Based on the 1866 Memphis Massacre, this story contains violence, sexual violence, and child abuse. I saw my daddy fall to the ground, his eyes staring right at me, looking like two marbles but deep like the endless night sky. I wanted to run to him, but I was frozen in terror, breathless. Fighting filled the streets, nearly trampling me as I stood there gazing into my father’s eyes. A stray bullet bounced off the ground, grazing my calf. The sting of that hot metal slicing through my delicate skin was enough to break the trance and the sound of the chaos came to full volume. I hurried into our home and my momma rushed me into the bedroom, hiding me under the bed. I heard a crash that made momma yelp. Dirty black boots entered the room. They rushed towards momma, clunking against the wood floor with evil intent. I could see my momma’s bare feet backing away from them as quickly as they could go, as far as they could go. I heard a slap, and it knocked her to the floor. I saw her face, the panic in her eyes, the mark on her cheek, the shh on her lips telling me to stay quiet as she tried to make it back to her feet. I covered my mouth to suppress any sound that might burst forth with my crying. Momma was flipped over and slammed hard to the floor with a thud to her head. At the other end of the bed, I could see the man was down on his knees, pulling momma closer to him. She kicked and slapped until he punched her twice, hard, right on the side of the head, leaving her barely conscious. The man undid his pants and began to gratify himself with my momma’s limp body, tears slowly dripping from her eyes. I wish I could say that rage propelled me to help my momma that day, but it didn’t. Instead, I swallowed down a tremendous amount of fear, crawled out from under the bed and jumped on that man’s back with all the courage I could muster. He grabbed me by the ankle and swung me into the dresser. My shoulder absorbed most of the impact, but I laid there in a daze, hurting something fierce. The man came and stood over me, a menacing presence to such a small girl, with his bushy red beard and bloodshot eyes, raising his leg like he was about to stomp a roach. Momma regained consciousness and tackled that man before he could hurt me anymore, yelling, “Run, Annie, run!” I shook off the pain that was coursing through my body and scurried back under the bed to the wall where I found the loose board I used to sneak out at night and catch fireflies while momma and daddy were sleeping. I started for the only place I knew, Aunt Millie’s house. Aunt Millie was my momma’s sister. We spent Sunday’s at church together. Afterwards we would sew quilts and the ladies would tell me stories of the underground railroad and how they used quilts to signal safe passage. If anybody could help me, it would be Aunt Millie. I went as fast as I could up the grassy knoll, but hearing a gunshot from my house made me stop dead in my tracks. The image of momma lying there like daddy was out front entered my mind. My lips quivered and tears continued to stream down my face. Even at seven I knew I needed to run, or my fate would be the same. I reached the old dirt road running as fast as I could, my little legs searing in pain, lungs burning. Evening was settling in. The night sky was alight with the burning of the houses, schools, and churches. Gun fire rang through the air, and men scuffled everywhere, sometimes two to three white men to every black man. Making it to Aunt Millie’s, her house looked unscathed. I ran in without knocking, startling two officers. One had Aunt Millie in a chair at gunpoint while the other was rifling through her things. Aunt Millie sprang from her chair, pushed past the man with the gun, causing the gun to go off. She grabbed me by the wrist and led me out of the house and around back. “Where are we going, Aunt Millie,” I asked, with fear and trembling in my voice. “To the South Bend Church, child. Hopefully, that is far enough away from this hate and violence,” said Millie with a tinge of uncertainty. Through the yards we went, dodging stray bullets and avoiding men tussling; past the houses of slat wood and red brick chimneys with wood stacked neatly by the doors; around crooked unpainted fences and old clothes lines draped with bedding; through crowds of women fleeing with their children, white men firing at them like a herd of deer on the first day of season. Aunt Millie’s long legs were hard to keep up with, making my little ones work twice as hard. They started to give out and I was stumbling and falling by the time the South Bend Church came into view. Aunt Millie hoisted me up and ran for both of us as quickly as she could. The South Bend Church was a one room white church with a belltower and a cross on top. Many people were crammed into that little church, on their knees praying. “Let us pray child. The Lord Jesus shall comfort us in our time of need,” Aunt Millie said, as she knelt down next to a woman praying through shudders and sobs. I joined her on my knees, and I could feel the presence of the Spirit wash over me as I began to think about my parents in heaven with Jesus. There was a pastor leading us in our prayers. I remember the power of his voice, unwavering against fear or intimidation. To this day I think of him in that moment when I think of strength in the Lord. My moment of admiration did not last long, for through the window came a bottle of whiskey with a burning rag shoved down the neck of that bottle. When that bottle burst, that little wooden church went up in flames. We all got out, but people’s clothes had caught fire. Everywhere I looked people were rolling on the ground, screaming as fabric melted into their skin, their kin trying to beat out the flames. I wasn’t even spared the fires finger. As soon as I hit the warm nights air, Aunt Millie knocked me to the ground stomping on my pretty little dress. Aunt Millie fell on top of me, nearly crushing me. I didn’t understand at first, but a warm, sticky liquid poured onto my cheek and down into my mouth; the metallic taste and slimy texture causing me to gag. I panicked and fought my way free to find people who were already badly burnt being beaten with clubs and the ends of rifles, anything the rioting menace could find to inflict pain and suffering. Wiping the blood from my face, I turned and ran. I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that bullets were kicking up dust at my bare little legs as I moved. I prayed to the Lord above that none of those bullets hit me. The bullets stopped when I reached a marshy low-land area near the river, but I didn’t stop running. I was getting tired. I was stumbling and falling, but I was moving, splashing through the muddy bog. Someone leapt out from behind a tree and grabbed me, covering my mouth with their hand, stifling my startled shriek. “It’s alright, little one. You’re safe. My name is Ben Roker,” the man said. I recognized him as the pastor from South Bend Church. “This is my wife, Miss Maddie.” “Come, child, lets clean that blood off you,” Miss Maddie said sympathetically. “Where are your parents, sweetie?” I couldn’t answer. I could hear what they were saying, I understood, but it was like listening to people talking in another room. They said they would take care of me from then on, but all I could do was stare into the dancing flames of the city on fire as I listened to the whistling of bullets and the wailing of tortured souls. I dozed off that night, watching those flames and listening to those screams. Miss Maddie woke me up as blue and purple could be seen on the eastern horizon, providing a dim grey light that reflected off the fog and smoke. Fires still burned, people still screamed, and gunshots still rang out that morning. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. There were around ten to fifteen people there with us, hiding amongst the trees and debris that the Mississippi cast aside haphazardly. I don’t know if they all showed up overnight or if some of them were there when I got there, but it was nice to see other kids. Pastor Ben swept me up in his arms and I looked back over his shoulder at Memphis, taking one last look at the masked monster within men, making sure it was behind me, at least for the time being.


