“It moved,” Anna said. “What moved?” Her boyfriend Henry asked looking behind them into the forest. It was only seven o’clock in the evening, but it was also November, only a month from 23 hours of darkness in their part of Alaska, and already dark. “I’ve only seen a shadow. It’s been following us for an hour.” “I see nothing,” he said, “directing his 2,500 lumen flashlight over the area behind them. The light didn’t penetrate far into the spruce trees, but he didn’t see any glowing eyes reflecting from the spotlight. The pair remained motionless to listen. Nothing. Only the wind in leaves. “We’re a million miles from anywhere. There’s nobody around to follow us. We’ve been here two weeks and haven’t seen one person.” “A bear?” Anna’s voice was now in the high pitch of concern. “Perhaps, but it wouldn’t follow us for an hour. You should have mentioned this sooner. Let’s go.” The season’s first snow fell weeks ago, but was not so high that they needed snow shoes. With only a half mile to go, they were almost home. She nodded, and they took more steps in the black tunnel formed by the forest over the trail. “Besides, bears don’t stalk and the other predators prefer preying on small animals, not humans. Relax.” Anna took a step, stopped, and whispered, “Did you hear that? It sounded like a tree limb breaking.” “No, I didn’t hear it. Besides, tree limbs break all the time. We’re in a forest, what do you expect?” “It wasn’t that type of sound. This was a branch on the ground that broke because something—someone—stepped on it. You did you bring the gun, right?” “Of course. Relax. We’ll be home soon.” ■■■■■ “It looks to me,” the first DPS trooper on scene said to his sergeant, “that they stepped onto a steel cable snare trap that pulled them up into an inverted position. Hanging by their feet from the tree. And they couldn’t get out of it when a bear attacked. Forensics will be here in an hour. They’re in Fairbanks now, loading their stuff into a bush plane to fly to Fort Yukon. We have a 4-wheel SUV ready to pick them up.” Sergeant Robert Ataqan nodded and looked at the shredded bodies. “Were either of them armed?” “Yes, the male. His handgun is still in the holster. You can see it from here.” “Hmmm. I wonder why, even though inverted, he didn’t shoot?” ■■■■■ “My God,” the lieutenant said to Ataqan, “I’ve never seen such gory site. There hasn’t been a bear attack in a long time. Do you think a bear did it?” “I’m sure a bear tore them apart, but the autopsy report says the cause of death was their throats were cut and they bled to death. No signs of a struggle. No broken zip ties. No signs of any kind of bindings. No mutilation other than what the bear did. No tape on their mouths or residue of an adhesive. No marks on their mouths of a gag. In short, no clues of any kind.” “Very strange,” the lieutenant said.

Ataqan nodded in agreement. “The claw marks from the bear don’t show any blood that should have been there. Apparently there was no blood left when it shredded the flesh of the victims, it had all drained out of their bodies before the bear arrived. The photos show pooled blood on the frozen ground below them. This was murder. It almost looks like a Kosher killing.” “A religious murder? You can’t be serious.” “Maybe not religious, but the style is the same. For an animal to be slaughtered in a kosher manner, the knife must be perfect. Any blemish on the blade renders the knife unacceptable. It must be so sharp that if the killer were to slice of his finger, he would feel no pain. That is consistent with the autopsy report.” “There has to be more than one sharp knife in Alaska. All farmers and hunters carry them.” “Bowie knives don’t come close and would not be suitable for the kill. The person must kill in one quick stroke across throat to cut the esophagus, trachea, carotid arteries, and both jugular veins. The animal dies within 2 seconds and all its blood drains out. Again, that’s consistent with the autopsy report and forensics finding blood soaked in the ground below them as if it pooled there.” The lieutenant’s face winced as he listened. “That’s religious? It’s gruesome. Don’t they even stun the animal?” “No. Stunning is against the laws of Kashrut.” “Okay, what the hell is Kashrut?” Ataqan smiled, “Jewish dietary law.” “Doesn’t that somehow bring us back to a religious killing?” “Not if you want to frame somebody else or you are a shochet who has gone bonkers.” “A what? A shochet? What in hell is that?” “A Kosher slaughterer.” “I know there’s a history of Jews in Alaska starting before the Alaska Purchase in 1867 when they came from Russia as fur traders. Even today they’re not a large segment of the population.” “True. Not large enough to support a shochet. But it looks to me that the murderer does know the technique.”  “The victims, were they locals?” “I don’t think so,” Ataqan said. “They were a young married couple, Anna and Henry Cooper. I hear they were renting a cabin for two months from a man known as Scotty in Fort Yukon. Sort of a personal survival vacation, sort of an upgraded Naked and Afraid, but on their own in the wilderness. So far I don’t know where they’re from. I’m still checking.” ■■■■■ Ataqan headed to the coffee pot as if it were a magnet. “I need to know about the victims. Everything about them.” The sergeant tapped his fingertips on the desk. “Contact the Wildlife Troopers and see what they know of bears in the area about that time and if they encountered any people on the trails. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” “Yes, sir. We searched the cabin. It looks like that’s where they were staying. Sergeant, I found nothing unusual,” the officer reported. “Very neat housekeepers, the bed was made, dresser drawers had neatly folded clothes. The cupboards had the usual food, and the refrigerator did, too. Zero sign of a struggle. And,” the officer smiled, “I found their ID and their cell phones.” Ataqan nodded, “I can tell you have more.” “Indeed I do. According to the driver licenses, they’re from New York City. The phones were locked, so I couldn’t call their recents or see their contacts. I figure the cell phones were in the cabin because cells don’t work in this area.”

The officer flipped a page in his notebook, “I checked with the gun shops in Fairbanks, since that’s where they probably landed, and found that’s where the man bought the gun. A Glock 21. I guess the city slicker thought the old west ruled and wanted a .45. Big gun for a novice. The salesman remembers the male because he was all macho, but it was obvious the man had never touched a firearm. When the salesman suggested the guy take some training from one of the firearms instructors, the buyer was indignant and told him anyone can shoot a gun.” Ataqan grinned as he shook his head. “That’s a New Yorker for sure. I had one tell me his favorite gun was a Browning .357 revolver. There is no such gun, so I just chalk it up as another example of city people’s ignorance, like calling a de Havilland Twin Otter a twin engine Piper Cub.” The trooper continued. “I located the cabin owner, one Mosheh Jacobovits. He’s from Scotland and goes by “Scotty.” However, he hasn’t returned our phone calls.”

■■■■■ “Ya hear ‘bout murders like this big cities, but in the bush? Hi Trooper, I’m Inga, hope ya don’t mind my interrupting your lunch,” Sergeant Ataqan looked up at her. “Hello, Inga. Nice to meet you.” “Well,” she said, “It just frightens me to death to think we might have a killer on the loose.” She eyed Ataqan, searching for any kind of reaction. He looked at her and sipped his coffee. “Of course, it would have to be somebody crazy.

“Did you know the victims?” “Gracious, no. But I hear they’re from out of town. I’ll bet you can talk to Joe at the general store. Everybody has to go there to get supplies.” “Thanks. I’ll do that.” ■■■■■ “I remember them,” Joe said. “They had ‘most everything they needed in their SUV, and just wanted a few things. Some fresh vegetables is what they usually bought.” “By usually,” Ataqan asked, “do you mean you saw them more than once?” “Yes, sir. Every two or three days they’s come in for fresh vegetables. Said they were vegetarians and liked fresh veggies. Struck me as two innocent kids, but extraordinarily naive about the bush. I had to warn them about bears and moose and they just gave me silly smug smiles.” “Have there been any other strangers in town in the last couple of weeks?”

“A few. One, though, now that you mention it, was a bit unusual. Heavy beard. Said he was from New York. But his accent wasn’t New York, maybe Spanish, I don’t know. I ain’t so good with accents. So, to be nice, I asked him where he was born. He lost his smile as if I had insulted him or one question too many.” “Maybe an illegal?” “This far north? Naw. They like the lower forty-eight.” “Any idea where the guy was staying?” “Nope. I got the idea he was just passing through. Only saw him that once.” ■■■■■ “Sergeant Ataqan here,” he said after picking up the phone. “This is Sergeant Milhouse, NYPD. I’m calling because it seems two people from New York got their throats slashed in an unusual way. We have three cases of the same.” “Where your cases done in sort of a shochetish fashion?” “That’s why I’m calling. I think the demographics of our three victims are close to that of your two victims.” “Go on.” “I work in the organized crime division. Let me give you some background. Only the elite are attracted by totalitarianism. The masses they claim to cherish have to be won by propaganda. Lies. Beyond that, the masses must be isolated from all other sources of information.” Ataqan said, “I thought propaganda and terror were two sides of the same coin.” “Yes, partly true. When totalitarianism has absolute control, it replaces propaganda with indoctrination. Especially in the schools. But violence is more to eliminate the opposition than to frighten people.” “And you think the victims were the opposition of powerful people.” “I doubt it. Our victims, and I’ll bet yours, are too young to be a threat. Their problem is being too inquisitive.” “How,” Ataqan asked, “is being too inquisitive a problem?” “That’s New York for ya. There are certain groups, or people that you just don’t mess around with and live. The politicians, police, prosecutors, and the judges know that to stay alive, stay quiet and go along with the flow. The cartels call it plata o plomo. My victims were all employed by an organization doing undercover investigation of corruption for a newspaper, and they got caught taking videos of the, shall we say, unscrupulousness of some important political people. Dead people, like cash, tell no tales and neither do their friends.” “How are my victims involved?” “They were employed by the same organization, and then, for reasons unknown, disappeared three weeks ago and we had no idea of their location until you found the bodies.” ■■■■■ Sergeant Ataqan sat in his superior’s office and explained his conversation with the NYPD.

