and they just used their trucks to push it back onto the road”. Lloyd stepped back from the car for a moment, knowing what had to be going through her mind. “What are you going to do now, Bern?” he asked. Still trying to speak soft enough for Emma to not hear “Lloyd please, I don’t know. I can’t go home. Not out there alone in the woods. You have to let us stay with you”. With a sad look he says “I can’t Bern. You know I’d love to have you but there’s just no room”. “Please Lloyd you have to…please” She bargained. “I don’t know, we’ve got all the grandkids and their parents are panicked. They are hard enough to be around in good times”. Knowing she could win this argument and play on his kind heart she reaches out the window and grabs his hand. “Please I’m begging you – we won’t be any trouble; we will bring our own food from the house. Emma can play with Susie and Dillan – distract them from their parents”. Realizing he’s lost Lloyd relents “It’s standing room only – you’ll have to make a cot for you and Emma to sleep on”. “That’s fine Lloyd, just fine” she fights back the tears, and she squeezes his hand. She releases his hand as she reaches for the napkin to dab her nose. Lloyd steps back and orders “go to the house quickly, get anything you might need – food, water, something to sleep on and get into town. But be safe and quick about it!” Bernadette nods curtly, still trying to dry the snot in her nose. She shifts the car back into gear as he quickly catches her “do you still have your daddy’s .308?” She nods again. “Bring that too” As she approached the final turn to the road which would ultimately lead her home, she contemplated whether or not she should just keep going. “Just keep going and go straight to Lloyd’s house”. Whether it was habit or guilt over the food she promised to bring, she soon felt the bumps under the tire as she crossed the median turning onto the dirt road. The house was at the edge of town, a town where everyone knew everyone. Nevertheless, out here the land was rural, and neighbors could be hundreds or thousands of feet away. Bernadette didn’t have much land she legally owned, but her property almost backed up to the national park. Great swaths of land formed a half billion years ago. Mountains rising out of the earth as tectonic plates collided. Being late spring the trees were green and the forest thick. A hazy overcast day compounded by the dust and pollen the small car kicked up. Bernadette had to pass two houses before she reached home. She didn’t know the Johnsons who lived closest to the road, but she spent some time cleaning vacation homes with her neighbor, Amy Wilson in the off season. As she passed the Wilson driveway, she slowed the car and tried to spot the house. In the winter she could see Amy’s car, but the dense foliage blocked her view. “Surely she’s left”. Nearing the end of the half mile trip from the paved road she felt that sickening feeling again and once again had the urge to keep driving. She regained her thoughts and told herself “twenty minutes, I can go in for twenty minutes and be at Lloyd’s in an hour”. \- The car came to a stop and Emma could hear the familiar sound of windchimes singing in the breeze. Dust hung in the air and caused her mother to cough as she opened the door and unstrapped her from the booster seat. She quickly hoisted her and led her into the house by her hand. “She never holds my hand” “Mom, can I have some chips now?” “Yes sweetie, grab some chips and go get a few toys from your room” Bernadette said as she quickly began raiding the fridge. “I want to plug my tablet in” “no not now sweetie we are going to Mr. Lloyds in a few minutes” “No, I don’t want to go to Mr Lloyds, we just got home – I want to play on my tablet” Emma said with a whine. Realizing she hadn’t told Emma about their plans to stay with the Houston’s that night she stops her packing. Looking at Emma now for the first time since she awoke her at 4:30 this morning she pushes back the brindle hair from her freckle kissed face. “I know sweetie, but Susie and Dillan are going to be there. Don’t you want to play with them”. Emma shook her head softly no and put her thumb in her mouth to hide her disappointment. Bernadette knew she was tired, she never sucked on her thumb anymore. She pulled her in close nuzzling her under her neck while she rubbed her back “Ohh baby, if we don’t go to Mr Lloyds then he can’t give you the candy he forgot to at the store today. If you’re really good he might even take you on a tractor ride”. Knowing this was a lie. She pulled back from her daughter and could see the tears beginning to form in her eyes. “I don’t wanna go”. Her calm composure now turning to anger and panic snaps at Emma. “Emma Lynn O’Keefe if you do not go to your room and pack your toys you will have nothing to play with tonight, and if you do not go right now I will spank your bottom. She flies up and begins her frantic packing of anything she can grab from the old white fridge. “Go Emma, and I don’t want to see anymore tears” Emma still sniffling, begrudgingly walks towards her room. “The adults are acting weird today, momma never wants to go anywhere.” She crosses the dark living room making sure to step on the beams of light streaming from the blinds in hopes that maybe it will break her mother back. Emma’s room on the opposite end of the house is adorned with toys and stuffed animals. She looks across the rows of stuffed animals and dolls and remembers the tablet in her hand. Maybe she could charge it for a few moments before they had to leave. Susie’s parents wouldn’t let her have a tablet, but maybe she could borrow one from the adults. She climbs onto her bed to fish the plug from the socket. Something outside the window draws attention from the edge of her periphery. A white bunny rabbit at the edge of the garden. She’s seen bunnies before, but never a white one. Not a single mark of gray or black or brown, she can see its pink nose as it sniffs at the vegetables from outside the fence. She watches it for a few moments as it works its way around the garden fence, looking for a way to retrieve the produce. “Maybe I can catch it and take it to Mr Lloyd's house” Emma thinks. “He raised that baby squirrel whose mother abandoned it”. Forgetting the toys and tablet she hops from the bed - moving towards the hallway, pausing. She needs to be quiet; wanting to be quick and get the bunny before her mom notices her absence. She begins to sneak towards the screen door just past her mother’s room, cautiously avoiding the groaning floorboards. As Emma approaches the screen door she crouches down into a low stance. She begins to push and the hinges pop with a loud groan. Pausing she can hear her mother talking on the phone from the kitchen. Making herself as small as possible Emma slides her body between the door and the house out onto the concrete steps. A cacophony of birds and insects break the silence of the stale house and Emma holds her nose not to sneeze from the pollen in the air. Right around the corner there it is, the white bunny rabbit. It’s digging at the bottom of the fence trying to gain access to the plants Bernadette planted a few weeks back. Still in her low crouch Emma begins cautiously walking towards the garden. The un-mowed grass licking at her exposed ankles, she knows she will be itching later. After a little sneaking she finds herself five feet away from the bunny who’s preoccupied with his soon to be treat. Pausing to sniff the air the bunny spots Emma, and quickly begins a hasty retreat. After a few steps the creature stumbles and struggles to get up. Emma can see that its leg is hurt. She feels a sharp pain of sadness in her chest, “the poor thing is hurt. Now I have to get it to Mr. Lloyd” The rabbit regains his footing and begins a staggered hop towards the edge of the woods and Emma gives suite. Not quite gaining on it, but not losing it, she follows the hare through the edge of the woods and into the thickening undergrowth. Ignoring briars and thorns, young Emma pushes through the tangle determined to rescue the wounded animal. It begins to get dark, even midafternoon in April the dense canopy oppressively hangs overhead. Emma pushes past the dense grove of pine trees. The trees she’s not allowed to pass, deep in thought and pursuit. “Mamma doesn’t have to know I’ve been back here”. Nearly losing sight and regaining it, Emma spots the white bunny only a few feet away but it’s not moving. Emma doesn’t know what she sees. There are red splotches on the animal and it’s breathing is shallow and labored. As she approaches the rabbit, she can see the fear and begging in its eyes. It’s in a trap. A trap not unlike the traps the cunning villain uses in her favorite tv snow. Realizing the extent of the injury, tears begin to well in her eyes as she brushes the dried leaves from the jaws that now intersect the wounded animal. She begs and pleads as she pulls on the powerful spikes that seem to devour the poor beast. The animal struggles and she sees it’s stomach begin to tear against the sharpened blades The springs are unrelenting. Emma, hearing a loud pop, looks up for the first time since beginning her chase. The crack still echoes through the trees, a figure emerges from behind a grand pine. “Shh shhh – Don’t cry Emma” A sing-song voice speaks out to her. The forest now quiet save for the soft voice and gentle rustling of leaves. The figure approaches and her young mind struggles to make sense of what she sees. A tall woman but far too big to be any person she knows. “She must be two feet taller than mama” Nearly scraping the first layer of limbs, Emma sees the antlers adorning the woman’s crown. Antlers that lead down to a deer’s skull, leaving only her pale white mouth exposed. Her torso and legs covered with heavy cloth, stained with dark splotches crimson red. Her bare feet with darkened toes walk silently across the earth. As she draws closer Emma begins to feel uneasy by the strange woman. “Maybe she will tell mama I was out here - I wasn’t spose’d to be''. Feeling an urge to run, she remembers the bunny. “This woman is big, maybe she can open the trap” “I found a bunny…but it’s hurt and, in a trap…can you help me” Emma blurts to the odd woman. “What bunny sweet Emma?” she replies Now focused on her little white friend she thinks “It’s right here!” “She’s so close, how could she not see it?”