On days like today, Taci tried to remember how much she used to like her job. She sat behind her desk, hands clasped in front of her, trying to bring out the shining, white grin that the parents of Personville students had come to expect and love. It wouldn’t come. Instead she shuffled through her notes, thinking about what she would say to each couple at today’s parent-teacher conference. She reflected on the observations she had made on each child and, in doing so, thought about the carefully curated half-truths that the notes represented. She tried to think about what she was going to say, but could only think about the things she was leaving out. Melissa Burbidge, Taci’s only assistant, popped her head into the classroom’s doorway. Blond and white, Melissa was both on the opposite side of the color spectrum from Taci and a template for everyone else in town. That had caused some tension when Taci had first arrived, placed here by the State Department’s refugee program, but her skills as a teacher and administrator had quickly earned Melissa’s respect. Taci liked to think that was true of the whole town, knew that it wasn’t, and couldn’t care less anymore. Her mind was on bigger concerns. “The Hendersons are here,” Melissa announced with a cheerfulness that would have been evident even if her smile wasn’t beaming through the doorway. Taci tried to return it, felt her own smile falter, returned to reflexively shuffle her notes again. “Please send them in.” As Melissa was only part-time, she hadn’t seen the things Taci had seen, so her smile came as easily and honestly as it always had. Mrs. Henderson, appearing very much like an older model of Melissa, stepped in, but couldn’t help but wave a hand in front of her nose as she did. “My! How do you put up with the smell, Taci?” “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson softly reprehended his wife, sounding more like a father than husband, which Ms. Henderson ignored. “What, George? It’s not like Taci can’t smell it.” She turned back towards Taci and gave her a mock whisper in a conspiratorial tone. “Is the chemical plant? Or the power station?” With her question, Ms. Henderson had listed the two primary reasons for the existence of Personville. Both the plant and the station provided resources the surrounding state needed. It was, however, an incontrovertible fact that the wind direction directly impacted the olfactory quality of the air surrounding the school. The summer heat hadn’t improved things. “Margaret!” Mr. Henderson said, this time more embarrassed for himself. “What? It’s not like we don’t know where that smell is coming from. Besides, it can’t be worse than...” Ms. Henderson stopped for a moment, then in quieter tone to Taci, “I’m sorry, dear, where is it your from?” “Uganda,” Taci said, quick enough that the name of her home country became a single syllable. “Well, it can’t be any worse than Uganda.” While Taci could not summon her real smile of late, she found she was, in that moment, able to conjure its plastic facsimile, bring it out as Mr. Henderson hid his face in his hand and Melissa disappeared from the doorway. “Perhaps we should,” Taci began politely, but was interrupted by her student’s mother. “Yes! Let’s talk about how Johnny is doing.” At the mention of the Henderson’s son, Taci found the plastic smile frozen in place, her hands unmoving as they clasped her notes.  What would she say? As time in the classroom dilated around that unanswered question the smiles of the Hendersons’ elongated as well. The side-eye the two parents began to give each other was eventually enough to bring Taci out of her indecision, clearing her throat and shuffling her papers. “With the pandemic pushing the school year into the summer, all of the children have faced challenges,” she began, trying to hew to the truth. “This is especially true of Johnny. He’s very sociable and the other students enjoy him, but he has difficulty focusing in class and can become...” Taci was stopped by the memory of Johnny at his desk, hiding behind the lift-lid, the masticating sounds emanating from behind it becoming louder as Taci had approached. Taci snapped out of the revery, pulling herself from it before her mind could take her over the horizon of Johnny’s desk. “A challenge” she pronounced the words as a period to her last sentence. Uncertain of what else to share, she stopped. Not surprisingly, the Hendersons both had the long faces of disappointed parents, which was preferable to the angry option that was sometimes the alternative to such news. “Oh,” Mrs. Henderson said, quietly, after a moment. “We’re sorry to hear that.” In routine times this would be the part of the conversation in which Taci assured the parents this was normal, that children at Johnny’s age often had trouble focusing, and that with assistance from home it could be rectified. She stayed silent. The quiet that Taci held in her mouth, hard between her teeth, began to expand to take up the space of the room, no matter how much she tried to hold it inside. Unable to bear it for very long, Mr. Henderson began to squirm uncomfortably in his chair when Mrs. Henderson asked, “How did this start?” “It started on the playground,” Taci answered automatically, thinking of the black top that doubled as a parking lot, with its painted lines that could be divided for hopscotch or used for four-square or as guidance on where to arrange your vehicle in relation to others. Watching the children laugh and run and scream along the tarmac had always been one of Taci’s favorite parts of the job. Until yesterday. From underneath the awning of the school’s back entrance Taci had been watching the children chase each other, enjoying her one cigarette of the day. When she was certain no mischief was at hand, she snuck glimpses at the sky. Her young life had been spent in a village surrounded by tall trees that covered the horizon, but here, in the wide parcel between plant and station, it felt to her like you could see all of the sky, as wide and open as a mother’s arms. It also meant she could see it when the chemical plant had belched out a red cloud. As it rose into the sky, she heard the faint sound of distant klaxons begin shortly after the cloud’s emission. Even as far away as it was, Taci prepared to call the children in early. But then the cloud began to move, shifting up and out away from the chemical plant, catching Taci’s eye in a way that held her in place. On the short hairs of her scalp she felt the wind blow and could see the cloud travel in the opposite direction. Towards the school. This snapped Taci out of her thrall and she opened her mouth to order the children inside. Before a word could leave her, though, the cloud crossed the thick set of transmission lines from the power plant and thunder exploded. Everyone jumped at the booming, turning to the power lines as the cloud dissipated in a cacophony of lightening and noise. Sitting in her classroom with the Hendersons, Taci cursed her own slack-jawed slowness as the red cloud had dispersed in that electric storm, spreading out across the wide prairie sky. Everyone, children and teacher, had been struck dumb by the galvanizing event that took place in the sky above the school that day. Each of them had stood in awe as electricity and thunder were thrown out of the quickly disappearing crimson cloud. From under the awning, Taci had felt the cigarette fall out of her hands, mouth open, watching the unexplained event. This awe had only allowed her to watch as the thunder quieted and a gentle snow began to fall out of the now cloudless sky. A red snow. As Taci watched in a growing, paralyzed horror, the children became quickly covered in the ruby precipitation, dancing and laughing at the sudden change, opening their mouths to the sky to let it all in. It was only later, after Taci had gotten everyone back inside and relatively dried off that she noticed the glint in her students eyes as they watched her at the blackboard, the predaceous smiles as they tracked her movements back and forth. It wasn’t until later that she discovered the dead bird that Johnny had snuck in from recess and hidden behind his desk. “It started on the playground,” Taci repeated, unable to continue beyond that. Both Mrs. & Mr. Henderson stared at Taci, unsure of what to make of the mundane statement and the strange look in her eyes. After a few moments, Mrs. Henderson said, “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us.” Tact opened her mouth to try and continue, but before she did Mrs. Henderson asked, “Would it help if we brought Johnny in?” The question brought Taci out of her dysfunction with a spark of fear. “He’s here?” The Hendersons nodded, slowly and with confusion. “Yes, dear. He’s right outside.” With the pandemic, Taci had become accustom to being afraid of her students to some extent, each of them a possible vector for a little known disease. Now, though, with the summer heat pressing in and the red snow lying heavily on her memory, she felt an entirely different kind of fear that only allowed for a, “What?” “Yes,” Mrs. Henderson nodded assuringly. “He told us you wanted us to bring him in for today’s conference.” Mrs. Henderson glanced at her husband, seeking confirmation, then back at Taci. “All of the parents did.” Taci felt her eyes slowly widen as she stood from her desk, her hands grasping at its edges as her body strained against her commands to move. Under the increasing confusion of the Henderson’s, Taci reached her full height, then bolted out of the room, her loose skirt flapping with the quickness of the exertion. Out in the hallway, gathered on either side of the classroom door, the children stood, each tightly holding onto their parents’ hands. Taci heard one mother say, “You’re hurting me, dear.” From the other room, Taci heard Mrs. Henderson ask, “What’s wrong, Taci?” Feeling Johnny’s sharp presence behind her, flanking the classroom door, Taci could only exhale. She turned to him to see his grin grow into a bright red smile, filled with more tiny teeth than could fit into a little boy’s mouth.