The lieutenant tapped his fingertips on the desk. “Betrayal is a powerful motive for violence. We see it in domestic cases.” “This, sir, was no betrayal. It was exposure. More specifically, the danger of exposure. I learned how dangerous these people can be from our New York colleague. For example, when the rule of terror is brought to perfection, propaganda disappears. You hear nothing because those in power and control don’t allow contrary information and limit what people can hear.” “So?” “Let me lay the groundwork for what I want to tell you because you aren’t going to like it. Going back to Nazi Germany. They did not kill leaders as they had previously in Germany. They found that by killing the unknown people likely to cause trouble, they infused the fear of simply being a member or supporter of the big guy can be lethal. This technique increased steadily because neither the police nor the courts seriously prosecuted those in power or the henchmen who did their dirty work.

“I trust I don’t need to state the obvious similarities between that kind of terror gangsters, cartels and politicians use.” “I don’t mean to cut you short, and interesting as all that may be, but how in the hell is this relevant to this murder case in Alaska?” Ataqan shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “Because, sir, this was no ordinary murder. It was a hit job. The killer, by his style, is known to the NYPD, the FBI, and others. Known. His name is Badr al-Ben Kazemi. “Badr al-Ben Kazemi is a pro and well-trained. Our New York colleague also told me the Jewish method of slaughter is paralleled in the Muslim method of slaughter. The Muslims call it “halal.” Which explains the execution training. “Our killer is a ‘have knife, will travel’ guy. An assassin for hire. The man gets a contract, travels by some untraceable way, makes his kill, and leaves. If there are any clues, they are rabbit holes and go no place. It is the killing style that gives him away. The method of execution. It is distinctive. He came here, killed this couple, and left to parts unknown and by untraceable means. He’s no longer in Alaska, or not even the western hemisphere. We will never find him, let alone arrest him. He’s gone.” The lieutenant shook his head and said, “Kill, leave no clue, and disappear. The perfect crime.”


Gabriel bent down to take the penny off the street, ignoring the old warnings in his mind. “You don’t know where it’s been,” came the voices of his teachers, discouraging kids from picking up coins, feathers, shiny things from the ground. But there was something about this penny, how it sparkled on the cement, that overrode all these voices, and he bento to pick it up. Tthat was the moment everything changed, though Gabriel didn't know it. Not ten minutes before this, Gabriel was walking down the street, complaining to his friend Charles on the phone. Gabriel had been laid off, and the job hunt was going nowhere. His mood was grey, his clothes were grey, and to top it off, today was a cloudy day. “Don’t worry Gabe,” said Charles, “something’ll come along.” It was at that moment, just as his mind was processing Charles’ words, that Gabriel saw the penny. If this was a music video, the penny would’ve been the obvious illustration of the lyric. It glinted with a strange light that defied the grey world around it. A sign? A sign!

Something very strange, yet also massively normal, was happening. As the glint of the penny sliced through his perception, it split the universe in two directions. There were now two Gabriels, although neither was aware of the other. This may sound quite strange to us, but that’s because we are passengers in this reality, and have no idea how the engine works. In truth, this happens every minute of every single day, and is as normal as water flowing downstream. Like Gabriel, we look back and see only the choices that led us here, and not the many others we momentarily considered.

Gabriel’s mind balanced on the edge of indecision. He was trained to avoid touching things on the street, dirty things, the germs. But this was a sign, and it looked so strangely clean. One mind, two universes. Then, Gabriel made up his mind. And in this universe, his mind said don’t touch it, keep moving. The water forks down the stream, each bubble now in its own river. One mind, one universe, the others off somewhere else. “Yeah, something’ll come,” Gabriel sighed on the phone to Charles, not believing it. Just then, there came the sound of a splash. Gabriel saw a cascade of mud flung from the ground by a large truck, land all over a woman in a red trench coat across the street. The woman stood frozen in horror, too mortified to move. “Charles, I’ll call you back-“ Gabriel dashed across the street, and helped the woman away from the curb. “Are you ok?” he asked, trying his best to clean off her trench coat with a handkerchief.

“I—“ she stammered, “I’m fine- I just don’t know this part of town very well. Oh- my clothes—“ She opened her trench coat, her dress underneath was equally soaked in mud.

“Hey, I know a guy who owns a thrift store near here, maybe I can get him to hook you up with something, just so you feel better the rest of today.” Gabriel escorted the embarrassed woman to the thrift store. He asked the owner for a discount on something to wear home, which was compassionately given. To Gabriel’s surprise, the woman insisted on paying in full, and after selecting one of the most expensive outfits in the shop, withdrew $500 cash to pay. She now looked like a million bucks, and introduced herself as Marjorie. “I insist on taking you to lunch, as thanks for your kindness,” said Marjorie.

Wow, thought Gabriel, maybe this is my lucky day. Gabriel had never been to the Ritzy Blitz, and Marjorie treated him to a feast fit for a king. “I seldom meet anyone so considerate," she said, "You know, I’ve been looking for a new personal assistant. Would you be interested?” Gabriel had to admit, deep inside, he was slightly disappointed this was becoming less of a date and more of a job interview, but the prospect of a new job sounded quite nice in this moment. “Oh, I was just doing what any decent fella would’a done.” “Such fellas are scarce these days, in my experience. If you're interested, you can start tomorrow.” “I’ll definitely think about it,” said Gabriel, wiping off his mouth with a napkin. “What were you doing in this part of town anyway? You mentioned you were new here.” “I was looking for something.” “Oh?” “Yes, a prize penny which belonged to my father. It was stolen some time ago, but I heard it was last seen in this area. It’s worth 18 million dollars.” Gabriel's hand froze holding the napkin against his mouth. That penny! He tried his best to be calm and polite during the rest of the meal, but his mind was now on a single track. After the meal, Gabriel told Marjorie that he would call her with regards the assistant job, and dashed back to the sidewalk. He scoured the ground for hours, searching desperately until nightfall, but he never found it. When the shops started closing, Gabriel sighed, and gave up. On the way home, he called Marjorie, and said he could start as her assistant tomorrow. “Delightful!” she said. Meanwhile, in another universe, Gabriel plucked the penny up from the sidewalk. He turned it over in his hands with fascination, so absorbed by its strange brightness that he didn’t even hear the massive splashing of mud from the sidewalk by a truck just across the street. It was so clean, so beautiful. “Hey Gabe, you still there?” came Charles’ voice on the phone. “Yeah, sorry, I’m still here. Can I call you back?” Gabe felt suddenly elated, and not feel up for interacting with other people right now. He slipped it in his pocket. This is my lucky day, he thought.

Five minutes later, Gabriel passed a construction site, and he saw a sign: “Help Wanted: Construction Workers."

“I knew it! My lucky day!” Gabriel thought. He applied, and the next day he showed up to his new job as a construction worker. The first day was hard, but Gabriel remained elated. At lunch, one of the crew asked him why he was so upbeat. Gabriel explained he’s got luck on his side, and showed the lucky penny, shining like the sun. The crew member’s eyes got momentarily wide, but he said nothing. Later, after Gabriel clocked out of work, he found himself surrounded by a group of thugs.

“So you’re the little jerk that stole the penny!” said one of the thugs to Gabriel, “you must be the biggest idiot in the world, don’t you know that penny belongs to the Montana family?”

“Don’t waste your breath on this moron,” said another thug, “anybody stupid enough to rob the Montanas has gotta be the biggest dope on the planet. Let’s just get the penny!” The thugs beat up Gabriel, raided his pockets and stole the penny. Before they left, they broke his legs, as a “reminder” not to mess with the Montanas. Gabriel wailed on the sidewalk, aware already that he’d never work construction again. The night settled on the city. Elsewhere in the multiverse, Gabriel showed up at Marjorie’s mansion, which was decorated on the front gate with a large “M” which Gabriel figured maybe stood for Marjorie. She was delighted to see him, and gave him a new pressed suit to wear. He assisted her with her office tasks and then went with her shopping and doing errands, both chauffeur and personal shopper. For the next few weeks, Gabriel assisted Marjorie. His salary was good, but he cursed himself for passing by the penny, the 18 million, all because of old lessons from school. One day he drove Marjorie to a fancy uptown apartment, and she asked him to accompany her to a meeting. He walked with her through gilded halls, to the office of a large man in a suit smoking a cigar. Some shady looking guys stood on either side of the man’s desk.

“I’ll keep this brief,” said the large man to Marjorie, “One a’ my guys found your daddy’s trinket,” he held up a shiny penny. Marjorie and Gabriel were shocked. “You can have it, for 50 million bucks!” Marjorie's shock soon turned into rage, “you dirty rat, Solano! So it was you that stole the penny.” “Oh, let’s not jump to conclusions, Marje,” said Solano. “let’s just agree that finders keepers, losers pay 50 rocks.”

“You dirty skunk,” said Marjorie, “you never woulda had the nerve to pull this while my father was alive.” “Yeah, but your daddy ain’t here. And with this coin, that means I run this town now! The keys to the kingdom. The cops work for me, the banks work for me, even that slimy mayor works for me. You an’ your little two-bit thugs ain’t gonna be allowed to stay much longer, unless you cough up the cash.” “You dirty, slimy, stinking rat!” raged Marjorie, though she was clearly unable to do anything. Just then, Gabriel suddenly spoke up, as though he was unable to hold back his words, “It’s a fake! That’s not the real one!” Everyone in the room looked at Gabriel.

“How do you know, Gabriel?” Marjorie asked. “Just look at it— it’s dull,” Gabriel explained, not even sure what he was saying, “it doesn’t amplify the light in the room, its— dirty, it’s been on the ground and in a million hands, it’s just a regular penny.” he turned to Marjorie, “If your father’s penny was as valuable as you say— then it’s really something special. That penny isn’t it.” “That’s right,” said Marjorie, “I didn’t see it before but you’re right!” she turned to Solano, “you tried to pull a fast one on me, Solano! You’re just the same lowdown bottom-feeding scumbag you always were.” Solano growled in rage, and threw the phony penny to the floor. “You know that penny rightly belongs to my family, Marjorie. Your father stole it from my father fifty years ago!” “He won it fair and square in a poker match!” countered Marjorie. “He cheated in that match! The penny should be mine! Control of this city should be mine!” yelled Solano. “You’re blowin’ smoke, Solano! It’s rightfully mine. What’s more, it’s still out there, and it’s gonna find its way back to me!” Marjorie added. “Not if I can help it,” sneered Solano. In the blink of an eye, Solano pulled out a gun and shot Gabriel in the gut.