. Only now did Emma feel the visceral burning pain as she looked down. No bunny to be found, she tries to pull back but can’t move. Her delicate hands smashed between the powerful jaws of the bear trap; she feels the teeth dig into her wrist as she struggles to break free. First panic, then fear, and finally dread wash over six-year-old Emma as the horned woman approaches. Tears stream down, washing streaks of dust from freckled face as she wishes her mama was there. Bernadette hangs up the phone, finishing the conversation with her brother, Tom, the deputy in Atlanta. His last remarks replay in her mind “It’s crazy today, sit tight for a few days at Lloyds and I’ll call when I can get you into the city” Not wanting to stay here any longer she puts her arms through as many grocery bags as she can carry. “Emma bring your toys we’re leaving now!” she yells across the small house. Getting no reply “Emma, come on, right now sweetie”. Maybe she had been too hard on her. Rounding the door to her daughter’s room. A rush of adrenaline and churning stomach acid, her eyes go wide as she quickly scans the room” “Mama! Mama come here!” she hears faintly from outside the house. “Emma!?” Bernadette retorts as sheds the bags lining her arms. Nearly sprinting out onto the sagging porch scanning the unkempt yard. Instantly she feels the adrenaline start to fade and her heart begins to slow. She sees Emma by the edge of the woods waving and smiling. A heavy sigh, she promised herself she wouldn’t be that hard on her sweet Emma again. “Emma, what are you doing out there sweetie?”. “I found a bunny; I think he’s hurt” she replies from the dark tree line.


Looking back I should have realized their true intentions. I was but a naive fool then. As I walked through the desert, the past months played like a broken record in my mind. I had everything in my life. A good family, a good home, fantastic friends, a loyal girlfriend, and a promising future. Only if I wasn't born with this curse. Maybe it was a gift but I doubt that. As I walk I came across a desert village. The sun was high up and the fatigue was building for some time. I wandered towards it. A small town with only 10 or so houses. Built with sandstone and bricks. It didn't look that far. After walking for three hours I had a realization. I highly underestimated my distance from the village. By the time I reached the village it was already nighttime. Small lanterns illuminated the streets and candles did that for the houses. People on the streets with candles were gathering in the middle of the town. I wanted to know what was happening but I guess I was too tired that I collapsed at the entrance of the town. I lost consciousness immediately. When I woke up I was surrounded by 7~8 children. The moment I looked at them they screamed and ran away. My face shouldn't be that ugly to scare them away. I felt my throat burning. I looked for something to drink. Alas, I didn't find any. At that moment an old man came into my room. He looked me up and down when two more people entered. One of them was a middle-aged man and the other was a young girl. All three of them talked with each other. I didn't have comprehensive knowledge of any language other than my own so I was a bit lost. But from their body language and talking style, I could deduce that the Old man and the young girl were arguing. The middle-aged man tried to calm them down. After a while, the girl stormed off. The middle-aged man shook his head while the old man sighed. At that moment something suddenly hit me. I quickly looked at my watch and did quick math. I was out for ten hours. I need to go asap. Just as I was about to leave I fumbled and the middle-aged man supported me. He told me something but I was unable to understand. I was exhausted, hungry, and a bit depressed. I couldn't stay in one place any longer than 24 hours. Somehow they always find me. As I tried to struggle I once again fell unconscious due to hunger. I felt something slide down my throat. My eyelids were too heavy but it felt delicious. So I kept eating. It however stopped soon. I wasn't full yet so my disappointment was immeasurable. I felt my night was ruined. I opened my eyes slightly only to see the young girl from before. I wanted to ask something but once again for the third time, I was out cold. The next time I woke up it was nighttime. Small candles illuminated the room I was in. I felt a bit better and a little cold. I wrapped a quilt around me and walked outside. I saw the same scene when I first reached the village. People gathered at the center of the town with candles. Nearly all of them were weeping silently. I made my way through the crowd. When I looked at my watch more than 24 hours have gone by. I knew if I stayed any longer I'll be just endangering them. Even then my curiosity got the better of me. In the middle of the town was a bed. And on the bed was a boy he looked around 20~24. His body was greatly injured. It looked like that disease. They called it the Erosion. It had no cure. Well it had one but only handful of the people knew about it. When I looked closely I could see a crown made out of bones, feathers, and willow beside him. I can see the old man looking at the boy with a sad face. The young girl holding his hand crying, while the middle-aged man consoled her. I can also see a middle-aged woman wiping the sweat off the boy and an old woman making some form of herbal medicine. From the looks of it, the boy was someone important while the rest are family members. I looked around alternating my gaze between the boy and the crowd. I may be not a genius but I can read the mood and atmosphere. I more or less understood the story. I slowly walked towards the boy. Some people tried to stop me but the old man shouted something and the people let me go. When I reached the bed I can see the boy. He was in pain but held it in. His eyes were burning with fighting spirit. His will to live was burning brighter. I remembered a similar gaze. I felt a sharp pain in my chest. It was suffocating. The condition was different but their gaze and temperament were the same. I had the power to save the person but I didn't. Yet here I am faced with a similar choice. I hesitatingly brought my hand to my mouth and bite at my hand to draw some blood. Their method of drawing blood from me was volatile so something like this felt like nothing more than a pinch. Red blood started to spew from the wound. The old man said something and all of them looked at me. I held my hand and let my blood fall into his mouth. The young girl screamed and tackled me to the ground and started hitting me. Compared to the torture I went through this was nothing. It was still painful though. Then screaming could be heard. Some in surprise others in shock. The Middle-aged man pulled the girl off me. I knew what was happening still I stood up to see it. No matter how many times I watched it still amazed me. But waves of pain soon filled my senses. I however was accustomed to it. It is the price I must pay. The boy was healing at an astonishing rate. All the wounds were closing like a magic trick. His wrinkled skin soon became smooth and without any injuries or flaws. He opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. The Middle-aged woman hugged him so did the girl. I'm assuming one was the mother and the other one was the sister(?). The old man shouting and crying. The middle-aged man looked at me shocked. As I was about to leave the old man blocked my way and kneeled soon everyone followed. I was familiar with this scene. When it was discovered that my blood could heal anything as long as a single breath was present, the Vatican City declared me as the Holy Child of God. I remember seeing Millions of people kneeling in front of me. I remember seeing two groups fighting one to protect me while the other to kill me. In the end, I became nothing more than a guinea pig in a science research station while the war on my name was waged by various groups. I looked at my watch 29 hours have passed since I have come here. No one coming for me yet. I wanted to leave but the people kept kneeling and crying. I can guess what it looked like from their perspective. But even then if I stayed all I would do is bring the evil in their heart out. I always did. I realized that when my parents sold me out to the Government. It solidified when I was tricked by my friends to be kidnapped by terrorists. And I accepted it when my girlfriend tried to kill me for not being able to save her little brother. I ignored the gaze of them all and walked away. I walked away from them. I could hear their cries. I needed to get out. Maybe my ability was a blessing but to me, it was nothing more than a curse. Where ever I went I killed more people than I saved. My blood can heal and cure everything except for one thing. The evil in the human heart. It's a disease I spread wherever I go. So I walked and walked and walked. I don't know-how for how many hours I have walked. When I was hungry I ate. When I was exhausted I slept. Soon my food ran out so did my water. I was in a near-death state. And soon fade away in the darkness. Only to wake up to find myself buried in the sand. Soon I crawled out to see the night sky. My body felt light and fresh. Then I realized my blood heals everything as long as a single breath remains. So there's no reason for it to not work on me too. I didn't know it could do that. I didn't mind it. That just means I won't have to worry about food and water anymore. Then I once again kept walking. Yesterday suddenly my flesh started to burn and my watch stopped working so did my calendar. It stopped on May 5th, 2053. It was weird cause the last time I checked it was April 3rd, 2022. The people in the village may have tinkered with my watch. No wonder time felt wrong. I'm losing consciousness more frequently. The sun feels hotter for some reason. Day and night passed by but I kept walking. I looked at the sky. It was an aurora borealis in the middle of the desert. Odd. The stars felt less than it was a few nights ago. I didn't think much and kept walking. ... I have been walking for some time now. I don't know where I am. The map crumbled like sand yesterday. I tried to remember where I was going. Weird. Why am I walking? I stop to look around me it is a vast desert. I don't know why but I feel like walking again. I look at the sun. It is redder than before. But not my problem. All I know is that I have to keep walking.