TW: child enslavement, trafficking It had been a long day for Chetan. His work at the office, interspersed with four meetings, a training programme to conduct for his staff, topped up with a few customer complaints to be attended to, all had his mind go into a tizzy as he negotiated the traffic snarls on his way home. Tired as he was, he literally pushed himself out of his car and plodded up to the elevator. His wife, Urmila, opened the door of their plush three-bedroom apartment as he rolled into the house and plonked on a sofa. “What’s up? Did you run a marathon today?” asked Urmila, aghast at Chetan’s tired exterior and the frown that he exuded to her query. “That would have been better,” replied Chetan, in a muffled voice, his brain gradually absorbing his wife’s remark as an admixture of his already depleted energy. “Why, what happened?” Urmila persisted in a subdued tone. “Oh, don’t ask. Never did I have a busier day at office than today. There was work, meetings, training and then complaints all piled up one on top of another. Almost didn’t have time to breathe and just had a bite for lunch. I’m famished. What’s for dinner?” queried Chetan eagerly. “There’s chapatti, mixed vegetable curry, baji (side dish) and potato fritters,” replied Urmila nonchalantly. “Good, I’ll have a quick wash and we’ll have dinner,” said Chetan, kicking off his shoes and yanking his socks from his tired feet. He got up and made his way to the bedroom where he undressed and then got under the shower. Dinner was always a nice experience in the Dungarpur household. Chetan, Urmila and their two children, Swapan and Sharmila would sit together and talk about their day’s activities with passion, while chucking in morsels of delicious goodies that Urmila would have doled out on their eight-seater dining table. But, today was different; for Chetan was in no mood to again go through the rigmarole of narrating his day’s happenings. So, he listened passively to Urmila and the children and when it was his turn to speak, he gave a huge yawn, which prompted Urmila to say, “Daddy is very tired today. He will tell his stories tomorrow.” Chetan rose from his chair with a ‘I hope so’ sort of a feeling which was accentuated by a wry smile that he exuded to his kids. Urmila cleared the table and the family moved to the TV viewing area abutting the spacious drawing room. Swapan switched on the TV and selected a channel in which the next episode of their favourite serial was only minutes away. The serial began and Urmila and the children were glued to the TV. Chetan, too, was attentive for some time but his weariness got the better of him and soon, beginning with a posture where he looked at the TV screen with one eye, he was snoring in full glare of his family. Urmila went over to him and prodded him gently and, when he was awake, led him to the bedroom where she stayed on till Chetan had got under the sheets. She then returned to continue to watch the serial which had now come to an interesting inflexion point. Chetan, meanwhile, felt he was in for a long duration of uninterrupted sleep; and, sure enough, in a blink of an eyelid, he was steadily snoring away. Soon he began to dream; and this is what he saw. He is going on a long excursion with friends and relatives to some hilly area where they have booked themselves for two night’s stay at a resort. It is going to be an enjoyable trip, so everybody feels, as they all get their bags and baggage loaded on to their reserved seats in the first class AC compartment of the express train. Once the journey has begun, it is excited chatter all around with the men-folk engaged in a rummy game, whilst the ladies exchange notes relating to cooking, recipes and the like. The children play some board games and add their bit to the excitement of the trip. Once they have reached the station where they have to disembark, they rent a minibus to take them to their destination. It is all noise, laughter and singing as the minibus winds its way along the hair-pin bends to their destination. About a furlong before they reach the resort, amidst all the din and mirth within the bus, Chetan happens to notice a dilapidated building, which at one point of time must have been a majestic manor, which strikes him as being strange, practically in the middle of nowhere. At the resort, everyone decides to rest before setting forth on the first item of their agenda, viz. boating. Chetan and his family also take some rest to wean away the traces of exhaustion that may have encompassed them in their long journey. The boat ride is enjoyable and exhilarating with the route taken having exposed a wide expanse of the surrounding scenery. The next day after breakfast, Chetan takes the bell-boy aside and quizzes him on the dilapidated building. At first, the guy feigns ignorance but, on having a 100-rupee note thrust into his palm, becomes very agitated and says something incoherently. Chetan, who has had a stint in the army, before joining a corporate giant, calms the fellow down and guides him to a corner, where the bell-boy opens up. He tells Chetan that, by all accounts, the house is not inhabited and is also rumoured to be haunted. His eyes are livid with fear as he says that people have heard weird sounds emanating from within the building and nobody dare venture to go near it after sundown. Chetan’s interest is kindled and he decides to make a trip when nobody would miss his absence. Chetan slips out of the resort in the afternoon when everybody is taking a nap and heads towards the building. It’s a comfortable trek since he is walking downhill with a pleasant breeze blowing across the gaps in the trees. Chetan is taking in the fragrance of the lovely flowers that line the roadside. After a leisurely walk of about seven minutes, Chetan suddenly beholds the outline of the building through the leaves of the lush green trees on the right. He walks further and comes to a clearing which leads to a pathway that takes him to a wicket gate and an open area that would have once been a courtyard in front of the manor. He looks up at the building as he takes small but sure steps towards it. Denuded trees line the precincts of the compound wall of the courtyard and the remnants of some dried leaves crackle under his feet as his attention is now focused on the portico and entrance. There are cobwebs all across the exterior of the building and absolutely no semblance of any habitation. He is now standing before the main door. There is a broken-down calling bell hanging down from exposed copper wires and above him is a cluster of broken bulbs held in the rusted holders covered by a broken piece of glass that might have once been a beautiful chandelier. Strange enough, no glass pieces are strewn on the floor; probably, these might have been blown away in some strong wind that often traverses the hilly tracts. The brass knob of the massive teak door is dusty as is the door itself. He peers through the panes of a shut window beside the door but is unable to see anything within the dark interiors. Without touching the door knob he is about to push the main door to see if he can enter the building, when there is a shout. At first, he does not know the origin of this sudden and loud sound, till he experiences a vigorous tapping on his right arm. Chetan sat up on the bed only to see Urmila holding his mobile and saying that she has kept an urgent call for him on hold. “It’s 9.15 a.m. What sort of sleep is this? Have you become a version of Rip Van Winkle? Now, take this call. Somebody on the line said the matter is very urgent,” said Urmila, as she held forth the mobile before Chetan. The latter rubbed his eyes and with a feeble protest took the phone. Chetan disposed off the matter that was supposedly urgent in a jiffy for he didn’t want to be stretched on official matters on a weekend. After a quick shower and breakfast, he dived into the morning newspapers. But he was unable to concentrate, for the dream had left an indelible impression in his mind which pestered him throughout the day and in the weeks and months ahead. He forgot about it, a year down the line and the mystery that may have unfolded before him in a subsequent sequence of the dream was never contemplated, as the memory of the dream itself was involuntarily pushed into the sub-conscious mind. Years passed and life in the Dungarpur household went on as usual. Then one day, Chetan’s aunt and her family came down from America for a month’s vacation to India. Chetan broached the subject of an outing to his family and siblings and they were only too eager to venture forth. “We haven’t got together for a long time. With Aunty Vandana in our fold, this would be the ideal time to meet up with our other relatives and friends,” said Kishan, his younger brother, very enthusiastically. Chetan agreed and he spent the next couple of days browsing the internet for a pleasant location with all amenities. He finally zeroed in on a resort located on a hilltop. Even for one moment he did not reflect upon the location as being strikingly similar to what he had seen in a dream five years back. Their train journey ended close to the base of the hill from where a bus would ferry everyone to the top of the hill. On the way, Chetan got a peculiar notion, a feeling of deja vu, that he had been there before. He looked out of the window and all of a sudden, he saw it before him; the dilapidated building stood ominously imposing against the backdrop of lush greenery on the hillside. Chetan couldn’t believe what he saw. The memories of a dream seen many years back came floating before his eyes, as if he had seen it only yesterday. Yes, it was indeed the same building he had dreamt about. As the bus passed the spot where the building stood, Chetan craned his neck to get a glimpse of it from every possible angle, till it was out of sight. That night Chetan tossed and turned in his bed. “What’s the matter?” Urmila asked, frowning at him.