Gabriel sank to the floor, clutching his shot side. Marjorie screamed and knelt beside him. Solano took a satisfied puff on his cigar. The room around Gabriel faded, deeper and deeper into darkness, until all was black.

In another universe, Gabriel lay for 20 minutes on the sidewalk, his legs a gnarled mess, until a kindly elderly couple stumbled on him. An ambulance was called, the police took Gabriel’s testimony, and then Gabriel lay, both legs in casts, in the hospital for several days. On the second day, the elderly couple visited him, and told him they had paid for his hospital bill out of sympathy for what had happened. Gabriel was dimly aware he was unemployed again, all thanks to that cursed penny. Why did destiny just carry him along, Gabriel thought, did he even have a choice in his path? Then a man entered the room, and introduced himself as a lawyer who specializes in workplace injury. Gabriel was technically injured on the construction site, so he might be eligible to sue. What followed was a brief lawsuit in which Gabriel and this lawyer sued the construction company for allowing the mob on its premise, and when it was all said and done, Gabriel got a check for 2 million dollars.

Gabriel moved into a large mansion on the edge of town. He would have to spend the rest of his days in a wheelchair, but he was able to afford all the help and comforts money could buy. One day, Gabriel got a knock at the door. His butler introduced a federal agent named Tim Quip. Quip told Gabriel that he was here because he learned Gabriel was briefly in possession of an interesting penny, which was what got him in an altercation with the infamous and secretive Montana crime family. “May I ask where you obtained the penny?” asked agent Quip. “I found it on the ground, I swear,” said Gabriel, now wishing again, for the first time in months, that he’d never picked it up. Quip nodded, “the Montana and Solano crime families have been at war for control of the city for decades. The penny is their symbolic emblem of ownership, like a deed. The FBI sent in a secret agent to take the penny and end the feud once and for all, but he somehow lost the penny before he was able to get it back to headquarters. Turns out the penny is very easy to confuse with other pennies.” Quip pulled out a mysterious looking briefcase. “Since you had the penny in your possession, we’d like to know if you could help us identify it, so the proper authorities can take back control of the city, and let law and order be enshrined once more. Here’s all the pennies we’ve recently confiscated from local gangsters.”

Quip opened the briefcase. Inside there were hundreds of pennies, a sea of shining copper.

“If you can help us identify the correct penny,” said Quip, “we can end this war once and for all.” Gabriel looked at the pennies, like a bed of hay. Most people wouldn't know where to begin in telling which one of them was special. But one penny in particular caught Gabriel's eye. All of them were bright and clean but this one- this one sliced through his mind again, just as it did months ago, and suddenly he saw two options in spacetime. This time, however, unlike the millions of other times he’d been through this, he could see both roads clearly. Down one road, he saw himself withdrawing the special penny, the officer taking it, the police force becoming the supreme reigning organization in the city; crime is chased out but the police become gods, the cops elect one of their own as the mayor, the governor, the senate; soon the police are just as bad as any corrupt crime syndicate. Down another road, he saw himself withdrawing a different penny, and he saw only clouds.

With a confident hand, Gabriel brought forth a penny. "It's this one." Quip immediately took it from his hand, "Thank you, Gabriel. Your service is much appreciated." Quip placed it in a plastic "evidence" bag, and placed it in his pocket. He then rose to leave. "Don't you need these other pennies?" asked Gabriel.

"Not at all," smiled Quip. " You can keep them as you like, or sell them. Perhaps they hold some value. More than once cent, I mean." Quip left. Gabriel looked down, the true special penny still shone amongst the others. He lifted it up, and turned it in his hand. He imagined himself taking it to Marjorie, getting 18 million dollars on top of his already existing wealth. He also imagined keeping it, and declaring himself king of the city. But then, he thought of a third option. He called in his butler, and asked for him to prepare a fire in the fireplace. When the flames were raging high, Gabriel tossed the coin in. The coin sizzled, sending out tiny fireworks, and then begin to melt. As he watched it dissolve, so many different directions for this city flashed in Gabriel's mind, but all these settled into the vision of peaceful clouds. When the penny was gone, Gabriel sighed and leaned back. Whatever happened next, he had chosen the direction of the river: he’d made a choice, unlike all those million million other times the paths had split before him, and that made all the difference. In another universe, Gabriel slowly emerged from darkness, and saw the blurry face of Marjorie above him. She smiled with relief seeing he was awake. His ribcage was wrapped with bandages. He was in a shady-looking room with doctors who looked like mad scientists. “You’re safe now,” said Marjorie, “my doctors fixed you up.” “What happened?” Gabriel asked. “You saved me from making a terrible mistake, and I’m so grateful,” she put her hand in his. He was reminded of how attractive she was. She continued, “You know, I underestimated you before. I now believe that you’re gonna help me find my father’s penny, at least someday.” Gabriel’s mind got foggy. He was still returning from a close encounter with death, and it almost felt like he was briefly connecting with his mind in another universe. He saw clouds. He saw an image of a pigeon pecking on the sidewalk, seeing the bright penny and flying with it back to its nest. Up onto the top of the highest building in the city, on a ledge where all the pigeons had their nests because no humans could reach or even see up here, up where only the clouds could see them, the pigeon placed the penny in its nest. These chicks inside these eggs experienced a hundred different possible directions for their pigeon lives, and with their tiny pigeon minds made their choices. This made Gabriel smile, thinking about those baby birds, those peaceful clouds.

He patted Marjorie’s hand. “Of course I’ll help you find it,” he said, “we’ll start once I’m better. And once I take you out to dinner, as thanks for saving my life.”

Marjorie giggled, “sounds like my lucky day.”