The longest journey of Marigold's life was four flights of stairs and a corridor. She came home early from work one morning due to a neighbourhood electricity failure. Marigold, a psychology student, was glad of it, because it gave her extra time to progress with her thesis, "Creative Repression as a Mechanism Against Trauma". She knew that she'd probably have a nap first though. Maybe watch a movie. Marigold's mother liked to say that the psychology of procrastination would have been a more appropriate subject for her to cover. Home was apartment 7 on the second floor of a three-storey private building, too large to be a house and too small to be a block of flats. Marigold liked the place very much. Mr. Bailey, the landlord, kept the front garden well-kept and she particular liked the thick vines of ivy growing up the front of the building, passing her bedroom window. For some reason it made her happy every time she saw it. She'd only been there a couple of months, but those neighbours she'd met were friendly, and Mr. Bailey, a small, busy old man who always wore four shiny medals on the lapel of a spotless blazer, lived in a unit on the ground floor himself. Marigold pushed through the front doors and was looking down into her handbag, rooting for her buried keys, as she arrived at the first flight of stairs. A polished shoe entered her vision. Marigold looked up saw Mr. Bailey and gave an in-motion smile/hi as she passed. The phrase "boys and their footballs" popped into her head from nowhere, which was random enough to puzzle her for a second. Up the stairs went Marigold, trainers sinking slightly in the light-green carpet. The carpet was another thing she liked, it made the place feel homely. But she didn't look down at it today. Instead, she looked forward, feeling a strong determination to have a productive afternoon on her project. Specifically, she had a new case study to work in. Winter, 1983, a shoeless teenager found wandering through the streets of Paris with no memory of where he'd come from. After a year of in-patient treatment Christian X had begun to build a life in the community and was becoming a cheerful and gregarious young man. But his continuing therapy pushed him to retrieve his memories. Turned out he was an orphan and former child soldier, and upon remembering this he promptly had a severe nervous breakdown. The question the case highlighted was, should some memories stay repressed? If you see something unthinkable, is it not better to not think about it? Maybe sometimes, when the brain blocks something, it's for our own good. Marigold reached the top of the first flight of stairs, a small landing with a framed photograph on each three walls. All three were black and white and botanical in nature - a daylit jungle scene at ground level, a closeup of a strange flower, and the last was a jungle landscape seen from above. It looked like a thick green rug over the land. As Marigold's shoe pressed into the carpet of the first step of the next flight of stairs and she wondered what it was like below that canopy, what dangers would lurk. A snake slithering behind, a panther pouncing from a shadow. What would happen if she were suddenly transported there, as is? How could she defend herself? Marigold's hand tried to instinctively squeeze the heavy bottle opener on her keychain and she realized that her hand was empty. She hadn't taken it out of her bag. Strange. Marigold reached the first floor and looked left as she passed. There were two flats on either side of the corridor - more like a long landing really - and more framed photographs of a similar nature. Apartment 2 held Tomasz, an accountant of some sort who had helped Marigold carry a bookshelf up to her flat once. In apartment 4 lived Sam, a writer with a cat named Wednesday. Marigold had shared a glass of wine with Sam shortly after moving in and liked her very much. Shame she was moving out soon. When Marigold turned her head back to focus on flight number three, a picture snapped into her mind, a memory clear as a photograph. Strands of Sam's wavy blonde hair venturing into her glass of red wine, the tips floating on the surface before being rescued with a giggle. It was a pleasant moment. So why did icy fear and sadness stab through Marigold's stomach, powerful enough that her next step had a little more of a thud? Her brows furrowed in confusion at the completely unprovoked panic response. Her next step was normal though. And the next. Something strange was happening inside her, her brain fighting something, her body somehow moving smoothly, relaxed and unhurried, an autopilot she'd never felt before, yet her heart thumped violently in her chest. Fourth step, fifth. Looking up she saw the next three photographs waiting for her at the next landing. Marigold had never given them any thought despite seeing daily. She knew they were all pictures taken by Mr. Bailey during his military service long ago, as he'd proudly told her when first she had met him. Now, she really saw for the first time. A twenty-something Mr. Bailey, sweaty and handsome in his dirty army fatigues, posing with a friend beside a table set up outside a tent. On the table were indigenous items: a spear, an axe, some jewellery, an arrangement of fruits, a shrunken head. Flight number four and the pictures were behind her. Her eyes locked on the top step above, a summit beyond which was the safety of her door. Her calm was protected by a wall and something was violently battering at that wall in time with the bashing of her heart, and it was screaming something, four words over and over and over. But she knew that to hear them was death. Step. Step. Step. Finally Marigold achieved the landing and before her was a mirror of the four doors below. She saw the shining silver "7" on her door, second on the left. Ten paces away. Her legs felt like jelly but they walked, and her eyes, her existence, locked onto that blessed number. Marigold's right arm knew that her keys were still in her bag and went inside, the hand the head of a hungry snake rooting for a mouse. It found the object, gripped, removed it, the left arm coming around the body to aid in manipulating the point of the key forward, so in the last three steps to the door Marigold's posture was of one carrying a holy offering. She arrived at her door at an angle too shallow, and knew that she needed to turn to face the door directly, but she couldn't because her body refused, and as her sweaty hands betrayed her and dropped the key, the barrier broke and the screams became clear. They were screaming “don’t look behind you". And as Marigold finally understood, a much calmer voice, real and close to her ear, said: "You’re home early, young lady.