“I take time to settle down and sleep when the bed and pillows are changed,” blurted Chetan, using all the resourcefulness at his command to engineer an answer that would belie his true predicament. Urmila seemed satisfied with the response for she did not bother him with any more questions. As for Chetan, he was wide awake for an hour or so, thinking about his earlier dream, then the building and finally about his strategy to probe into the mystery; for investigate he would or all the learning that he had imbibed during his tenure in the army would have come to naught. The following day, after breakfast, Chetan put a 100-rupee note into the palm of the bell-boy, Ramu, and made him pout all that he knew of the building. Scared though he was to even speak about the eerie structure, Ramu was gratified with the generosity of Chetan. Later, when everyone was ready for a boat ride, Chetan excused himself by complaining of a headache and then after the entire picnic party had set sail, he made his way towards the dilapidated building. It was just as he had seen in his dream, to the last detail. He pushed the main door ajar. A gradual creaking sound ensued that one normally hears in horror movies. The building was pitch dark inside. With the help of the torch in his mobile, Chetan inched forward in no particular direction. He was now standing in the centre of a large empty hall. He shone the torch in all directions and barring walls all around, there was a staircase at the far corner. Chetan moved towards it and as he put his foot on the first step, it wilted under his weight. ‘Would I be able to climb this flight of stairs?’ thought Chetan. He was in two minds, but after a moment of deliberation, he decided to go ahead and climb. With his heart in his mouth, he made it to the landing on the first floor. Here, he observed there were many rooms over a wider floor area than the hall below. Presumably, the ground floor would be having some other rooms and space next to the hall, he thought. He passed by each room and shone his torch inside. The rooms were absolutely empty. He moved ahead treading carefully, till he came to a corridor which curved to the right. He saw there was a door at the far end of the corridor and wanted to know what lay behind it. He twisted the knob of the door. It squeaked as it opened gradually onto a small terrace. He walked the length of the terrace and at the end of it came across a massive concrete structure extending from the ground to the first floor with high ceiling and windows all around. Most of the windows were closed, but there was one which had a small crack in the glass which Chetan peered through to see the dimly-lit hall below. What he beheld sent shock waves through his brain and a chill down his spine; for huddled together and all in chains were about two dozen children, boys and girls. ‘There is some sort of a human trafficking racket going on here’, thought Chethan, as he viewed the hapless children. He looked all around, but there was no one in sight. He dialled the police emergency number, but before he could connect and speak, something hit him hard across the nape of the neck and he blacked out. Meanwhile, the picnic party had returned from the boat ride and Urmila rushed to her room to enquire about Chetan’s condition. She was surprised to see that he was not in the room and also the bed had not been slept on after the house-cleaning staff had changed the sheets in the morning before she left. ‘So where could he be?’ she wondered, as she made her way to the reception. “No, I haven’t seen him, since you all left for the boat ride,” said the receptionist, which was confirmed by other staff of the resort. Once the word spread that Chetan was missing, everyone was concerned and different opinions were put forward. But search as they might, Chetan was nowhere to be found. Urmila spoke to Chetan’s brother, Kishan, and suggested they inform the police. This suggestion gained currency amongst the crowd and so the police were called in to investigate. Inspector Talpade came with two constables and heard what everybody had to say in response to his queries. After taking notes, he decided to leave and promised to revert the next day with whatever information he had gathered. As he and the constables made their way to their vehicle, Ramu, who was all along watching the proceedings from a corner, came running out of the entrance of the resort. “Sir,” said he, as he accosted Inspector Talpade. “I have something to say,” he blurted out. The ‘warmth’ of the 100-rupee note on his palm was still fresh in his memory and he wanted to reach out to the police and reveal everything about his interaction with Chetan; if it was going to be useful in any way. The inspector listened to him attentively and boarded the vehicle. Later, in the night, a contingent of twenty armed constables and sub-inspectors surrounded the building and another ten policemen including sharpshooters entered it. It was a blind raid with no inputs whatsoever. The policemen spread out inside and sharpshooters took up their positions but there was no sign of anyone. Just when they thought that the building was empty, a constable opened the door to the terrace and before long, a team of three policemen was witness to the cruelty that had been meted out to the children. Inspector Talpade joined them and issued instructions to search every nook and cranny of the vast structure. Just as he was turning to go back into the building, he noticed the silhouette of a person crouching against a railing. On being challenged, the person opened fire injuring the inspector on the right shoulder. The sharpshooters returned the fire. A cry from the individual indicated that he had been hit. Moving towards the person, one sharpshooter removed the hood to reveal a man’s head. He was still alive and when the gun was pointed at his chest, he revealed the whereabouts of Chetan. The policemen quickly moved to the indicated location and found Chetan unconscious and tied to a post. There was tape across his mouth, legs and hands. He was carried to the police vehicle and transported immediately to the nearest hospital, along with Inspector Talpade and the assailant. Reinforcements were ordered after which the children were rescued and sent to a shelter. There was no further firefight and apparently the child traffickers had not anticipated a police raid. As for Chetan, he realized the risk he had exposed himself to but, nevertheless, took pride in the fact that he was instrumental in the rescue of so many innocent children.


Hi im this 18 year old kid and something has been teetering on my mind. People have been saying this town I'm in has a quote on quote dark past. Whenever I walk around this small but very big eerie town there's always strange happenings, things that people can’t explain. You may believe or not believe in these strange happenings but i can tell if you were to ask anyone who lives here they will tell you lies to make you stay. Sometimes this town's curse as I may call it sucks you in and won't let go.

May 16th 2020, a dark and seemingless night, I was walking home from a party and before I reached my front door step I heard something coming from one of the sewage pipes. As any senseless teenager would do, I went to put my ear closer to the drain and I heard some sorta growling and or some chanting. It was already 12 out so what was the bother if I went to go check it out. After about 20 minutes walking through sludge there was this big opening with the ceiling about 40 feet high and paintings everywhere.