Backtrack Frank didn’t like himself. He really didn’t. The feelings first visited him at his wife’s funeral five years ago. He realized he wasn’t feeling the way he should be feeling. It was sad and all, but he wasn’t devastated, as if he had just lost his soul mate, the true love of his life. That was because he hadn’t. He sat in the front pew, just feet from the bronze casket, and the sad reality sunk in. Frank had “settled”. Darlene was a good woman, and a good mother, but it wasn’t the true love he had once dreamed of. At his age, Frank knew he wouldn’t have another shot at it, and that was a sad place to be. He caved to family pressure and spent thirty-seven years in a law office dealing with paperwork contrived by others. He hated every minute of it. He took more pride in a rabbit cage he once built than all the wills, real estate contracts, and leases he had drafted. At least he could see the real life purpose to it. Accurate or not, there is nothing in the human experience quite so sad as the perception of a wasted life. He was a loner, not by choice, but by the natural evolution of lack of energy and loss of interest in almost everything. He wasn’t suicidal or anything like that. He was just unhappy, not because of things happening to him, but because of what he done, or not done, with his life and what he had become. It was all made so much worse because he could remember a different Frank, a Frank he did like. Every night would end the same with Frank sitting alone at the kitchen table under a ticking clock with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums. Disappointed with his current life, and being too old to have much of a future life, Frank sought solace by visiting a former life, which he recalled as happy. The albums helped him remember who he once was. Frank kept it simple. He labeled the albums Backtrack #1, Backtrack #2, and Backtrack #3, each covering discernable segments of his life, grade school years, high school, and college days. He visited the Frank he found in those pages every night. Unlike many who look at the past with a melancholy sadness, Frank enjoyed the time he spent with the old Frank. Those were great times, and he was a great Frank. He opened Backtrack #1. A young boy stood in front of his garage, disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on his face, the right pant leg on his blue jeans rolled up to his calf, and holding a worn basketball under one arm. The picture was taken the same day he led the Celtics to another championship. Sometimes he would bounce a pass to K.C. Jones at the elbow, or rifle the ball to Heinsohn who would hit one from the corner. Most of the time Cousy took it himself, faking out his man and driving hard to the basket. Taking care not to hit the electric wires hanging over the basket, Frank developed his three-point shot before there was a three-point shot. He hoped he’d end up playing for the Celtics, but he’d be okay with a spot on any NBA roster. Dreams are so much better before they are unfulfilled. The alley looked so small. How could they have done so much in such a small place? The venue was narrow, the asphalt cracked and pitted, but it was Wrigley, The Garden, and Lambeau to those boys. It was all they needed for an outfield for whiffle ball games, a basketball court at the hoop on Cortzen’s garage, and a football field between the two telephone poles, the same poles that served as the goal and outer boundary for the games of “Ghost” at night. There were so many kids in the neighborhood. Frank could always round up enough bodies for some kind of a contest. It was such a good time, such a good place, and Frank liked going back there. Frank loved the picture of him holding his racers in front of the warming house at the town’s ice rink. He had to coast into a snowbank to stop, but those cold winter nights were the best. He would call Weather right after supper every night hoping the temperature was below 32˚ so the rink would be open. He would meet Cherri there. Even with the thick winter gloves, it was exciting to hold her hand as they skated in circles to the scratchy tones blaring out of the old loudspeaker hanging on one of the light poles. It was all the more delightful as his parents never knew the reason for Frank’s sudden interest in outdoor sports. Frank could name every kid in the picture of his 5 th Grade class. He remembered muffling cries of anguish whenever his good buddy Billy Sandler kicked him in the shins when Sister Mary Martin had her back to the class. No one ever understood why, but that’s what Billy did. It hurt back then, but Frank laughed about it now. They played with a mini football in the blocked off street at recess. Frank was always the first one picked, and he would play quarterback. When they weren’t playing football, it was Four Square, Red Rover, or just acting goofy. Frank liked recalling the carefree days of just being a kid. His mother kept most of his report cards, A’s and B’s across the board. Funny how a 77-year-old man can still take pride in that. A quarterback with top notch grades, not enough fingers for all his NBA Championship rings, and a girl’s first love. It doesn’t get any better than that. Frank closed Backtrack #1, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He opened Backtrack #2. He wished he didn’t have his eyes closed in the picture, but he was happy the local newspaper photographer snapped that shot of him hoisting the league championship trophy his senior year. The box score was posted right next to it, and his mom had circled his 17 points in red. He must have been embarrassed at the number of pictures his mom was taking at his Junior Prom. He cut a handsome figure, and the girls were all so beautiful. Judy was beyond beautiful. Every time Frank looked at those pictures, he smiled as he remembered his father’s final admonition as he left the house- “No drinking and keep a lid on the moochie-moochie stuff.” Frank was a fun guy back then, steep in mischief, and clever. He was the undercover guy who planned, organized, and assisted, but never got caught. Henry Hooper got busted, but it was Frank’s remote control fart machine that poor Henry was holding in the picture. He was the one who talked Dick Larson into riding his motorcycle up and down the school hallways, and even held the door open for him when blasted his way in, but he was never connected to the prank. The memorable day the aging Miss Helstern ran screaming out of her classroom, Frank’s little brother was missing a hamster. Frank liked that high school kid and his sense of humor, the boldness, the creativity, and the good sense to never get caught. The program from the high school talent show his sophomore year was bittersweet. Frank played the guitar-sort of. He and a couple of his buddies fancied themselves as the American version of the Beatles. Benji on the organ totally lost his place, and then the speakers went out. The group garnered lots of laughs with only a smattering of sympathy applause from some parents. His dad called him Elvis for the remainder of the year. Frank now laughed louder than anyone in the audience that night. Report cards weren’t in the album, but his grades were always solid. As he crept closer to the real world, he sensed a professional basketball career was no longer a certainty, and he started to contemplate more cerebral options. He had the grades and resources to consider a wide variety of possibilities. It was like “Anything Can Happen Day” on the Mickey Mouse Club Show that he watched as a child. Frank was in the starting blocks. He could go anywhere. He could be anything. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a scientist, a photographer, a veterinarian, a pilot, a sports reporter, anything. That is the beauty, the wonder, of the teenage years. One is free to imagine doing anything, of being anything. Frank loved visiting the guy who had the ability to dream, and every night Backtrack #2 put him there. Frank was tired, but he needed to spend just a little time with the guy in Backtrack #3. Those bothersome green leaves of summer were falling all around Frank, and he felt like he deserved, needed, the smiles to linger just a bit longer. Frank opened Backtrack #3. He almost couldn’t recognize himself in his track uniform. He couldn’t make the basketball team, but hard work can get you a spot on a small college track team. Shaggy long hair, a moustache, muscular shoulders, and tanned, toned arms and legs. Man, you were one good looking guy, Frank. At first, track was only his fallback sport, but Frank learned to love the comradery, the competition, and the trips around the Midwest. He ran the 880 and the mile, and he had a nice four-year career. Frank admired that guy's efforts and accomplishments. He remembered his dad telling him there was no better status in life than that of a college student, and Frank learned he was right. The party photos weren’t always the most flattering, but what the heck, they were college kids. Roger in a toga passed out on a park bench in front of the firehouse. Who took that picture?! Frank got him up and took him back to his dorm. The fraternity snow sculpture was disqualified for being “tasteless”. (Frank told them it wouldn’t fly.) The basement beer pong “battle to the death”. It was all so stupid, but it was so much fun. He remembered the northern pike being bigger than it looked in the picture. Every summer, he and Charlie would head up north for a long weekend fishing trip. Frank imagined himself in that rowboat, holding a cold can of beer, soaking in the sun, while keeping half an eye on that oversized red and white bobber bouncing around atop the glistening waves. If that wasn’t heaven, it had to be the next best thing. Some nights Frank would substitute a cold beer for the coffee. It helped put him back in that boat. Matters of the heart turned more serious. Frank was that incurable romantic who had the deck stacked against him from the get-go. Finding that “love-at-first sight, true love, soul mate” proved to be more difficult than coming up with a good match, so he remained largely unattached. He dated a number of girls, and somehow a few pictures survived the years and found a place in an album. They were all pretty, and he liked them all. There were parties, picnics, bike rides, canoe trips, the movies, days at the beach, repeated visits to the no entry fee zoo. Keeping it light, there was no drama, no stress, no pressure, no hurt, and it was all good. College Frank could be patient. He was young. There was a whole world of women out there. He knew he would find true love someday. It was a little like “Anything Can Happen Day” again. He could dream of her and what she would be like. That was the best part of Backtrack #3 for Frank. He liked thinking of a Frank at time when he could still imagine the moment he would meet his true love. Frank closed his eyes and blended it all together, that little boy shooting hoops in his backyard, holding Judy close to him as they danced at the prom, and giving it everything he had on the bell lap. It all swirled around in his mind until he could see one pretty good guy. He was proud to have been him. Frank put the albums away, rinsed out his coffee cup, and went to bed. He would get through another day tomorrow, and then sit down at that small table under the ticking clock for another meeting with the old Frank, that guy he once knew and loved.


“I’ll take a glass of your strongest drink, thanks”

“It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”

… “Alright, alright. One moment.”

He bounced here and there across the counter picking up this, that and the other. An array of sounds billowed up with each pour, a bubbling, then sizzling, then a crackling followed by the clack of ice being shaken up. Once the glass was full to the brim he slid it swiftly across the long countertop, a practiced and perfected move as it stopped perfectly in front of her.

Her face scrunched in disgust as she looked down at the glass. The gooey liquid substance oozed with bubbles that quickly grew and burst, another forming in its place. Everything that shouldn’t happen with a drink seemed to be combined into this one making it a masterpiece of drinkable death, something only a witch could brew up.

“What is this… you trying to kill me?”

“You asked for the strongest drink, didn’t you?” He said with a smirk shifting his glance between her and the glass as he casually cleaned one of several empty glasses on the counter. Greenish pink fizz began to bubble over the top and drip down the side as she stared at it in contemplation.

“I must be mad” she said, squeezing her eyes shut as she took several big swallows of the strange concoction, returning it to the counter with a slam as she processed the wild potion dancing on her tongue and down her throat.

“What the- is that…”

“Pop rocks” he interrupted with a smile.

“What-” she muddled through her confusion as the tiny pops subsided, “what kind of- what kind of bar is this? This doesn’t even have alcohol in it!”

He chuckled, leaving his cleaning and approaching her with arms crossed.

“I think you missed the sign that says ‘alcohol free bar’ you know, it’s right next to the sign that says ‘closed’”

He smiled and cocked his head to the side as her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be going.” she said, shifting in her bag to pay and leave.

“No no, it’s alright, I’ll make an exception. It is New Years after all.”

It’s only now that she noticed his smile and kind eyes paired with curly blonde hair and nice features. Quickly, she shifted her face down at the glass hoping to hide her blush. “So tell me… what is a girl like you doing at a bar at 11 o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day?”

She huffed, “I think the better question is what kind of bar doesn’t serve alcohol!”

“It’s for people like you, of course,” he said with a laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Oh come on, it’s just, it’s supposed to be an alternative for people trying to get away from drinking, is all. Most people go to bars for the atmosphere and to socialize, this is meant to give the same feeling, just without alcohol of course.” Several moments of silence passed as her groggy brain processed his words.

“Well clearly your business model isn’t doing too well” she remarked, glancing at the empty chairs beside her.

“Like I said, we’re closed, you would know and remember that if you weren’t-… nevermind…. How is the drink?”

“It’s odd, it’s somehow sour and sweet at the same time… did you just put candy in it or something?”

He laughed, “no, it’s not just candy”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I can’t tell you that, that would take away all the fun”

She gave him a confused, worried look.

“Take it easy, it’s just a drink is all”, he said, and feeling reassured she tilted her head back taking another gulp, a new determination to identify everything in it.

“Lime!” She shouted wide eyed.

“Good” “Oh… why do I taste… shrimp?”

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this,” he said with a nod.

“Who the hell puts shri- is that mango juice too?”

“You got it” he leaned forward now in amusement as she continued testing her skills on the odd bubbling liquid popping at the bottom of the glass.

“It’s like- really thick too… what’s making it fizzle up like that?”

He shrugged, unwilling to disclose anything. “Tell you what… you go on a date with me… I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”

She smiled, appreciating his forwardness, only taking a few seconds to ponder.

“Y-yes… only so I can figure out what I’m missing” she remarked, robbing him of the satisfaction of mutual interest. “I should probably be going… to a real bar you know” she said, shifting again for her wallet. She held up a $20 bill, “Hopefully this covers it, you can keep the rest”

“No no, it’s on me.” He said waving away her bill. “You really shouldn’t go yet… it’s only just begun…” He said, gliding his fingers across the register screen as receipts printed out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, standing up and feeling a sudden wave of… something.

“Well… let’s just say I could tell you were really hungover as soon as you came in, and drinking really doesn’t pair well with-“

“With what?! I’m not-!…” she sighed, lowering her tone and sitting back down, “I’m not hungover.”

“Where do you think you are right now?”

He said leaning over the counter watching as she finally looked around to observe her surroundings.

The place was decorated beautifully with plants and greenery along the walls and corners, each sprouting buds and blooms of all different types of vibrant flowers she’d never seen before. The bar was fitted neatly with rows of drinks in unique containers and bottles, all confined between stone edges and glass windows covered delicately with draping vines. Twinkle lights flickered amidst the greenery and around the assorted bottles creating an ambient glow in the bar area. Her attention was drawn straight up above to the sky-light ceiling where the clouds drifted peacefully and she squinted, confused that the beam of the sun wasn’t burning her vision. Below the sky, wooden tables lay scattered in the garden-like space. Each table was equipped with red umbrellas and chairs stacked atop. Mesmerized, she stepped off the bar stool, reaching a hand down and running it through the soft grass below. With careful steps she wandered through the garden space, studying the flower blooms and up at the sky. With a long inhale she breathed in the lily flowers and fresh grass. She returned to the bar with a refreshing smile.