A blank whiteness flashed before his eyes, and he remembered nothing. He saw nothing but white and felt nothing but pain. Laying on his back, the cold hard floor chilled him through his loose clothing. Ringing filled his ears, high pitched and whining it slowly softened as the hazy world around him came into focus. Soft edges became sharp corners while fuzzy black lines tightened to form regular square panels of creamy white. They were hard to see because of the powerfully bright light shining down on him. Closing his eyes did nothing, the light so bright his vision was not black but aglow with a fiery orange hue, the only colour allowed in this black and white space. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again, but he couldn’t look up for long as the glare only worsened the already skull shattering pressure built up behind his eyes. He tried to shift but found his body almost impossible to move, his limbs feeling as if they were made of lead. It wasn’t only his body that was weighed down, but also his mind. A thick fog clouded his thoughts making them almost impossible to hold onto before they silently slipped behind the misty veil back into the realm of unconsciousness. Chasing his thoughts only made his head spin, making him feel sick. The pounding headache began to subside, along with the rolling waves of nausea, giving him a chance to finally try to move. Dazed, he slowly sat up. His muscles screamed in agony with even the slightest movements. Squirming across the floor, he eventually bumped up against and slid up a smooth wall as icy as the floor. From his now seated position he had a look around. Surrounding him were four plain white walls rising from an equally plain white floor to meet with the while tiled ceiling. Scattered among the tiles were half a dozen panel lights softly humming while bathing the room in an uncomfortably bright glow. There was absolutely nothing other than himself inside this room. There were no windows. There wasn’t even a door. All around him was empty white space, the room barely definable as the uniform lighting melded everything together into an almost infinite white blend Panic set in. *Where am I? How did I get in here? How do I get out?* A thousand thoughts breached into his conscious mind all at once, rushing in like a raging flood. Bombarded by a so many questions, he was quickly overwhelmed. He doubled over and wretched, but nothing came out. He spat out a glob of phlegm and took in a deep breath. The air was crisp and fresh despite the enclosed nature of the room. He could see no ventilation, but he knew there had to be some otherwise there would be a stale taste to the air. Thinking about it for a moment, he noticed there was a taste to the air. The faint lingering odour of disinfectant or bleach, not strong enough to be overpowering but present enough to be noticeable. It smelt clean. Too clean, almost clinical. A sudden mechanical whirring caught him by surprise. In the centre of the room a small, previously hidden hatchway opened. Rising from this pitch-black opening was a slender column atop of which sat a bright red button. The column rose to chest height and then stopped, the hatchway sealing around its base, leaving the vacant chamber quiet once again. The island in the middle of the room stood proud and tall, waiting expectantly. The red button so sharp in contrast to the pallid room it had a ghostly glow to it. Curiosity piqued, with careful wobbly steps, he let go of the sturdy wall and drunkenly staggered towards the button, almost tripping over his own numb feet several times. He felt like a baby deer taking its first steps in a cold and unforgiving alien world. Wet slaps echoed throughout the chamber as his warm flesh peeled off the cold floor with each step, leaving greasy footprints behind. Once at the column, he rested his weight against it. The short walk over had been more than enough exercise for his tired legs. The button was staring up at him, enticing him to touch its shiny plastic surface. He almost obliged its request, his sweaty hand looming ready to depress the button, but a black screen had made itself apparent on the wall opposite him, diverting his attention to the message displayed upon it in large bold letters. **ARE YOU SURE?** His hand trembled slightly as he held it above the button. He looked down at the button and then back at the big screen. Was he sure? He thought he was. He definitely wanted to press the button, that was clear enough from the fact he was moments away from doing so. But why did he want to press the button? That was a question he wasn’t sure he could answer. He didn’t know what it would do once he pressed it, but he was about to anyway. He felt compelled to press it, like he was supposed to. What else was there to do in this blank space? He moved his hand down ever so slightly but pulled back at the last second, keeping it hovering over the button. He then took his hand away and the screen disappeared. Startled, he almost fell down but managed to catch himself on the column. Where had the screen gone? Finding his footing, he swung round the column and made for the wall. His legs felt stronger and he could move without so much pain as before. He approached the wall and slid his palm across it, feeling along its length for any indentations or other indications as to where the screen had gone. It felt as smooth and cold as the wall he was leant against when he came too in this strange white cube. Rapping his knuckles against the surface at various points to try and determine a difference in material yielded nothing but sore hands. He even pressed his cheek against the wall, scanning down its length for any perceptible peaks or troughs. There were none. If he couldn’t feel them, he was certainly not going to see anything either. Dumbfounded, he returned to the column when an idea struck him. Slowly, he moved his hand towards the button again. Nothing. Interesting. He gently lowered his hand so far as to touch the button, but still nothing happened. Casually tapping it with his fingertips didn’t elicit a response from the hidden screen. Only the second the impulse to truly push the button flashed through his mind was the screen was back, displaying the same message as before. **ARE YOU SURE?** So it wasn’t his proximity to the button, but rather his intention to press it that drew out the response. He withdrew his hand but remained fixated on the idea of pressing the button. The message stayed up on the screen, flickering slightly but otherwise unchanging. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow which he quickly wiped away. *Was it getting hotter in here?* He was certainly sweating more but the floor still felt chilly to the touch. Maybe it was an infection. His muscles had been aching and his head was still sore. Coupled with the sweating, it felt as if he was coming out of some type of flu or cold. Him being sick would also explain the bleach-like smell that still hung in the air. How sick was he if he had been placed in this quarantine room? It must be bad. Another bead of sweat tried to run down his face but was wiped away. Maybe the button would call a doctor or give him some medication or something. He wasn’t to know unless he pressed the button. The red glinting of the button teased him, such an alluring presence drove him to press it but every time he went to make a move, his eyes automatically returned to the screen. **ARE YOU SURE?** What a taunting question. It was as if the room was mocking him. Asking such a condescending question, making him look like an idiot made his blood boil. Who was this that was so sure of themselves and certain the he himself was to make some mistake? Why did they not trust in his intentions? Was it not a sound and rational idea to press the button if there was no other obvious object in which to interact with within the confines of this limited space? He sure thought it was. But that message. It sowed unwanted doubt in his mind. It made him wonder whether the message was goading him into making a mistake by having him press the button, or it was to throw him so off balance that he could never press it and remain trapped in this room for eternity. Whatever the true intentions were, it made him rethink and question himself at every turn. He didn’t like to be questioned, especially not by some damn screen. Had he something to throw at it he would have, but he didn’t so he couldn’t. Out of spite he decided he wouldn’t play this stupid game any longer. He turned, walked to the far side of the room and sat down, staring back at the screen and the button. There he would sit, arms and legs crossed, until that confounded message went away. It’s true the message had faded more since coming over to the other side of the room, but it remained. So began the war of attrition between man and screen. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, it could have been many hours or merely a few minutes, but after a while his brow loosened and he dropped his scowl, opting for a more relaxed look as his face had begun to hurt. His arms and legs were aching, the blood flow impeded by being crossed for so long. The worst part was that his bottom had gone numb. The cold, hard floor was in the least bit accommodating to his poor bottom. He could not sit there for much longer, but the message was still there, flickering away. “I can’t take this anymore!” his hoarse cry stuck in his dry throat as he flung himself off the floor and made for the button with such haste that he buckled under his flailing legs and crashed to the floor. A bright stream of claret exploded from where his nose met the floor. The crunch was deafening and the pain searing. He pinched his nose and tried to stem the torrent of blood that gushed like a raging river down his face. Tears welled in his eyes but he could still see through them to the glorious red button and the intrusive message behind it. Almost slipping in his own blood, he stormed over to the button, a bloody trail dripping in his wake. This time, without a second thought, slamming his bloody fist down on the tantalising red plastic, he pressed the button. The screen flashed a new message before disappearing into the white wall, the words burning in his mind, building a pressure behind his eyes, threatening to burst his skull wide open. **PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE** It was all too much for him and he felt himself falling. A blank whiteness flashed before his eyes, and he remembered nothing.