For 18 years there was no talk about this not even local party goers in the town knew because if so this would be the party spot. The next day because obviously I was not staying down there, I asked a few friends if they wanted to come with me back down. About 16 minutes of persuading Ally, Markus, and Josh they said they would come with the only expense I have to pay for dinner for all of them and when I tell you they are not cheap anyways back to the story. At 12 we all jumped in and started walking but when I started to hear that chanting I stopped all of us. They all asked why we stopped and I told them do you guys not hear any of that chanting and to my surprise all of them said no. well then let's keep walking and josh all mighty and tough started to lead down the pipes. When we reached the big opening it was like all the chanting stopped but the weird part was all the paintings were missing. It was like someone went down there and painted it all over but nothing was fresh though. They all asked if I was lying just to get them down there but in fact I wasn't because it was all here last night.

When we got out of the pipes it was daylight which wasn't possible because we were down there for maybe an hour or two. We went to my house first and my family was still there but they seemed sad and very surprised to see me and my friends. They sat us all down and said that we’ve been missing for about a week now but like i said it couldn’t have been possible. We told them where we went but when we described the opening it was like the entire town flipped upside down. We were sent to the police station not only to tell them that we are here but each of us got interrogated for being down there. With all the crime shows i've watched when you get inargatoed they think one of a few things, you are hiding something, you have seen something you were not suppose to, or last but not least it is a matter of government hands and they don't need 4 meddling kids being somewhere where they are not supposed to be. We all agreed not to say anything about what I was hearing as we all got interrogated. They told us to never go back down there but we are meddling kids. We grouped up at Ally's house because both her parents work and it was summer break. When we got settled i told them when i was down there the first time about 20 minutes is the max before you need to start heading out. We got rope, flashlights, and we are hoping to try to figure out what is going on. As soon as we got there they had steel rebar cemented into the ground so we tried figuring out another way to get in. Josh knew a party spot that had access to the sewage systems and we all looked at Josh like he was some noble when in fact he just knows every party spot in town. When we got there we saw some sorta light coming from the pipes so we started walking in but then the light disappeared. We followed the direction of the light and we realized that it was maybe taking us there because the chanting started back up but this time everyone else heard it too. We kept following the light until it dropped off to a ledge where the opening was. We then realized that the steel rebar was fake because then we saw the same people who interrogated us at the police station just right outside the opening. We all watched and when they stepped into the opening we couldn’t see them. It was like some sorta reflection of the room was getting casted to us but we saw them step back out and they were shocked. What we were hearing them say was something we never thought was possible. They go on to say that the longer you stay in there the shorter time is or in better explanation faster than outside of this strange opening. We waited until they were gone and tested it for ourselves. One of us with a timer outside started the same timer inside and said to wait for the 2 minute mark. But when Markus came out he started running the same way we came in. We all ran after him to ask what happened but all we got from his frantic breathing was a lady, drawings in what looked like blood, from there we were all spooked.

We all got back to Ally's and we had him explain everything. But what I'm about to say may be disturbing for people reading. This monstrous look of a lady with super long legs who looked at him and went back to drawing was eating what looked like flesh…


"It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat." Head Judge Foley spoke the words as Inmate A sat on the stool with his guitar, hopeless. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact like a young Perseus afraid of facing Medusa. "If you want to live another day, I suggest you give this performance your all." The poetry of his song impressed me. Both inmates undeniably had talent, and that was all I knew. There were specific clauses in our contracts stipulating we could not look into their pasts under any circumstances to maintain complete impartiality, and U-Stream made sure we complied in every possible way: the service cut Internet access in my hotel room and confiscated most of my electronic devices the minute I arrived in Los Angeles. Besides, it seemed neither of them received much publicity at the time of their convictions. These men were no OJs, but their moment of fame had come. “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ” Inmate A concluded his heart-wrenching piece before dropping his acoustic guitar to the ground, so disenchanted that the welfare of the instrument barely mattered to him. The lyrics evoked a polymer of visceral pain and desperate regret – I had no doubt the words were his own. He stepped away from the stool and stood patiently by the side of the stage as Inmate B made his way up, a violin in hand. The three of us were seated on an elevated platform right in front of the stage in the prison courtyard, surrounded by a sea of correctional officers and prisoners. The environment felt very intimidating, certainly different from our usual studio settings back in the U.K. “Hello judges,” he said, approaching the microphone. “Today, I’ll be performing Paganini’s Caprice no. 24. I'm sure you'll find my life worth saving.” “Thank you for your positive attitude Inmate B,” replied Head Judge Foley without a hint of emotion. “Go ahead when you’re ready.” He launched into a breathtaking performance. The notes flowed at an unbelievable speed that defied my most optimistic expectations, without ever sacrificing intonation or melody. Other violin players had auditioned for Talent Hunters before; in that moment, I remembered them to be amateurs in the face of such a prodigious display of skill. I did not turn to look at my colleague’s faces yet imagined their reactions must have been the same. The decision seemed impossible to make, and I deeply regretted accepting the position in the first place. I enjoyed judging on the show when it dealt with regular people battling it out to win a Vegas show. Then the network cancelled us when ratings started to drop, so of course the producers went looking for something more sensational, something that would raise the stakes and attract new curious faces. A new deal was made in partnership with the streaming service and the U.S. Justice Department. Instead of welcoming regular people with a dream on the program, we went from judges to executioners: the talent show now focused on death row prisoners, trying to win a diluted sentence. Whoever the winner was, his life would be spared. The other would be executed on the spot in front of millions of people watching the live stream. Not by lethal injection, as was usually the case for executions: the producers chose beheading, for the sheer spectacle of it all. Such was the barbaric world of provocation we lived in. All it took was a sickening but novel concept to attract hordes of shock value aficionados. Inmate B reached the end of the piece, drawing applause from the ecstatic crowd. I could not tell whether they were in awe of the performance or simply thirsty for the blood that was about to be spilled. “What a sensational performance!” exclaimed Head Judge Foley. “Time to deliberate now. Inmate A, will you please come back to the center of the stage?” Inmate A walked towards the microphone accordingly. They both stood side by side, shaking violently as Death breathed down their necks. One would soon go under the scythe; it all came down to us three. For the first time, I had supreme power over someone’s life, and I hated it in every possible way. To my surprise, the other two appeared confident, perfectly composed in spite of the dreadful choice that weighed down on our shoulders. “Let me start,” said the Head Judge. “Inmate A, I was deeply touched by the eloquence of your lyrics. Thank you for writing such a powerful song imbued with heartfelt meaning, it will stay with me way beyond this competition.” She turned to Inmate B, whose body convulsions had worsened with every word of praise she showered on Inmate A. “As for you Inmate B, every note was played to perfection. It’s a very difficult decision, and I’m afraid it comes down to heart versus skill.” Their breaths stopped for a moment as she left them hanging. It was a long, unjustified dramatic pause that no doubt provided suspense for the viewers, but terror for the contestants. “I usually go with the heart. However, Inmate A's defeated attitude made me sway the other way. Inmate B, you're my choice.” The choice visibly bolstered Inmate B's confidence. He puffed his chest, ready to win. Judge Klaus spoke next. “As for me,” explained Klaus, “I agree with Judge Foley with regards to the heart versus skill dilemma.” My heart skipped a beat. If they both chose the same person, my vote wouldn’t be needed. Two out of three was enough to crown the winner and behead the loser. I prayed with every fiber of my being. Even though the prospect of remaining silent enticed me, a part of me felt profoundly ashamed: all I wanted was to avoid being accountable for the choice, not to save them from this torture. “I can’t side with her on the result though,” Klaus added. “This is a talent competition, not an assessment of confidence. Inmate A, you're my pick.” Hope vanished instantly. The votes were fifty/fifty. Both inmates looked at me with the imploring eyes of a dog headed for euthanasia. “Judge York,” said the Head Judge. “Will you please cast the tie-breaking vote?” I opened my mouth, but not a word came out. No matter how hard I tried to articulate, my jaw suffered from an acute case of paralysis. “Judge York?” she repeated. “Your decision please.” The fear radiating from the contestants was simply too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t make this decision. It’s not up to us, none of this is human! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how barbaric this whole thing is? Blood is on all of our hands for the mere act of thinking this was a good idea.” The Head Judge looked astounded. “This is your final word?” “Yes it is.” I expected her to side with me. For sure, she was about to realize the error of her ways and convince the producers to call off the contest. She took out her rulebook instead and flipped through its pages, still devoid of any emotion. “Very well. The rulebook states that in the absence of a deciding vote, the execution of any of the prisoners cannot proceed.” Relief surged over me. That’s it. I had averted this monstrous competition. “The belligerent judge will be executed instead.” Again, my jaw dropped, but not a word came out. The other two judges looked indifferently as bodyguards carried me up the stage. Now I knew for sure: they lusted for the blood, and so did the viewers of the livestream. “No, please! This must be a mistake, I beg you! I choose Inmate B, I do!” “I’m sorry,” said the Head Judge. “You confirmed it was your final word.” I found myself pressed against a wooden plank while the executioner approached. As for the two inmates, they remained still, staring at me with the empathy only someone who had come close to the plight I found myself in could feel. I did not know why they had been jailed, but I knew for sure they had more humanity left in them than many of the producers surrounding me. Inmate A picked up his guitar again, and sang me his song once more as the executioner’s blade grew closer to my neck: “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ”