“I must be dreaming,” she exclaimed.

He laughed, “no… this isn’t a dream”

The whimsical, fantasy like room began to move as she looked around more, her body swaying slightly. The soft grass made falling a non issue as she wandered again around the place aimlessly. With each minute the bar became more alive. The flowers moved around as if they were walking or dancing along. Watching the clouds float across the blue sky above was like entering a trance. Stumbling her way over to the bar, the bottles took on even stranger forms. One taking the shape of a frog while another looked like an instrument found in a science lab, the opening of the tube shooting up small puffs of steam in perfect small circles, like a chimney or steam engine at work.

“Woah… can I get another drink?”


Oswald readied himself to spend the night like every other, to sit on his bunk-bed and glare patiently out of his high window into the darkness of the pine woods beyond, to wait for one of the woodland creatures to trigger the lights and spark his imagination.

The outside world fascinated him. A world he could see, but never truly touch. During the day he marvelled at the ever-green leaves and the thick grass onto which the pinecones fell. He wondered of their touch, their smell. The only scent familiar to Oswald was that of disinfectant. The most common touch? Cold disinfected chrome. Born with an immunodeficiency disorder he was unable to leave the confines of his home without a full-bodied and helmeted suit, for the slightest illness would come with a substantial risk of death.

An only child, Oswald lived with his mother; she was everything to him: parent, friend, mentor, doctor, dentist, teacher, confidant. It was safer that way – cutting people out of their lives severed the risk of contamination, of infection, to negligible. Anything they required, they ordered. Any deliveries would be taken to the ‘cleaning room’, his mother's den (a converted garage adjoined to the kitchen) for thorough decontamination. Oswald wasn’t privy to the process.

His father had left them both shortly after Oswald’s birth. ‘We were young,’ his mother had told him once, ‘and your father wasn’t ready, wasn’t able to make the sacrifices required to put you first, to give you everything you needed, and to keep you safe.’ The pain that leaked from his mother’s eyes, those all familiar icy-blue gems (in wonderful contrast to her jet-black hair) which ordinarily radiated nothing but affectionate warmth, invaded Oswald’s mind whenever he recalled her words. He had promised himself to never speak of his birth, their time in the hospital, or his father; she had suffered heartbreak and forsaken everything for him, the least he could do was spare her the torment of re-telling.

Legs dangled over the side of his metallic-framed bunkbed with one foot rested on the ladder as Oswald stared out of the window. The darkness surrendered itself into a burst of illumination. Something had been caught in the trapping glow of the light.

It had been a squirrel last night. His imagination still throbbed, pulsed with fantastical treetop adventures, daring to dream himself beyond the walls of his confinement – his sanctuary.

He leaned forward in eager anticipation, edging for a better view; the window’s high position and slender shape framed a limited picture. Though nothing could be seen, the light remained to clue Oswald that whatever creature it was, lurked still. He waited, tried to fight the natural need to blink. Many anxious heartbeats passed before Oswald’s patience was vindicated.

Surprise and raw joy rippled across Oswald’s face as though the vision had hit him flat on the nose; eyebrows rose, cheeks lifted outwards and lower jaw dropped open. A dog! A four legged, waggy-tailed, living, breathing dog. Other than on paper Oswald had never before seen a dog, nor had he dared dream he might. Enthralled, he watched it trot through the long grasses, stopping every now and then to sniff. With a sudden perk of the ears and a tilt of the head it bounded out of sight. Without warning, darkness reclaimed its territory.

Filled with unbridled joy which soared above the rising flames of burning questions, Oswald lay back, just for a moment, to collect himself.

Where had it come from? Whose was it? Does that mean there was someone there? Is it hungry? What is its name?

Did I imagine it? Is this the best day of my life?

He knew that the forest wasn’t completely wild. There were several paths that coursed through its many acres. But, according to his mother, the nearest of those was too deep through wood to be of concern. She didn’t want any stray person knocking on the door and touching things they shouldn’t. Though every surface was cleaned four times a day, she always said you never could be too careful.

He desired to tell his mother, to share the joyous occasion with her, but feared what he would miss if he were to leave his post.

I can tell her in the morning, start the day bright.  The light did not return before Oswald succumbed to sleep.

A distant shriek summoned Oswald from infant dreams. A fox he surmised, once his thoughts caught up with his ears. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-pitched bark had pulled him from his slumber. He had only ever dreamed of foxes, followed them to their dens of lost treasures and truths of the world. Sweeping his long dark hair to one side, he sat up, tried to open his eyes and flinched under a stab of pain. The outside light shone bright. He cast his blanket aside and shuffled down the bed to prop himself once more at the ladder. Brown eyes rubbed free of gunk and adjusted to the light, he stared once more at the illuminated carpet of grass and the front-row of bristly evergreens which twinkled as a breeze waved over them. A scene of tranquil beauty framed in PVC. A scene short-lived.

Peace was broken as a slender form slyly emerged from the bottom of the frame. Auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail which trembled in the breeze.

A vixen , thought Oswald innocently.

He was drawn to her face: skin painted in grim pallor from the light; small lips, slightly agape; and wide-eyed. She looked worried - no, petrified. Desperation hewed over her face as she took a few steps back, dropped to her knees and begged.

Weariness seeped out of Oswald’s every pore, replaced with a tide of adrenaline. He was locked in place, fully absorbed in the events which unfolded outside. His mother needed to know, he needed to tell her. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could only watch.

A second figure crept into the scene, hooded, their back to Oswald. Each step a methodical act of intimidation; a count-down of the Vixen’s life. Oswald remained transfixed and bore witness in silent, terrified shock. The hooded figure hoisted a club over their head with both hands, and obvious intent.

Oswald’s heart tried in vain to hammer him into action, to call for help; each pulse drawn out as time slowed around him. Still, he did not move, could not claw his eyes from the assassination unfolding outside.

A diagonal swing, the thrust of death, jolted events forward as time raced to correct itself. The Vixen’s head snapped to the left. Blood spewed. Teeth scattered. The body slumped in on itself, teetered, then dropped. The hooded figure looked up to the moonless sky, then turned. Oswald’s eyes locked with those of the assassin, face was obscured not only by the hood, but by a mask which covered the whole lower-half. They exchanged stares until, through lack of motion, the outside light went out.

Darkness settled before Oswald leaped from his bed to charge from his room and tell his mother. Slipper-socked he stampeded over the landing, through the hallway, past the toy room and the study, and almost crashed through the bathroom door as he rounded the corner towards his mother’s room. He rushed straight-through the open door, and panic-stricken, shouted ‘Mum!’ as he launched himself onto her bed.

A soft, springy, empty bed caught him with a bounce. ‘Mum?’ Sudden bewilderment gave way to boiled panic seasoned with fear, ‘Mummy?’. The walls soaked-up his screams, fed off them and whispered promises of lonely isolation. He curled into a ball and sobbed.

So lost had he been in terror that Oswald didn’t hear the light switch, didn’t heed the reddish glow through closed eyes, and didn’t realise he was no longer alone until the hands were on him. They grabbed at his arms and tore them away from his chest. He felt something, someone, wrap around him. He was pulled tight. Embraced. ‘It’s OK, Baby. It’s OK.’

With a stuttered, whimpered breath – an end to the sobs – Oswald turned to face his mother. A heartening smile restored some of his resolve, as she gently caressed a tear from his face.

‘There was a... a... a Vixen... sorry... a woman... and she...’ Oswald recounted. His mother’s brows slanted downwards softly, an expression of loving concern as she listened to his tale. ‘Do you think you can be brave for me, and show me, if I put on the light?’

* * *

‘They were right there!’ Oswald pleaded.

‘You were dreaming, Baby.’ His mother offered with a smile; the words sharpened with a stern edge. ‘Maybe, yeah.’ She threw him a pointed look, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I must have been dreaming. Sorry Mum.’ She failed to catch the slight hesitation in his voice.

‘That’s alright, Baby. You get yourself off to sleep now.’ She marked her a hand-placed kiss to Oswald's forehead. Repeatedly clenched toes and fingers, little bouts of physical pain kept Oswald awake long-enough so that he felt sure his mother would be asleep. He was convinced it wasn’t a dream and he was determined to prove it, at least to himself. Hazard suit in hand, he crept downstairs; covert steps aided by the padded socks he had to wear.

Carefully, he made his way through the dining area and living room to the back door. Quietly, he stepped into his suit, yanked it over his shoulders, pushed his arms into the gloved sleeves, slowly pulled up the zip and then secured his full-visored and sealed helmet. Tentatively, he turned the key, opened the door, and then stepped outside.

Gripped with nerves, he held his breath as he edged deeper into the gloom. In any moment the light would flash into life. He took a couple more steps. Nothing. His mother must have completely turned it off earlier. It would make his search more difficult, but he would also be harder to spot.

Doubt began to sprout as he scanned the empty darkness. It festered as he scoured the earth and combed through the grass for a tooth, anything to show it had been real. Eventually, he cultivated the doubt, questioned whether it was worth risking his life for. What was he thinking? What if it had been real? What then? He had sobbed when his mother wasn’t in her bed, what was he going to do against the masked killer?

He was about to give up entirely and head back inside when a dim luminescence pried his attention to the front of the house. Carried by impulse he found his way to the garage, to the ‘cleaning room’ - the garage door floated ajar; a faint flicker of light escaped through the crack. Curiosity now guided him as he lifted the door enough to crawl under.