# The Salesman  *He came again today* “Hello sir, welcome to Mercedes Benz” *Every week… and always on my shift.* **“Thank you kindly young man”** *Today he had decided on a straw cowboy hat and an obnoxiously big and fake Bert Reynolds mustache.* *...* *He’s really started to phone it in* "What can I help you with today sir?” *A passerby might look, and think this man was doing a bit, like there is no way this… costume is meant to come across as genuine.* **“Well I’m here to buy a car of course”** *But I know better.* ** *As we pass, I take my shot.* “Sir, while I grab some paperwork please help yourself to some complimentary bagels and coffee” *Please… just once…* **“Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve already ate”** *Of course you have.* “I see… well they are there if you change your mind” *You mother…* “Thank you, but I won’t” *Fucker.* ** “So this is our 2022 A Class, it runs about $36,000 with added on GPS at satellite tracking” *Oh I see, seems a little small, do you have anything bigger?* “I see, but it seems a bit too compact, do you have any larger vehicles?” *He’s switching it up.* “Right this way sir” \-- *I could have been a librarian* “This is our 2023 EQB-Class” *If I just would have actually taken the classes and passed the test* **“Now this is a vehicle.”** *2 hours a day of studying, for maybe 3 months.* “Would you like to take a test drive? All I would need is your license for record keeping” *Oh, that won’t be necessary* **“Oh, that won’t be necessary…”** *Of course not.* **“But might I look around the inside though?”** *What is to gain from this?* “Of course sir” *Three months was all it would have took.* ** *An hour and a half…* ”Are there any other models you would like to look at sir?” *Every time…* **“No I think that’s about it, thank you young man”** *Did he pick that amount of time intentionally?* “Very good sir” *Like he calculated that that was just enough time to show “genuine” interest* “And are you interested in purchasing any of the vehicles you saw today?” *Watching the dealership with binoculars and timing each purchase to find the average a customer took.* **“The more I thought about it, I think the 2022 A Class might actually be perfect”** *Is this madness?* …. *Is this purgatory?* **“And I would like to purchase it please”** *Or something else?* “…Of course sir, let me grab the paperwork” *Well, whatever it is…* **“Thank you young man”** *Here.* **“…But while you do”** *It.* **“…Are those bagels still complimentary?”** *Comes.* “Of course sir” ** *I don’t grab paperwork. About three months ago I stopped. And I’m surprised it took me that long.* **“****Hey sport, how’s the sale going****?"** *And yet my manager still asks.* “Grabbing the paperwork now Larry.” *Every week.* **“Wonderful, which model?”** *Is he a part of this hell?* “2022 A Class” *Is everyone?* **“You’ll see a solid commission off that”** *My wife? My kids?* “As long as he doesn’t run out” *Larry laughs… as if this isn’t a joke he’s heard dozens of times.* **“Good one bud”** *Oh God… Am I becoming part of it?* ** *Sometimes it’s on a napkin, sometimes it’s written on an empty coffee cup.* **“Dearest Salesman,”** *Today it was on a piece of the secretary’s letter stock.* **“I regret to inform you that I will be unable to purchase your fine vehicle today”** *After the first month I began storing them.* **“I have been notified that my dearest grandmother has taken a nasty spill”** *Piles of notes, sitting in a cabinet drawer in my office.* **“and must be transported to the medical facilities post haste.”** *To show to who?* **“However you will be pleased to know,”** *Larry?* **“that I will consider this dealership”** *My wife?* "**and you specifically”** *The FBI?* **“For all future purchases”** *No…* **“P.S.”** *Not yet.* **“Thanks for the bagel.”** ... *See you again next week.


A Dissonance The cloud of smoke hung in the air like some type of confused ghost, fragrant with apples and herbs. It shifted in wild colors, infused by the neon lights that blanketed the walls. Marta passed the mouthpiece of the hookah to John. He took a long pull. It simmered under the force of his breath. The bar itself was borderline deserted. Besides John and Marta smoking in one of the back booths, there was only the owner of the bar standing behind his desk, a prismatically illuminated display of different tobacco options lighting his heavy face, and one other group of people seated in another booth across the room. The music played quietly, its bass an almost subliminal pulse. “You like it?” Marta asked. “Yeah, it’s not bad. I’ve never been here before, honestly didn’t even know it existed before you mentioned it,” John answered as he took another hit. There was a shout and a laugh from across the room. One of them beckoned the owner over then started complaining loudly about some arcane aspect of the service. Marta looked over at them with a sneer. “You’d think they were hot shit, the way they’re acting over there. Especially that obnoxious bitch with the weave. Look at her flaunt it like that sacks of concrete are anything to write home about. I’ve seen better tits on a horse. It’s pitiful, an older woman acting like some dopey college girl. It makes me sick,” Marta murmured as she watched the owner argue with them. “Fuck it, who cares? Let them have a good time. God knows we’ll probably be the same way at that age.” John took another hit from the hookah then coughed, trying to calm the burn in his lungs with a drink of coffee. “Shit, and they don’t even serve alcohol here. The cheap bastards. Too greedy to splurge on a liquor license. But those people over there are right about one thing: this stuff does kind of taste like dogshit. The more I smoke it, the more I develop the subtle aftertaste of burnt applesauce that seems to like to linger.” “Oh, don’t complain. You are the one who wanted to come here after all, John. Don’t give me that shit now.” John sat back and looked at Marta for the first good time that night. Frizzy brown hair cut short that always smelled of flowers as they baked in the summer sun, tucked back behind the left ear as usual. Dark eyes peering back, so bright that at times it made him uncomfortable to return their gaze. The whites were strangely bright in the dim bar. Her tan skin awakened in him the awareness of Earth’s potential for fertility, an awareness of its texture in an embrace. The owner finally managed to pry himself away from his angry customers. It was quiet again, just music. Marta leaned over closer to John and whispered. “If you can get these curtains closed, I’ll suck your dick.” John choked on the smoke still in his lungs. He looked over at the owner sitting behind his desk. The man was leaning against it, defeated, with his head cradled in his hands. John handed Marta the hookah’s mouthpiece then started to untie some of the ropes holding up the curtains that obscured their booth. He managed to get only one down before the owner noticed. He stormed over with a look of absolute hatred hidden just behind his smile. “Sir, you can’t put down the curtains. It is against the fire code for them to be within a certain distance of an open flame, and when they are let down, they stretch past that point.” The man said all of this with an air of barely suppressed annoyance. “We can’t even let them down a little? Some of the lights are giving me a headache,” asked Marta innocently. “No. It is forbidden.” With that, the owner tied the one down curtain back up to the side of the booth and walked back over to his desk. He sat down behind it with an utterly blank face. John sat in shock, now completely demoralized. “Well, maybe if you move your chair beside mine, we could . . .” Marta cut John off with a stern look. “If you think I’m going to debase myself in front of all these people, you are greatly mistaken. You had your chance, and you blew it, mister. Besides, the vibe is all wrong now. I just know that guy is going to be watching us all night now. He can sense we are up to something.” John accepted his defeat and allowed the reality of that fact to flow through him. All at once, he realized that his coffee didn’t taste quite as good as he remembered. He took one last pull from the hookah, suppressing a cough as the harsh smoke burned his lungs, and with great expectation let out a depressingly small cloud of smoke. He tossed the mouthpiece down on the table and checked the time on his phone. 10:32 pm. Outside, there was only a matrix of dense ink beyond the glass. “Let’s get out of here,” John said. “We came and tried it, no one can blame us for that, but I can say with confidence that I will not be coming back. You pay for all that and they can’t even afford you a little privacy. You were right. We probably should have just hung out at my place like usual. I hope you’re happy.” “Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here. This place blows.” They got out of the booth, Marta giving the other group of customers a sour look as they walked by. John held the door open and the two of them walked out into the parking lot. The air was warm and humid, scented by an earlier rain. Back in the car, John drove without talking through the dark city streets, the windows open as Marta listened to her music. She smoked a cigarette, letting it dangle casually between her lips as she talked. He pulled into her apartment complex; a sprawling thing overcast with ancient trees that now broadcasted weird shadows from the streetlights. Lately an aura of history had haunted the place for John, emerging whenever he neared like a solid force. Too much history is contained beneath the branches. Parked in front of her place, both sat in silence in the car, unwilling to separate quite yet. “We can smoke a little if you want,” John propositioned. “Sure. It’ll help me sleep.” John fumbled around in the dark for a moment as he rolled the fuzzy buds into the proper shape. A small flame from a lighter. Thirty minutes later they were sitting quietly in the off car, their seats leaned back, looking up at the night sky and the few stars which had managed to penetrate the city’s light. John couldn’t help but smile. Moments like these were what sustained him. He was the first to speak. “Nights like this always make me nostalgic. Remember that time, when we were younger, and I had taken you on a trip to the beach?” “You and your beaches,” Marta joked. “Yes, I remember. That was what, going on about six years ago now. Man, we were practically kids back then. Now look at us. We’re heathens.