They say when you have a dream you go for it. Do everything you can to achieve and don’t let anyone stop you. Because if you are truly passionate about something you won’t let it go. Well, that’s what Connor Bethany Alex and I are doing. Achieving our dreams. My ma had always told me to never give up on my dreams. Never give up was our family motto, whenever she saw me struggling with something I was passionate about she told me to not give up until all the other possible solutions don’t work. And that was one of the best pieces of advice she could have given me because I always found out that the other solutions worked out in the end. And it was the best advice I shared with my group. The crew and I had lived on never giving up. Which explains why we managed to achieve most of our dreams and were satisfied with our lives. But today we were going to achieve our biggest dream and excited would be an understatement of how we felt. You see in our group we’re all bakers and cooks. We love to do it it’s just what we do and we wouldn’t choose to do anything else. All of our future dreams are to be one-day famous cooks and bakers and we are all one step closer each time our successes get recognised on our socials. No matter how many times we screw up the recipe we won’t give up on this one. We’ve tried for months and months and we’ve all decided that if we can get this right we can cook anything. A Guinness world record we’re going for and a Guinness world record we are going to get. We have the support of everyone around us, Our extended families, other kids from school, workers at our parents’ workplaces, our neighbours, and surprisingly the support of famous chef Gino D’Acampo and that gives us the massive motivation boost but also a little panic. But we’re doing it to impress Gino! A huge inspiration to us all. “Connor, get all the equipment and ingredients Beth give him a hand. Today is the day you lot, Today is the day we are going to impress everyone and achieve that world record that I know we can get if we all work accordingly” Alex motivated and praised us. Alex and I whipped up the recipe and measured everything out and Connor and Bethany drew out the plans and discussed them while we measured. We’ve mastered the talent of measuring things accurately while having a conversation and that surprised everyone at the start but now they admire it. “Okay here’s the plan” Bethany announced. We were going to make the biggest cookie you could ever imagine. Bigger than the biggest. We wanted to achieve the world record for the biggest cookie. When we all heard about the world record and a challenge to beat it our faces lit up and we planned a get together on a weekend. We’ve tried multiple times trying the same thing but it didn’t work so we had taken a break and tried again this weekend. Connor had come up with a new solution to try and make this recipe and we were all impressed and kicked ourselves for not thinking about it sooner. We decided to make five batches of ingredients separately rather than all in one because that’s where we were going wrong. We gathered all our ingredients and I loaded them in the car. We were going to use the outdoor oven that Gino invited us to.

Once we had gotten the ‘Okay’ that we could make a public announcement about going to the outdoor oven we announced it on all our separate socials and our group account. When we arrived we weren’t expecting to see such a big crowd of people that had come to support us and our journey of achieving our long-term dream of achieving a world record and impressing our favourite chef. We had set everything up and went round to meet and greet everyone before we had to start. Everyone had fueled our determination and excitement and before we know it, it was time to begin baking the biggest cookie we’ve ever made. Time was ticking and there were several ‘take this’ ‘put this in there’ ‘mix this with that.’ We were cooperating well as a team as well as having fun under the pressure to remove it and that was what we needed. “Bethany where is the third batch of cookie dough?” I asked for the third time hoping she’d have heard me considering she was too busy getting comfortable with Connor. “Oh it’s over there by the whisk near Alex” She called back and I whisked it up and placed it in the bigger bowl ready to be put onto the big tray ready to be baked.

We all had to take a separate side of the tray and pour the dough out as big as we can and surprisingly we managed to do it. We had everyone on edge while we were waiting for it to bake. We all stayed together crossing our fingers that it’d bake all the way through in the time given and beat the world record. The time passing felt like an eternity never leaving and I had already chewed down my nails to the skin Connor was beginning to sweat like a pig, Alex kept checking his watch and Bethany was fidgeting at her hair pulling at it.

“Times up! Now we check the cookie” Gino announced and walked up to it with several other chefs we didn’t recognise. Probably just small chefs that work in a restaurant maybe?

They all checked everything and gathered together and had a small conversation with each other. They turned to face us and I had forgotten how to breathe. “I would like to happily present this world record to Connor Alex Bethany and Emily for making the now world's biggest cookie successfully” Gino praised us as he walked towards us ignoring our group squeal and finished with a small chuckle.

I can’t believe it. We actually did it! We accomplished our biggest dream and I was over the moon. My mother’s advice is something I would never forget and I will continue to pass it down to other people because it’s something everyone deserves to know. If you are passionate about something and you want to pursue it into a career then go for it, put your heart and soul into it. And most importantly NEVER GIVE UP! Because it could lead you to amazing opportunities like us, meeting our chef role model. Bite the bullet and take the chance. You have everyone’s support including ours!