It was the shrine that Oswald first noticed, illuminated as it was in candlelight; wax almost burnt-through. Pictures and what looked like notes adorned a wooden counter. He moved forward for a closer look but stopped short after skidding on something underfoot. Oswald positioned himself away from the shrine, allowing the waning flames to light up the obstacle. A long tuft of bloodied, red fur – no, hair; a ponytail? He feared to breathe, felt a sickness writhe within and threaten expulsion every time he was forced to take breath. Focus. He needed to focus. But on what? His eyes went once more to the shrine, the treasure his fox had delivered. He looked first to the pictures. A young blonde couple, smiling, a new-born in their arms; an incubator; the same baby riddled with wires and tubes; now unadorned, resting in a glass cot. Oswald’s attention shifted to the notes, to the papers. A birth certificate: ‘Oswald Jenkins, born to Mary Berger and Francis Jenkins on July 17, 1998...’

Mine . A death certificate: ‘July 19, 1998; Oswald Jenkins; Male; 2 days... infection’.

'She wanted to take you away from me.’ His mother, from the door to the kitchen, ‘They all want to take you away from me. I won’t let them. I won’t.’ Her eyes revealed nothing; hollow.

‘Wh-who am I?’ a haunted whisper.

‘You’re my little boy, you hear?

Mine.

I raised you. I cared for you. I loved you. Not them. Me! ’

She ran to him as she spoke, took his head in her hands, ‘You’re mine. You know that. You’re my little Os, and you always will be’.


Lester was bored. He was at a loose end. Nothing interesting to do. He decided to pay a visit to the garage to see if he could find anything to occupy him. Searching through the items in an old wooden box, he found a newspaper. Fllipping through, he stumbled on a column with a caption, 'TIME TRAVEL! TRY THESE''. Curious, he decided to read further. He discovered that the equations and formulas for time travel are in a book hidden in a cave on an island. He ran down to his friend's house excitedly holding the paper. "Eugene! Eugene!! Eugene!!!" "What Lester? What's the matter? Why the excitement?" Eugene asked. "I have something I want to show you. I have something you really need to see." He handed over the paper to him with excitement. "Wow!! You don't mean it. Is this for real?" Eugene asked with eyes wide open. "I believe it's real. That should be the reason my dad kept it in a file tagged 'Confidential'." "What should we do?" Eugene asked. "I have an idea. Let's show the paper to Prof. Culkins. Perhaps he will tell us what to do," Lester replied Prof. Martins Culkins is a lecturer in the department of physics. He is an ardent researcher. He has watched a couple of science fiction and futuristic movies. The one he talks about most often is, 'Back to the Future'. A movie about time travel. He always says he is in search of the formulas and equations needed to build and design a time machine. He is often called, 'the Phantom Prof.' "Prof. Culkins, we have something we want to show you," they both spoke excitedly.

He liftted up his head and adjusted his glasses. "And what is that in mother earth that's making you both so excited?" He asked. "Please take a look at this," Lester handed over the paper to him. "My goodness! What on earth! Is this real?" He exclaimed. "Yes, I believe. I found it in a file tagged, 'Confidential'." "Prof. Culkins, does the island truly exist?" Eugene asked. "Yes, it does. Only that it isn't easy to reach." "So, what do we do?" Lester and Eugene asked unanimously looking at each other and then at him. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go in search of the island and find the book." "Yeah!" Lester shouted looking at Eugene who smiled and nodded.           ******** "Hi! Mum, Hi! Dad. I'm going on an excursion tomorrow and will not be back till three days time." "Why in three days time?" Lester's dad asked. "It's a field trip and we have a lot of places to go. Besides, there are a whole lot of things we've been taught in class that we need to see." "Is it so necessary you go? How about our family get-together tomorrow?" His mum asked. "Yes! Mum I just need to. This trip is important. Marks will be given for it and used as my C.A." "And what's the meaning of C.A.?" She asked. "Mum, it means continuous assessment." "Is Eugene also going on this trip? Also is there anyone I can contact in your school concerning this field trip of yours?" His dad asked. "Yes dad, he is. You both know Prof. Collins well. He is aware of the trip. Besides, he is also on the team.

Lester's dad picked his phone to call. Hello! Prof. Culkins. This is Fred Chantel, Lester's dad." "Yeah! Mr Chantel. It's so nice to talk to you. Your son is such a wonder kid. It's anything the matter?" "No, nothing that really. Just want to know if Lester's class is going on a field trip. He told me that his department is organising a field trip for his class. He said he would be going for three days and that you are also on the team. Besides, he said it's very important because it forms part of his final scores. Please Prof. Collins, is it true?" "Yes, Mr Chantel everything he told you is true. You don't need to worry. Your son is in safe hands. He will be taken good care of. He will come back home safely that I assure you." " Thank you very much," Fred replied and the call ended. "You are free. Only be careful." Ok, dad". "Please be careful my love." "OK, mum I sure will." Eugene also told his mum about the field trip. She had mixed feelings about it. It was an arduous task for him to make her believe. He told her to call Prof. Culkins to confirm. He affirmed it and told her not to worry about her son's safety. She was also more at ease when she realised that Lester will be going on the trip. The following morning, Lester packed his things. He bid his parents farewell and set off for Eugene's residence. "Hello! Mrs Breadsworth." "Hello! Lester," she replied. "And how are you doing?" She asked. "I'm OK. And you?" "Am fine and good," she replied. "Eugene told me you are going on a field trip organised by your department in school," "Yes, ma'm." "And when will you be back?" "In three days time." "Ok. Just wanted to be sure." "No problem, ma'm." Eugene kissed his mum. She embraced him and also Lester. She told them to be careful and stay safe. They met Prof. Culkins at the train station and embarked on their journey. They alighted at the last stop and boarded a bus to a sea port. Arriving there, they made enquiries about the Island of Pathos. Most people they asked told them that they don't know any island by that name. Prof. Culkins was deeply surprised. "Oh! So we're on a fool's journey?" Lester asked. "I think so," Eugene replied. "No. We are not. Definitely not. That am sure of," Prof affirmed. After several enquiries, they met a man with a wry look. He looked like someone from a mixed descent. They summoned courage to approach him and asked if he knew anything about the island. Petranda Zulah told them that he had heard of such a name and was very sure that the island existed. He told them that he had never been there but he and his men were ready to go on the voyage if he be paid. After much negotiations, a price was reached and they embarked on the journey. Lester and Eugene were very excited because they have never gone on a voyage and they loved adventures. It wasn't a smooth sail. It was two days of sea turmoil and rage. Lester and Eugene were afraid and were about losing hope. But for the expertise of Petranda and his men, their boat would have sank into the sea. At the dawn of the third day, Petranda's men could see an island afar off. They beckoned on Prof. Culkins and his boys. They jumped with excitement and embraced one another. At the shore of the island, they saw the skulls and bones of dead animals. The island looked deserted. There were no humans and houses in sight. They could only see birds. "Prof. Culkins, is this the island of Pathos?" Lester asked. "Yes! Am very sure of that," he replied. "Why are there so many skulls and bones all over the shore? Don't you think we are in danger ?" Eugene asked. "Probably there are bones of starved and age long creatures. As for our safety, we have nothing to worry about. We've got Petranda and his men with us." Turning to Petranda and his men, he asked, "Does anyone have an idea about the meaning of all these?. "No! None of us do," Petranda replied. As they moved further into the island, they saw a lot of strange birds and animals. Petranda and his men were at alert with their rifles. They killed some animals that were about attack them. One of the men stepped on a stick and a sharp knife came out from the tree beside him and cut off his head. When that happened, they were all careful with their steps watching the ground until they left that part.

Next they were standing in front of a large muddy ground. Prof Culkins told them not to go any further and that it's not just muddy,. He said he had read about something like that. Though it appeared shallow, it was as deep as the height of a skyscraper. He pushed in a long stick to show them and it swallowed it. "Will you stay behind with Petranda while I go?" "No, Prof." they both replied. "But, it's dangerous. I want to take you back home safely." "Prof., you don't have to worry about us. We're well able. Isn't it?" Lester asked turning to Eugene. "Yes!" We are fit and able." "Ok boys! Let's move. To the search!" "To the search!" they shouted.  They took long tree plant ropes and swung across. One of the men's rope cut while he was almost on the other side. He fell into the mud and immediately he was out of sight. Petranda was angry that he had lost two men. He blamed himself for bringing them to the island. He told Prof. Culkins to pay him the money left. He refused. He said that the deal was that balance would be paid after arrival at home. Petranda knew he and his men had no choice but to continue the journey. Going back without Prof's guide might be more dangerous. They passed a long wooden bridge and by the time they were half way the bridge, arrows were flying towards them. They didn't see anyone shooting the arrows. They hurriedly ran to the other side. An arrow met one of Petranda's men on his arm. It was taken out and some medicinal leaves were squeezed together and placed on it. It was dark and they couldn't go any further so they searched for a place to pass the night. "Look! See!! That's the cave on a hill!" Shouted Lester. "Oh! My God!" Eugene shouted with eyes wide open. "Yes! Yes!! Let's move on. We're almost there," Prof. beckoned on everyone. They all climbed the hill to the top. Lester and Eugene were assisted up by Petranda's men. Bats flew out of the cave. Petranda's men killed snakes and scorpions at the entrance of the cave. They shot them. Prof. saw the book inside a casement and a bottle kept beside the book. "Wow!! So this is the book we've been searching for," Lester spoke with eyes wide open. "I guess so," Prof. Culkins replied. "Can we see what's inside?" Eugene asked. "OK." "But why will someone keep such a book here?" Lester asked. "I guess there's something mystical about the book," Prof. answered. The front page says that anyone who finds the book has the right to use what's in the bottle and the person is only granted just three wishes. Prof. flipped through the book and shook his head. "Prof. Culkins what's the matter?" Lester asked. "It's incomplete. The formulas and equations are not all in here." "So, what do we do?" Eugene asked. "It says that anyone reading this should take note that the rest formulas and equations are in another book in a twin island." "And where is the twin island?" Lester asked. "I don't know," Prof. replied. Petranda and his men searched the cave for treasures and all they could find were clothes and scrolls. They were disappointed but still took them. Petranda beckoned on everyone to leave. Prof. Culkins used the portion in the bottle at the bridge so that they could walk across without arrows shooting at them,. He used at the muddy place so that they can walk on the muddy ground and at the sea shore so that they can arrive home safely without any turmoil or wreck. "Mum! Dad! Am home," Lester shouted. "Wow!! We missed you so much," his mum spoke with teary eyes embracing him. "Son, how was your trip?" His dad asked. "Fine. Interesting. Wonderful. I missed you both so much. Thank God am back home," Lester replied. "What happened? We were worried. You stayed more than three days. We were about going to the Police." "Mum, sorry for that. We had few hitches on the way." "Ok. Thank God you're back home." "Yes. I'm happy to be back home." "And how is Eugene and Prof. Culkins?" His dad asked. "They're fine, dad. They've all gone home." The following day at school they rushed to Prof. Culkins' office. They met him reading the book. He embraced both of them and thanked them for accompanying him on the trip. "Prof. Culkins, so what's next?" Lester asked. "Are we yet going for another trip?' Eugene also asked. "I'll be glad to," Lester said. "Oh! My boys, let's just keep our fingers crossed and be expectant," Prof. spoke smiling at both of them.