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, I mean just look at us. If you would have asked me back then if I could see myself drinking and fucking and getting high, I would have been appalled. You know how it is: a white dress for the wedding. Have to be a virgin to earn that honor.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Those are only antiquated ideas best left for dead anyhow. Nobody gives a shit about that kind of stuff these days. Besides, you weren’t exactly an angel back then either. I doubt you would have gotten that dress if you tried.” “True,” she said. John rolled over onto his side and looked at her. “Well, may I continue?” he asked. “Of course,” Marta answered. “Please, go ahead.” “I think we were down there for New Years, or something around that time of year, and I had managed to find a little condo we could rent for a few days. It was your first time seeing the ocean. We had originally planned on going to the big party, seeing the fireworks and having some drinks, but one of us, I can’t quite remember who, wanted to go for a walk along the beach instead. We went to the beach and walked along it for a long time. I had never seen it so empty.” “You try to make it sound so romantic, but what I remember is freezing my ass off on that beach. I must have been sick for a week after that.” “You going to make fun of me or listen to what I want to say?” John asked somewhat irritably. “No, no. Please, go on, John. I was only kidding. Just don’t make things sound better than they really were. I was there too. There is no point in trying to sell it to me.” “Okay, fine,” John conceded. “I just get a little carried away at times, I guess. But the point I’m trying to make is that we spent hours on that beach together, laying on my jacket on the sand and holding each other, trying to stay warm. Hell, I even remember the way the planes looked as they flew by in the night overhead. Jesus, I admit it wounds cheesy as hell now that I say it out loud, like a scene in some horrible soap opera, but I must admit that night has stuck with me through the years. It’s almost like there is some form of significance in it.” Marta was silent for a moment. She lay on her side, looking over at John from the passenger seat. The light was so dim he could barely make out her face. “I distinctly remember you thinking those lights were satellites in orbit, or some nonsense like that. Said something about them being too high up to be planes,” she said. “And this is coming from the one who thought they were UFOs. Them being satellites is far more plausible than that.” “Then let’s just say they were planes and agree to disagree.” “But doesn’t some part of you kind of wish you could go back to that? You know, back to a simpler time when things didn’t seem so overwhelming,” John asked her. Marta considered this for a time. She twirled a strand of her frizzy her around her finger as she thought. Her proposition from earlier came back to John suddenly, and he wished to reach over the seat and embrace her, but instead restrained himself. Somehow, it didn’t feel like the proper time for that sort of thing. The fumes latent in the air were intoxicating. “I get what you mean by simpler times,” she finally responded. “There is an allure in that idea, it can’t be denied. Things can get overwhelming these days and there have been times when I have just wanted to curl up in a ball and run back to something more familiar, but the way I see it, that is just a lie. A false promise. I’ve always felt like memory lies to you, if you know what I mean. Like if you’ve ever tried to remember somebody from childhood, and this exact thing has happened to me before, so I know it is real, and when you ask someone in your family about that person you find out that they never existed in the first place or that they are somebody else. Your mind has a nasty way of playing all kinds of dirty tricks on you in ways you can’t even dream about. Sure, were things easier back then? Yeah, in a way. Were they better? That I don’t know. They must have been good if you remember them so fondly, but I doubt that if we were to go back things would be any different than what they are today. Things haven’t really changed, it’s just out perspective on them that has.” John searched for something to say. He wanted to argue the point, demonstrate his own point of view on the matter, but wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “How’s that for a deep and insightful comment?” Marta asked. “Not bad. You should be a poet in your spare time.” “The way I see it,” Marta continued. “Even if things were better back then, we can’t go back. Even if you wanted it more than anything else in the world, would be willing to kill for it, die for it even, none of that would mean the slightest thing. We all know it. Intrinsically. Time moves in only one direction: forwards. It’s pointless yearning over something that you will never have. And this is one of the few times where you can say that for certain. So why dwell on something that is now long gone, deader than the dust on the ground? It’s fine to remember, think back on something to enjoy the memory, but anything more than that is a mistake. I just focus on the here and now, do my best to enjoy it. That is the only reality there is.” “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out then,” John said uncertainly. Marta shrugged and yawned, stretching out impressively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shit all over your parade, John. I remember that trip to the beach and I can admit that it is a good memory for me. But that’s all it is for me. A memory. I try not to dwell too much on the past. Not everything there is worth remembering. Anyway, we’re different people now. A lot can change in six years. I bet you if we were to go on that same trip again, we would be far too busy in the hotel to cuddle on some frozen beach.” “Fair enough,” John chuckled. “I just like to think back sometimes, you know. I think it’s good to remember what came before.” Marta lit a cigarette and rolled down her window, winding the hand crank with a grunt. The fresh air wafted into the car in hungry waves. John rose from his lazy stupor and looked at the clock in the dashboard. 1:43 am. He had no idea that much time had passed. “Thanks for everything tonight. I had a good time, you know. Call me sometime tomorrow and we can find a time to meet up again,” Marta said. She leaned across the center console and kissed John firmly on the lips. Without warning, she reached down and grabbed John’s crotch, gripping whatever she found firmly. John winced. “And don’t think I forgot about this little guy,” she jeered. “Mama was tired tonight, but after a good night’s rest she will be ready again, don’t you fear.” Mercifully she let go. John let out a deep breath. He turned the car back on then got out, going over to her side of the car to open the door. He stretched his cramped legs and breathed in the fresh air greedily. The temperature had dropped in the last few hours. “Alright, babe,” Marta said as she collected her things from her seat. “Don’t forget to call me. And get home safely, I don’t need to wake up to find your face plastered all over the news. I’ll see you soon.” John watched as she climbed up the stairs to her apartment. She fumbled with the door as she unlocked it then disappeared inside. Now John became very aware of how astonishingly alone he was in the dark parking lot, lost under the trees and their spectral shadows. A light turned on in her apartment. Satisfied that she was okay, John turned away and got back into his car. He sat there silently in the dark for some time, the windows rolled down as he breathed in the cold air. There was the scent of rain stuck to the pavement. Something pricked at the very edge of his mind. Was it just a fatigue from the drugs and the crazy talk, a symptom of the late hour? No, something entirely different lurked there. He tried to clear his mind to concentrate on the thing that bothered him like an incessant gnat. And then it dawned on him. In one decisive swoop him came straight to the core of the problem. Dissatisfaction is how he described it. The sensation that while overall things are pretty good, there is something subtle just under the surface that keeps you from getting too comfortable. He hadn’t known this all along, but as soon as he realized this it was accepted as a fact instantly. What was it he wanted? John thought and