Frank Leary, 68 years of age, lived in apartment 4B in a drowsy, decrepit building on the corner of Gaston and Avery.            With most of his days spent reading encyclopedias and passing judgement on pedestrians who spoiled the urban view from his window, he found peace in the silent company of his one-bedroom apartment at the very end of an otherwise vacant hallway. Short, stocky, and with a figure resembling a crouching toad, he was, in all respects, a peculiar man with an equally peculiar set of likes and dislikes. This included, but was not limited to, a rare appreciation for the calm, rhythmic wagging of his dog’s tail; a mild irritation with foamy coffee; and a surprisingly unparalleled loathing of the dripping faucet in his bathroom, which he was both too inert and close-fisted to fix.            In the same way, Frank was, to put it lightly, no big fan of stereotypes.            “They’re a cheap, embarrassing excuse for character development that gives viewers nothing of substance to hold on to”, he would tirelessly exclaim to his grandchildren the one time a year he took them to the movie theater. A former scriptwriter himself, he believed this gave him the indisputable right to insert his ‘objectively correct’ opinion into every movie-watching experience. But despite Frank’s inherent peculiarity, he was far from unintelligent, and the irony of his being was not lost on him. Deep down, beneath his cold, callous exterior, he knew he matched the ‘bitter old man’ stereotype through and through. Of course, having dealt in absolutes his whole life, he knew this fact, too, with absolute certainty – although nothing would pain him more than to admit to it. This subconscious resentment for his own hypocrisy brewed within him a burning desire for seclusion. For Frank, this seclusion would be incomplete if not accompanied by a deafening silence that hung in the air like cobwebs on a tall bookshelf.            One might then attempt to imagine how severely Frank’s expression soured (more so than usual), when, upon opening his front door one day, dog leash in hand, he was met with an unfamiliar character. A young man, who looked as though Frank had caught him in the middle of knocking, stood before him in a pair of sensible brown pants and a white collared shirt, both of which he had clearly taken care in ironing. Fresh-faced and boasting a warm smile, the man carried with him an air of youthfulness and a sense of wonder. He knew he had his whole life ahead of him, and this only added salt to Frank’s perpetually festering wounds.            The dog, a small, scraggly mutt that had become Frank’s personal burden after the passing of his wife – mirroring his owner in appearance, but not in demeanor – barked with delight at the presence of another human being, particularly one so radiant and energetic. The crisp, high-pitched barks resonated off the cracked and musty walls of the hallway but were quickly brought to an abrupt end by the kick of Frank’s heel to the little burden’s side.            The stranger, despite being made clearly uncomfortable by the treatment of the dog, did not break his smile. In fact, while introducing himself as Frank’s new, next-door neighbor who had just moved into apartment 4C, his smile only grew warmer. Once the echo of his words slowly ceased, a brief silence descended between the two men. Suddenly, with a low grumble and slight nod of his head in acknowledgment, Frank yanked the thick nylon leash and hurriedly made his way down the hallway.            Whilst the busy city streets burst with excitement and anticipation for the weekend, a profound, burning anger situated deep within Frank’s gut had made him feel nauseated and lost, for he could not understand why or how someone might move there. The building was on the verge of collapse and had hardly been in an attractive part of town, thanks to which Frank had gone almost a decade of living in complete, unsullied solitude at the end of the long hallway. Disoriented and overwhelmed by the news he’d just received, he collapsed onto a bench and convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.            But, lo and behold, not two full days after his first encounter with the new resident, Frank’s initial hunch seemed to have been proven right.            The day had started splendidly. The street outside Frank’s window was empty, as it typically was on Sundays, with only the occasional squirrel making an appearance on the pavement below. The usual morning coffee was rich and foamless, and even the dripping of the bathroom faucet appeared hardly noticeable. Perched over his elbows at the rickety kitchen table, Frank breezed through a section on African sand gazelles in the third edition of Weisman’s Encyclopedia, astonished by how such a small, dainty animal could reach such incredible speeds.            Suddenly, a faint sound caught the attention of his finely tuned ear. Ruffling his brow, he soldiered on with reading about African sand gazelles, considering them to be much more important and worthy of recognition than the happenings of some irrelevant ne’er-do-wells. However, despite his best efforts to drown out the noise by means of intense concentration, the noise only seemed to grow louder and ever-more present.            Surprising as it may seem, despite his persistently resentful attitude, Frank was not a confrontational person. He, too, then, was surprised when he found himself marching with great zeal to apartment 4C, convinced that his new neighbor was the root cause of his grief. After all, this had never happened while the apartments around him were vacant. With a powerful knock on his neighbor’s robust, wooden door, Frank’s voice boomed:            “Can you please stop making so much noise? You’re disrupting my peace!”.            The door quickly opened to reveal the figure of the young man. His casual house clothes appeared just as neat and tidy as the brown pants and white-collared shirt he wore a few days earlier. Although clearly puzzled by this unexpected accusation, his quintessential warm smile once again did not waver. Whilst he was polite enough to apologize for any inconvenience he might have caused Mr. Leary, he also, nonetheless, insisted that whatever noise his neighbor might have heard was not his doing.            Returning to his apartment, Frank noticed that the sound had disappeared. He scoffed under his breath, probably uttering an insult or two about the man next door. It wasn’t until a few days later that the same, aggravating sound had once again graced the otherwise hushed atmosphere of Frank’s home. This time, however, Frank’s incredibly short fuse led him straight to DEFCON 1 – filing a formal noise complaint to the police. For the next few weeks, as the noise persisted, Frank incessantly issued noise complaints, but to no avail.            Embittered by the sense of duty that was so painfully lacking in the police force of the city, Frank could think of no one else to turn to but the building’s concierge. Intelligent as he was, he could also think of no reason why a decrepit, old building in a far from appealing part of town would even have a concierge, and he detested that part of his rent went into paying for this service. For this reason, Frank generally avoided speaking to him, unless it was absolutely necessary, like it was now. The concierge was a man slightly younger than Frank, with a long, grey face and visibly thinning hair. Generally insipid and terse, his expression for once revealed a sense of shock when Frank came to speak to him. Upon hearing Frank’s noise complaint, though, the concierge’s expression of shock would immediately turn into one of confusion:            “Sir, the resident in apartment 4C moved out last week.”            Whilst this came as a massive relief to Frank, it, strangely enough, did little to put an end to his daily exasperation. Even after the young man’s alleged departure, the seemingly sentient noise was a regular at Frank’s. It would arrive unannounced – sometimes during breakfast or the afternoon news – and would only leave after dark, when the few sounds filtering through the apartment was the whisper of the gentle evening wind and the soft tapping of branches against the cold, double-paned window.            The menacing sound in question was more so an indecipherable ruckus than simply a noise – impossible to pin-down and often changing where it came from, it was a constant and ubiquitous force. Its peculiar nature made Frank wonder. Perhaps it came from the upstairs neighbor? Or from the building next door? Or could somebody simply be playing a cruel trick on him?            Whatever the case, the weeks-long debacle had quickly tired out the old man, and the next morning, after loading his bags and dog onto the backseat of his old, rusty Ford Pinto, Frank Leary left his one-bedroom slice of heaven on the corner of Gaston and Avery.            It had not taken him long to make it out of the city. As he made it to the outskirts, he watched the oncoming miles of workers making their daily commute towards the city center. For a moment Frank pondered whether they, too, faced a problem that, like himself, only they could understand, but upon remembering that he left the city to escape from the wretched noise, not to think about it, he mechanically switched on the radio as a distraction from his thoughts.            It had been a long time since Frank had listened to the radio, or any music, for that matter. For a man so obsessed with silence, he considered music to be a sacred creative force. After all, listening to music was a favorite past-time of his that he once shared with his wife, and he intended for it to stay that way, as a memory cemented in time. As he allowed himself to reminisce over fond recollections of enjoying music well into the early hours of the morning with his wife, a bitter-sweet feeling enveloped him, and, as if by some curious twist of fate, her favorite song chimed through the speakers of the Ford: “My Echo, My Shadow and Me”.            Almost as if he had been hypnotized, Frank made it to his country house, having completely lost track of time. Idyllic and quaint, the little white house sat perched on top of a hill, overlooking the rolling wildflower meadows and birch forests that spilled out below. Frank chose a comfortable looking spot of grass to sit on and gazed at the spellbinding beauty of the landscape, which was perhaps second only to the sight of the scraggly little dog chasing a butterfly.            For the first time in weeks, Frank felt a sense of calm. He had, in a mere few hours’ drive from the city, all but forgotten the ghastly noise that had haunted him back home. He felt at peace with his own thoughts about coffee foam and African sand gazelles, and this time he thoroughly enjoyed his little canine companion’s rhythmic tail-wagging.            When, suddenly, the noise reappeared.            Bewildered and confused, Frank jumped to his feet. Running erratically in circles around the overgrown meadow, he searched desperately for a source of the noise as it rang through his ears, cruelly and carelessly.            But there was no one and nothing there. There was no one to complain of, and there was no one to complain to, and yet the noise still persisted.            In that moment, Frank fell to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and cried. Hot tears dripped off his face and onto the ground below. Meanwhile, apartment 4B returned to its natural, silent state of being.