“You don’t get it Dad.” my daughter told me emphatically. * She and I were having breakfast at Jerry’s Cafe on Barkley Street in St Kilda, as we do on occasion. Today happened to be January 20th, 2018. A year to the day after some crazy bloke had run riot with his car in Melbourne. He drove down and killing half a dozen people and injuring maybe twenty more on the Bourke street Mall. Of course it had been on the news again today, as happens with the news services on any anniversary of any and all bad stories. I guess that I must have made some comment on the incident and the reactions to it. And being me, it would have been with some comment about perspective. What can I say? I am a creature of my generation. * She proceeded to tell me exactly what this girlfriend of her's partner had been through. “Sally’s Brian was a twenty two year old university student at the time. He was working part time as doorman come security guard at a cafe bar on Bourke street. He was there, working that day, when the terrorist drove those people down. Right out the front of where he was stationed.” “And he did not just stand there or run away! No. He thought quickly, locking the door to the cafe to keep the patrons and staff safe and then he ran to offer assistance to one of the injured victims. He stayed with him until the police ushered him away.” “He had a man die in his arms that day!” * “Yes, but all I said was…” I started to respond. * “Of course he can no longer face being on Bourke street. He had to give up his job because of the emotional and mental stress of it all. He needed that money to support him through his studies at university, so of course he needed government funding since then. ” she further explained to me. “He has suffered P.T.S.D.. He was a hero. He will be lucky indeed if the trauma of that experience ever leaves him. He will need assistance for years.” “You just can’t understand!” * “ Well, neither of us had been to war, although I only missed out being drafted by two years. I saw my birthdate come up on the selection. I doubt Sally's Brian even knows what the word means. If I had been two years older I would have been off to Vietnam.”

I thought, but did not say. I am not that silly.  It was a pleasant morning and there was on need to ruin it with a fight. A mistake that, I realised as it set off a stream of other memories. I remembered a time when I too was twenty two years old, a trainee Customs Officer as my main job, and a part time motorcycle license instructor with VicRoads for some extra cash on the week-ends. I had dropped in to visit mum and dad on the way to work at the airport. They live at the bottom of a steep hill in the quiet suburb of Pascoe Vale. Leaving their place I was driving up the hill when I saw an elderly man wandering across the road in front of me, from my left.” “Coming towards us from the opposite direction was a young man on a motorcycle. He had a brand new “L” plate on the front of his bike and was riding well within the 60 kilometre per hour speed limit. My week-end job skills told me that instantly.” “There was nothing I could do but watch as the old man walked directly into his path. The rider braked but could do nothing to avoid colliding with him. To watch it, it was an unspectacular crash, but the result, there in front of me ,was one old man, one young man and a motorcycle, splayed out across a suburban intersection.” “I stopped my car and jumped out. First I helped the rider up and calmed him down from his panic, then I knelt beside the old man. He was not conscious, but he was breathing, so I laid him in the ‘coma’ position as was the instruction those days, and then sent the rider off to knock on the nearest house door to call an ambulance. This was well before mobile phones of any description.” “I knelt with the old man, shouting instructions to the growing number of spectators. Some to assist the rider to move his bike from the road, others to warn any oncoming cars from the side streets. Just as the ambulance and police arrived, the old man coughed and stopped breathing. The ambulance officers immediately took over his management, but to no avail, and the police took over the management of the scene and obtaining witness statements.” “An hour later I drove on to work at the Melbourne airport terminal.” * “Several weeks later I was requested to attend the coroner’s court to give evidence. The old man being dead, the young ride’s life was now on the line. Fortunately my training with the Customs Service included note taking and giving evidence, so I got my first experience at it for real. I had taken notes in my issued work note book once the police had finished with me.” “At the end of the hearing the coroner found it to be an accident, no fault was attributed to the rider.” * “I continued to visit my parents, coming and going by that same road, it being the only option. I continued to work as a motorcycle instructor on the weekends and as a trainee customs officer. Again, both being to only options open. I was one year into a marriage and had a mortgage to pay on our grungy little one bedroom flat in Glenroy.” “Nobody had told me about post traumatic stress disorder, nobody at work said anything about counselling, so doing anything else did not cross my mind. I just did what was expected and got on with things.” * Turning my attention back to my coffee and pancakes, I responded in spoken words, “No, you are probably right. I do not understand.”


I am a curious skeptic. What this means is that while I am skeptical of a lot of things, I am also curious about the experience. Which is why I agreed to go with my mom when she said she wanted to visit a medium.

             I had never had a desire to do this before. It isn’t something that even crossed my mind to try. But when my cousin was talking about his experience with it, I could see that my mom was completely enthralled. It didn’t take much to persuade her that what he had experienced was the real deal, and she wanted in.              I was interested in tagging along because, to be honest, I didn’t know much about my mom, so I thought that this might be a good opportunity to learn some things about her past. I imagined that she was hoping to channel her parents, who died in a fire when she was twelve, and her brother, who committed suicide when he was in his twenties. My mom didn’t talk much about her past, and I assumed that was because there might not have been much that she wanted to talk about. If that had been my experience, I can’t imagine I would have wanted to talk much about it either. However, she did seem to be excited about the thought of getting to hear from them again, even if it was through a third party. I guess when it comes to connecting with loved ones, we can’t be too picky about the mode of communication.              So off we went. For whatever reason I was a little disappointed when we got to the medium’s house. It looked just like any other house. It was in a nice neighborhood, and it seemed very unassuming. I don’t know what I was expecting. I think I was hoping for something a little more haunting.

The lady who answered the door made up for whatever I felt the house was missing. She was perhaps the thinnest person I have ever seen, and she seemed to smile at us without blinking. “You must be Linda and Jason,” she said. “Please, come in and have a seat. I’m so glad you could make it.” She was very kind and inviting, which I assume is the same way Hansel and Gretel felt about the which who eventually ended up cooking them both in a stew.

             “It is so nice to meet the two of you. Will you both be participating today?”              “Oh, no,” I answered. “I’m just here to support my mom. She’s been wanting to do this for a long time, and I decided I would come along with her.”              “Oh, that’s nice,” the medium said. “You’re a good son.”              “Thank you.”              “You’re welcome. Your grandfather thinks so, too.”              This through me a little because I have never met either one of my grandfathers. Both of them, along with my mom’s mother, had died before I was born. So the only grandparent I had growing up was my grandmother on my dad’s side. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My who?”              She looked at my mom and said, “Your dad is with us right now and he wants you both to know just how proud he is of you. He wants me to tell you that you are a great mother and that you have raised a wonderful son.”              My mom and I looked at each other wide-eyed. She looked to be both speechless and excited. “I… wow,” she said. “Tell him I said thank you.”              “Of course. He said that he’s always been with you and he’s so proud of what you have done for yourself. You have turned into an amazing woman, and he’s sorry for what you had to go through growing up.”              My mom was in tears now, quietly taking in what was happening. The medium turned to me, perhaps to give my mom a moment to gather herself, and told me that my grandfather wanted me to know that he is happy to see how strong I can be for the family, and that my sense of humor has the ability to hold everyone together, and that I am constantly making him laugh. This made me feel good. Then she said, “He is also wanting me to tell you something about a deer. Does that make any sense to you?” The only thing I could think of was a deer that I had hit about a year ago when it ran out in front of me one night on a dark highway. I mentioned that and she smiled and said, “That’s it. He wants me to tell you that he is with the deer and that it is alright. He said that the deer forgives you and that there are no hard feelings.” “Oh, okay,” I said. “You can communicate with animals, too?”

“Yes,” she said. “Our spirits have the ability to communicate across species, and the deer wants you to know that he does not blame you for what happened.” She turned back to my mom because my grandfather had more he wanted to say to her. I knew that was why we were there, but I had a hard time letting go of the deer saying that he forgave me for what happened. I didn’t do anything wrong. He ran out in front of me! My car was totaled because of him, but he’s going to act like it’s my fault and that somehow I’m to blame because he was too stupid to notice my car coming down the road at sixty miles an hour when he decided to cross the street? I don’t mind taking accountability whenever I have made a mistake, but I can’t stand someone deflecting their own blame, especially onto me. I don’t care if it’s a person or an animal, don’t blame me for your mistakes. The medium was saying some stuff about my grandfather wanted to tell my mom something that he felt like she needed to know and that he never got a chance to tell her when I interrupted. “I’m sorry, but the deer said he doesn’t blame me for what happened?” The medium looked at me and appeared to be a little stunned, as did my mom. I assured them that I would let my grandpa finish saying whatever it was he needed to share with my mom, but first I had to clear something up with the deer. “Is he still there?” “Um, no. I don’t see him.” “Could you ask my grandpa to get him, please? Can he hear me? Hey grandpa! Can you please have the deer come back? I’d like to have a quick word with him.” There was silence for a moment, so I asked the medium what was happening.