found he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew that there was something missing, and without that unique ingredient nothing would ever feel quite right. Is that what he hoped to find in Marta? If so, that was a cruel responsibility to put on somebody, especially if they didn’t even know they carried it. That was a formula for bitter disappointment. It had happened before, but John promised himself never again. Yet that special thing he had felt back then had been lost and that was an undeniable fact of life. Could Marta really be tied up in that? He had still felt the thing when they were first together all those years ago. Everything seemed to be coated in this special tint that imbibed life with a sort of enchantment that gave life so much zest. After she was gone that too died away with time. Was she the cause? John dreaded to think that one person could hold so much sway over such a vital aspect of a person. No matter how much he hated the possibility, he had to explore all avenues for an explanation. Only then could a cure be found. But that’s not the whole story. It had fled once she left him, true, but the sensation had been there long before John had ever met her. So, she wasn’t the one who spawned it, but did she have the power to destroy it? John sighed and shook his head. It was pointless thinking this way. Maybe Marta had a point. It was pointless dwelling on the past like this. It is dead and gone. But one thing was for certain. They wouldn’t last. How could they? The whole thing was founded on a misconception. The real Marta and his personal conception of her did not add up. When he thought of her, what entered his mind was a skewed image of an older version, the one that had walked with him on the beach that night, not an accurate projection of her based off present reality. It was almost like an out-of-date caricature of her. Yet who she was now is not what bothered him. Every moment he had spent with her had been a pleasure, liberating even. The issue stemmed from where these two versions of Marta conflicted. He searched for answers in a person that doesn’t exist anymore, if they even existed at all. The mind does have a habit of omitting the unsavory parts. Such a dissonance in his mind could only lead to strife. They would have their fun for a couple of months, laugh, drink, get high and fuck, maybe go on a trip and fantasize about a new life together, never telling the other what we truthfully think of. Pretend like we find any source of legitimate comfort in each other’s arms. And the best part is that John would go along with every second of it until one day he became disgusted enough with himself to suddenly call it off out of the blue. Letting things get to such a point could only serve to hurt her again. Why go through all the trouble? John laughed quietly to himself. There isn’t any harm in having a little fun. It brings a little spice to life. Hell, knowing her, she probably already knows all this, and when the time comes to break it off, she’ll be perfectly fine with it. To be honest, she has more experience with this type of thing than I do. In the end, John never found the answer to his problem. What that secret ingredient is, or even how it was lost in the first place, was a problem out of his reach. And for tonight he was at peace with that. But always through that peace, just beneath the surface, a sea of uneasiness bubbled. He knew he reached the same conclusion every night. He was fine with what he found now, but would he be tomorrow? Experience told him he wouldn’t be and kept him from getting too comfortable. John turned on the car. Switching on the radio, he found a station playing some old music and turned it down low, mining for comfort in the familiar sounds. He shrugged. Why worry? It’s not like he can solve all his problems tonight. It’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning, the beginning of which would be soon approaching. John put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot, turning out onto the empty road. At home, he lay in bed staring at the shadow of the blinds on the wall. The opium of sleep was working its way deep into his muscles, but he was not quite ready to give in just yet. It had started to rain, and he listened to the sound of the drops on the leaves. He was suddenly aware of how isolated he was, cut off from not only the thousands that surround him every day, but also from the person he once was, like some sort of creature had gained dominance of his body and he was now a prisoner, watching the creature as it calmly went about sabotaging his life. He closed his eyes and searched for shelter from the rain.


“Yes, Mary, I’m in front of her house now. God, who let the yard get like that? What happened to the swing on the porch?” I said into the phone. “You know what? Maybe if you were around when she was alive, you’d have been able to see the yard was a mess. Maybe you would have seen how run down the house has become. Jesus, Heather, what did you expect?” My sister replied through hissed teeth. I could almost hear the capillaries in her neck popping through the shitty reception. “Okay, whatever. Can you just tell me what I’m here for?” “If you were at the reading of her will, you’d know. But mom told me to be very clear and concise with you. She left something in a blue box in her closet. Next to grandma’s fur coat.” “Who gets that coat, by the way? Always loved it. Would be so precious to wear, you know?” “It doesn’t matter. You were only left one thing, and one thing only. That. Blue. Box. Find it and get the fuck out. None of the family even wants you there, but mom said she insisted.” “Fine, I get it, God damn. Bye” I said as I hung up. Marry can be such a bitch, ‘NONE OF THE FAMILY WANTS YOU THERE’ I said out loud in a mocking voice. We used to be so close, her and me. God, when’s the last time we even talked? 5 years? Maybe 6? I lit a cigarette and rolled down the car window. When’s the last time I was home? Probably the last time I saw mom in person. 15 years almost today, just a week short. But I’m not counting. I throw the cigarette out without taking a single puff. What a waste. I walk up to the porch. It used to be painted white, but now it seems a mix of rustic wood and white flakes. The porch swing was hanging off of one side, its left chain length pulled out from the top. It looked pathetic, as if hanging on what was left of its purpose. It used to be a good, sturdy swing. When I was younger, I could jump on and off it without so much as a creak. The storm door was wide open, its spring long ghost gone. I remember when it broke, that was a horrible storm. I can still see mom holding one of those 72 hour candles. It was so funny to see her slender fingers wrapped around that humongous hunk of wax. We used so little of the wax by the time the lights came back on, it was then a 71 hour candle. We never seemed to use it again after that. The front door was unlocked. Not that the dead bolt would have held anything, that door catch is so worn I barely had to push on the handle before it gave way. The hinges groaned open and the sun behind me peeked into the house with me. My silhouette casted against the ground and half way up the wall. My eyes adjusted to the light and I glanced at some family photos. Nothing has changed in the home since I left. It was odd walking through the home knowing mom was dead. I never really found this place inviting, but even still, I got goosebumps thinking of it. I walk through the entryway, closing the door behind me. There was enough light coming through the windows that I didn’t need to turn the lights on. I can remember when mom used to get mad about us leaving the lights on in unoccupied rooms. That practice sure carried over, as even today, I will make sure the light is off. I walk through the Kitchen and into the living room. Every piece of plastic covered furniture was exactly where I last saw it. Mom was always so stuck in her ways. Once she found something that worked, it stayed like that until it broke. There’s that gaudy beaded lamp. I can see that lamp so clearly in my head when I close my eyes to go to bed. I don’t know why, but that lamp burned a hole in my retina. It was that day I told mom about… my girlfriend. That I liked girls. The echoes of that night still bounce around the walls of that room. That was the last night I was home. 15 years ago, almost. Minus a week. Today. But I’m not counting. Jesus, I was 17 years old, mom. Why did you kick a 17 year old out? How could you have kicked your own daughter, ME? How could you have kicked me out? Being in this room pisses me off. I’m getting my shit and never returning. I hurry over to the stairs to ascend them. I instinctively skip the 5th step, because it creeks. I don't want to wake up- A dead woman? My dead mom? Was I still scared of making noises at night? Sneaking out with whoever I was destined to spend the rest of my life with that week? I push past the cobwebs, both mental and physical. There are a lot of cobwebs up here, holy shit. I turn on the light in the hall. Her door stood at the end, right in the middle of my room and Mary's. This door was always off limits when we were kids. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been behind this door, with permission of course. Inside mom’s room, there was the bed, night stand, her dresser and a small desk where she did her makeup in the morning. I can still smell her Aquanet clinging to the air. She was probably the sole cause for 10 percent of the ozone being depleted. She always had such perfect hair, of course. How could she face the world without her best face forward? There’s the closet. An accordion style door with a delicate little clasp. I push the clasp up and the door opens itself slightly. It honestly made me jump a little. I still have this childish anxiety that I’m not supposed to be here. Pushing some Avon boxes aside, I can see into the back of the closet. Hung up on a solid wood hanger, that I’ll add probably cost more than my first car, was my grandmother’s fox fur coat. It has been neglected for far too long, as the moths have found refuge in its folds. It was full of holes and ragged. I push the coat aside delicately for fear it would disintegrate. Behind the coat was the blue box I was foretold. What could mom possibly have inside it that she would go out of her way to write it in her will? I tucked it under my arm and backed out of the closet. I’m not opening this here, too heavy. I walk out of the room and into the hall. The dim light was flickering slightly. Almost by muscle memory, I push the dimmer up and down just right to keep it steady. I walk forward and my hand brushes against my childhood room’s door handle. This is already a pretty heavy day, might as well peek into my old room. I push the deep brown door open and feel the hanging mirror sway. I flipped the lights on and drank in the room's scenery. My God, nothing has changed. It’s exactly how I left it, 15 years ago, a week from today. I’m not counting. The pink bedspread, the band posters, my little desk with graded homework from high school, are still all there. It was almost unbelievable how much it felt like I went back in time. It took my breath away and made me grieve for my nostalgia. My head was spinning and I sat down. Forgetting the box, it crashed onto the floor from under my arm. The lid of the box flipped off and the only thing in the box was an old photo and a letter. The photo was of me and mom. I was maybe 7 years old. I was wearing a Dora the explorer bike helmet and had a wide smile full of missing teeth. Mom was cheek to cheek with me, smiling warmly as the sun swept her perfectly formed hair. I could see the remnants of a purple something around my lips. It was summer, and we looked so happy and carefree. I picked up the letter and read it. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx *Dear Heater,* *I know that where we are today, in our relationship and as I write this to you, is not a good place. Those years ago, I know. I know what I did. I am so very sorry. You were my daughter. You were a piece of me and I acted in anger. I was confused and wrongfully felt betrayed by you. If I could go back to that day, to any day before that, I would hug you. And hold on to you. And beg you. And grasp and pray and oh God Heather. Please forgive me. I love you so, so much. I know what I said was unforgivable. But please Baby Heath, my sweet, strong and courageous daughter. Forgive me.* *If you are reading this, it means I have passed away. I’m sure that is good news to you. I don’t blame you.* *Just know, if I could go back and take back everything I said. I would. In a heartbeat Heath, I would.* *Love mommy. <3* Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx My hands shook and at some point, the page had gotten wet. I was crying and sobbing. Without control, I was grasping the paper so tightly that it wrinkled. I picture that this silent room was waiting for me. As if a bitter hug from beyond the grave, I could feel myself in that picture. A warm motherly embrace. Oh God, mommy. 15 years. A week from today. You were counting, weren’t you? I was too.


It's the same dream as usual, I’m at my father's funeral, everyone is crying except for me. The old man and I didn't always get along, but I figure that's more so a problem for Dr. Nygard. As they begin to bury the casket the screaming starts, the same slurred threats he used to hurl at me when I was a boy. However, the thing that wakes me is the snap of his belt, I always knew what was coming when I heard that belt. I lunge off of the pillow and just like always, nothing. Nothing except the pale white glow of the streetlight illuminating portions of the room. Despite my apparent solitude I can’t help but feel like someone else is with me. I know it's probably nothing, but I always find myself watching the corner, almost as if something has lodged itself there in the dark. I don’t see myself getting back to sleep tonight. The morning after the dream is always a struggle. It feels like being a kid again, trying to make it through a school day after one of dad’s “rough nights' '. Yeah, sure dad, that's what we’ll call them. You spent 3 hours kicking the shit out of me, but you're right, just a rough patch. Time slows to a crawl, my thoughts lingering on my father's screams. “Do I scare you, Hiram?” a question that as a child always brought me to tears, “I’ll give you something to be afraid of, you little bastard!” That's as far as he usually got before he began to kick my teeth in. No chance I’m making it back to sleep tonight. The rain pelting the window and sporadic flashes of lightning cause the shadows to dance across the room, I watch hoping that the movement helps me drift back into sleep, but I know it won’t. “Alright dad” I sighed and rose from the bed. Reaching down to the floor I blindly grab one of the dozens of pants that never made it back to the dresser and make my way to the door, making sure to grab the half-finished bottle of Jamison on my way out. The dark and rain hide the road as I drive but at this hour traffic is sparse so knocking thirty minutes off of the two-hour drive was fairly easy. I pulled the key from the ignition and reached for that half empty bottle, I open the car door, the cool of the night air and the sharp sting of the rain pelted my skin. Approaching the gates of the cemetery I begin to lose my nerve, that deep impenetrable darkness interrupted by only the sudden flashes of lightning closely followed by the rancorous roar of thunder, it was every horror film I had ever seen condensed into one moment. I tilt the bottle back and drink, the warmth of the whisky fills my chest and quickens my breath. Placing my hand on to the cold steel of the gate I slowly push it open, there's no light, nothing to illuminate my path, but still I know the way. Making my way across the gravel walkways I gaze down at the gravestones, the sporadic flashes revealing the names on the crumbling granite tablets, I can’t help but feel that they are watching me, the eyes of the dead glued to my skin as I interrupt their rest. Nearing the end of the path I come to a stop, the lightning flashes and the sky booms as I remove the top from the bottle. “Hey Pop” my voice barely rises above a whisper. I swig from the bottle once more and kneel by the stone. It’s old, the epitaph barely legible as years of neglect have left the stone nearly completely eroded, running my hand across it causes large chunks to shear off and fall away into the wet grass. “Yeah, you don't look too good, but I’ve seen you worse.” I place the whiskey bottle next to the stone subtly gesturing towards it. “You're free to have some if you'd like, I remember how much you loved it back in the day.” The tears are beginning to gather just behind my eyes, I can feel them trying to escape all gathering together in hopes that the dam will finally break. I choke them back; he doesn't get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Not anymore. “You know I’ve never forgiven you, everyday I’ve thought about all the shit you did to me and mom. I hated you with every ounce of passion I had.” I stared only at a dark silhouette of his gravestone but in front of me, I saw that emaciated drunk, his hair thinning and whisky in hand the sweat pouring from every pore on his body, the thin smile he wore when he would fall into one of his drunken stupors, it was that smile I saw best and it was that smile I hated the most. “Almost 30 years you’ve been gone, and you haunt my every waking moment” I run my hand across his name on the stone and watch as the granite falls away. “No more, you don’t get to torture me anymore, I’m not that helpless kid I was then and you're not the monster I can’t run from” Picking myself up I look down on the stone one last time. “You're just a crumbling stone and a faded name now, you can keep the bottle, consider it a peace offering.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Includes an unrequited love. *Check out on writing unrequited love.* Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, so this week’s challenge is to use the theme of *‘love & heartbreak’* as inspiration for your story. You can use **one or both** in your story, it’s entirely up to you! Feel free to **interpret the theme as you like**, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but I encourage you to give it a try! **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/BrochaTheBard - **Second:** - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Honorable Mention:** - Submitted by u/cactus4hire - **Crit Star:** u/FyeNite *Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit to use on r/WPCritique. In order to receive your credits, you must either link your reddit account on our Discord, or have made at least one post on r/WPCritique.* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out the ! - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.