“Um… he… went to get the deer, I guess.”

“Okay, good. Thank you, grandpa!” I looked at both my mom and the medium, gave a reassuring smile and said, “This will only take a minute. I promise.” I could tell they were a little offput by the distraction. After all, this was about mom, not me, and I fully intended to bring the focus one hundred percent back to her and reconnecting with her parents once I got this little issue with the deer taken care of. In the meantime, though, as we waited for my grandpa to get back with the deer, I decided to try to defuse what had seemed to become somewhat of a tense situation. I think by this point we were all so annoyed with this damn deer for temporarily ruining the moment.

“Would anyone like to see a magic trick?” I asked. They both looked at me as if I had just taken off my pants. I couldn’t tell, though, if it was because they were surprised that I knew magic, or that they were surprised that I had the audacity to ask if they would like to see a magic trick. “No thank you. I’m good,” the medium answered. My mom responded by whispering, “What is wrong with you?” to me. It was clear that they were shocked by the audacity. Thankfully, the medium let us know that my grandpa had returned, which was a relief to us all. “And Linda, he’s brought your mother with him!” My mom covered her mouth in surprise and excitement, which was good because it gave me the chance to ask if he had also brought back the deer before she could start asking her mother a bunch of questions. I just wanted to get this mess with the deer over with as quickly as possible so as not to prolong the distraction in my mom’s moment any longer. She sighed and said, “Yes, the deer is back.” “Good. Would you please tell him that while I’m sorry he got hurt, it was not my fault that he ran out in front of my car, and that he is the one who should be apologizing to me.” The medium sat speechless, which was kind of unprofessional in my opinion given what we were paying her to do this for my mom. “Is there a problem?” I asked. “I’m just waiting for the deer to calm down. He is pretty upset about what is happening right now.” “He’s upset! That ignorant piece of road venison totaled my car! I had to drive around with duct tape holding up my front end for two weeks. And it kept coming apart, so I had to continue to reapply it, which was a pain in the ass.” “SO IS GETTING HIT IN THE ASS BY A CAR!!!” She screamed. “Sorry. That was the deer. Not me.” I looked at my watch and realized that we only had about fifteen minutes left in the hour that we paid for, so I tried to wrap this up so we could at least salvage a few minutes for my mom to have with her parents. “Look,” I said. “All I want is for you, Mr. Deer…” “It’s Donner,” the medium interrupted. “What?” “The deer, he says his name is Donner.” “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” my mom said. “Fine. Donner, all I want is for you to admit that the whole thing was your fault and to apologize to me and then we can move on.” There was a long, tense moment of silence. My mom and I were looking at the medium waiting for a response. The medium was staring blankly like a… well… like a deer in headlights. I assumed she was waiting for a response from Donner. Finally, the medium said, “The deer…” “Donner,” I said, correcting her. “Yes, Donner, wants to know if he apologizes then can he go?” “Of course. I just want an apology for what he did to my car. Then he will be able to spend the rest of his afterlife guilt free.” “Okay, he says he is sorry.” “Tell him I said thank you.” “He’s gone.” “Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’m just glad that we were able to put that behind us and that we can finally get back to why we came here in the first place. Mom, you can go back to talking with Grandpa now.” “He’s gone, too. And our time is up.” “Oh…” The drive back home was quiet. I assumed that my mom was probably pretty overwhelmed with emotions after getting to hear from her parents… well, at least her dad… for the first time after so many years. I don’t know for sure, though, because she hasn’t really talked with me about the visit since it happened. I guess it’s something that she just wants to keep to herself.              As for me, I went into the whole thing pretty skeptical about what we would encounter. But I have to say, although Donner pissed me off a little by his narcissism, he did convince me that there is an afterlife, and that even the most stubborn of us have the ability to change. I have been persuaded.


Out of the Frying Pan “Give me your hand.”

“Fire!” the words slipping from my dream, leaving one eternity for another. I don’t know what I was thinking, perhaps I wasn’t. Sometimes we do things with no concern for our own safety. Most often though, we recognize the danger involved in an act, and take a few minutes to weigh the consequences. It is that time, that few seconds, minutes, hours, sometimes days, even weeks, that we place our internal debate, where anyone walking down the street, can see it. They can see both sides, our rebuttals, our feints, our disastrous insinuations about what might, could, should not happen, but do. That is the way I feel this morning as the sirens sound, the phone rings, the tornadic voices start screaming, as I look out the window. The morning is nice. I don’t usually pay much attention to the sky, or the sunrise, mainly because I am normally in a different world at that time of day. The sun is usually getting ready to retire about the time I return to my world. This morning for some reason I get up with just a few hours of being absent, walk out on the balcony and notice how blue the sky is. How white the few clouds are. How soft the wind feels. How bad the mosquitoes are at 7:00 AM.

I feel as if I have been awakened by the gentle sensation of a hand from the future. I can see it reaching from out there and with the beckoning gesture of an index finger, luring me to view a future, I could never have imagined.

I drink my usual two, three, cups of coffee, turn on the news, a bad habit I have developed over the years. The news is boring as usual. “The world is coming to an end, people are idiots, life will end on Armageddon Day, December 13 th , at noon.” I look up at the sky to make sure I haven’t missed some preliminary event that might tip me off to the possibility, that I will quit my job, buy an orange robe, shave my head, learn a few chants, and head for the airport. By then the hours have slowly drifted by. I look at the skyline, or what I can see of it. I live in Brooklyn in a high rise, so I have a view of Manhattan, the bridge, and the sky, broken only by a few doves that are permanent fixtures in my world. Something about doves that make me think of eternity.

After wandering around in my mind, looking at the trees just beginning to get ready to shed their dignity and prepare for the nakedness of winter, I walk back into the building, climb the stairs, and stop to contemplate the chance that one day, they’ll find me dead on the steps, from heart failure. I go into the kitchen, and that’s when it begins. It is like a crank handle being turned, a dial being twisted, music fills the world, and then the plane that hits the towers jumps from the tube, and freezes my heart. Something happens in that time, when you die before you die. It allows you the opportunity to appreciate, what is left. Not surprisingly what is gone, but what remains to discover. Perhaps it is because we are at the bottom, and there is no place to look but up. But perhaps it is just a nudge that awakens us from the comatose state of apathy, that comes from living and attempting to do little more than survive. You no longer have time to notice happiness has taken the bus for the coast, the other coast, and we are left standing on the street eating a chemically laden hot dog and wondering why. It dawns on me. I’ve been a sliver of a moon, not even my moon. Somebody is out there pretending to be someone like me, pretending to be someone like them. I decided it is time to buy a ticket and follow a road, not that road, because at that time you don’t know there is a, that road. But you are bored, the burr under your saddle turns out to be hemorrhoids, and the moon is doing little more than catching contemporary wishes and providing the faint glow of a night light. It is easy to look back on life. It is what we do. We have learned what baggage to leave behind and which to take. But looking forward is frightening, we might just find something we are hoping for, and not even remember we’ve been looking for it. It is in that time of surprise, watching that hand reach from the smoke, that it begins to make sense. You see the flames, and all they do is make you laugh.  You are frightened, so you consider crying to relieve the possibility of it all being impossible, and yet you feel yourself capable of being you, for the first time. Fear and hate, are what they are.  Love is a different kind of emotion.  We are conditioned to accept all other emotions because they are related to things we experience. We begin by crying because of the pain, or as a way to illicit a response to a need, or simply to be annoying. We laugh, we think, we try not to think, we perform as a circus performer for ourselves, and others, as a way of testing our responses. But love, there is no way to test it. It is mysterious, illusive. It has been spoken about, sung about, and chiseled into tree trunks and spray painted on the subway walls. It lives in the alleys, it lives on the roof tops, but it lives only, because we need it to. Unlike fear, it does not come naturally. We do not expose ourselves to injury or death, just to feel the emotion of sadness or grief. We do however realize we have no way to solicit love, as it must be built like one builds a wall, a brick at a time. Many experiences combine to produce what we have been unable to adequately put in words, because we don’t understand love as an emotion. Falling down and skinning your knees elicits anger, fear, or pain, but it does not conjure the notion of love, because love is not rooted in physicality. It is the ether that looms on a horizon, invisible but we know it is there. That fall day, as the smoke rolled from the buildings that were no more, now only apparitions of a bad dream I am forced to confront, a part of me dies. My chore, being the building of a mechanism that will transport time to a level of acceptance, even after I realize, time is irrelevant.

Birds singing in the trees, the sky void of planes, yet the ocean continues to be courted by the moon, and the sun cajoled the night to remain, for just a minute more. The stars cry and planets turn their backs on the madness, leaving me alone with my thoughts of life, and the possibility it could continue as it once was, before the maniac showed up screaming that he is murdering people, so that his God can live. It was the insanity of love, hate, and misconstrued idealism that made the light seem less bright, the darkness even darker than the view from the hole in the ground. The power of hate challenging love, that seems lost. It stands alone, watching, pretending it is still necessary, because without it there can be nothing worthwhile. It finally stands, opens its arms and ushers in the souls that need to leave, to make room for the ones that have arrived. They nod to each other in recognition that time is passing, and things change in some ways, but not in others. They walk, some crawl, some do not move at all, but the ash continues to rain on our new world. We look to the sky for strength and find only blue sky, which is a surprise, but actually it is refreshing knowing not everything has died. They come in red trucks, spouting ladders and hope, as they climb into buildings that are no longer there, now, just a picture on a wall in an office across town, the new sky line void of… and yet we find that our memories are better at remembering than we could have imagined, just a lifetime ago.

Someday when the birds find the sky again, the oceans caress the beaches, and a child puts a penny in the machine and the gum balls keep falling from its world despite all the pockets being full, I hope we can forgive one another for not caring, until it was too late.

I have found something in being lost, lost something, in being found, and no matter the skinned knees and bruised ego, life goes on, like I never existed. All I can do as a means of redemption, is to say, I love being here with you.