“Well, if it’s up to me—” “It is up to you!” “No, I can’t. You know I can’t!” “Silvia!” No! John! The sound of shattering China brought Silvia back to the present. “Oh, come sit down Silvia,” said her therapist. Silvia dazedly reached for the broom next to the kitchen doorway, “No, I’ll clean it up. Tasha, her therapist, put down her notebook, “Silvia, you should sit. I’ll get it.” Silvia came out of her daze as anger bubbled within her, “I can do it!” she snapped, seizing the broom handle.

Tasha’s voice was firmer, “Siliva, give me the broom. Sit down.” Silvia gripped the broom’s handle so hard the wood started to smoke under her grasp. She glared at it as flames started to rise from the wood. “Silvia!” yelled Tasha. “Silvia!” No! John! Silvia let go of the broom that was now a column of flames. She sat on the sunflower-patterned sofa as Tasha blasted the broom with a fire extinguisher. Silvia slipped once again into a stupor, gazing at her wedding ring as Tasha retrieved a new broom from the pantry. After finally cleaning the smashed teacup, Tasha handed Silvia a plastic cup of water. She then sat herself down in the loveseat across from Silvia. The loveseat was orange and clashed horribly with the sofa Silvia thought vaguely. But then again, Silvia didn’t like the color orange. Tasha picked up her notebook again and waited. “I heard his voice again, just now,” Silva said, “I used to only hear and see him when I slept. Now it happens during the daytime too.” “Why do you think that is?” Tasha asked soothingly. “I’ve had more time to think about it since they fired me,” Silvia muttered. “They didn’t fire you,” Tasha corrected as she scribbled some notes, “It’s a leave of absence. They said they’d reinstate you as soon as—” “I don’t hate myself anymore?" Silvia interrupted, "Well, they might as well fire me then.” “Hate is a strong word,” said Tasha. “Yeah, not strong enough,” Silvia answered, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.  “Why do you hate yourself,” Tasha asked calmly. Silvia didn’t answer right away. She noticed the clock on the wall behind Tasha had stopped ticking. “Your clock’s dead.” “That’s fine,” Tasha answered. “No, it’s not,” Silvia retorted, “Where do you keep your batteries?” “Siliva, let it go.” “NO!” Silvia burst, “I can save it! I— I mean… fix it.” “I know you can,” Tasha said, putting down her pen and taking a sip of her drink, “Would you say that fixing things has become… an obsession?” “No,” said Silvia in a strangled tone. Silence. No ticking from the clock. Silence. No sound of his heartbeat. Silvia stood, “Batteries! Where are they!” Tasha put aside her notes and stood too, “Relax, Silvia. If it really means that much to you, I’ll change the batteries, but you stay here.” Tasha waited until Silvia begrudgingly lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, then darted into the kitchen's junk drawer for batteries. Silvia plugged her ears as the sound of Tasha’s rummaging reached her. She could feel herself inching slowly off the sofa the longer Tasha searched for the batteries. It seemed to go on forever. The sounds of clutter shifting grew louder!

I have to help her!! But she asked me to stay, it’s out of my control!! NO, nothing can be out of control ever again!

With a yell, Silvia sprang from the sofa and tore into the kitchen. “Tasha, please let—” Tasha stood holding a fresh pair of batteries in one hand. With the other, she was continuing to make a ruckus in the junk drawer. Embarrassment engulfed Silvia as she realized she had just failed a test miserably. “You lasted almost three minutes,” said Tasha, closing the drawer. She stopped the timer on her phone, which rested on the counter. “A new record!” Silvia’s face burned, “This therapy doesn’t seem to be helping much.” “It’s only your third session,” answered Tasha, motioning for Silvia to go back to the living room, “It’s going to take some time.” “I hate time,” Silvia retorted as she sat back down on the sofa.

“You hate a lot of things today,” Tasha said as she took the clock off the wall, “Anything else?” “Healing magic,” Silvia answered, her throat tightening. Silvia felt her hand light on fire again. She watched in disgust as the orange flames emanated from her fingers. She didn’t like the color orange. “You know, if I wasn't your therapist, that might be offensive to a healing mage such as myself.” Tasha popped the new batteries in and replaced the clock. She finally picked up her notebook again. She gave Silvia a sarcastic grin. Silvia sighed, “Sorry… wait, you're a healing mage?” Her hand suddenly extinguished with a puff of smoke. “Yep,” Tasha said, jotting down some notes. “Then why are you a therapist?” Silvia asked, “Why all the talking? Can’t you just heal me?”

Tasha shook her head, “My magic only works on physical wounds. Your mental state is not physical.” She shrugged. “We all have limitations, Silvia. Sometimes we can overcome them to a certain extent. That’s why I became a therapist. But some limitations we just have to learn to live with. Such as... not being able to control everything.” “I know, I know!” Silvia groaned, laying her head in her hands, “It’s involuntary. I wasn't always like this.” “I know,” Tasha nodded.

There was a moment of silence, then Silvia whispered, “Will I ever… you know… get back to normal?”

“No, not completely, I mean,” said Tasha closing her notebook, “Progress is what we’re after and I think we did make some good progress today. I’ll take that cup for you.” Silvia hastily grabbed her cup, “No, I can—” “Progress, remember, Silvia?” said Tasha with a smirk. “Yeah, right. Ok, you c-can take my cup,” Silvia’s hand shook as she gave Tasha her cup. Tasha took it and led Silvia to the front door, “Really great work today, Silvia. I’ll see you again Friday. Try to practice the techniques we’ve been working on.” “Right,” Silvia answered with a shadow of a smile, “See you then.” On the steps outside Tasha’s office, Silvia paused and looked down at her wedding ring, which glinted in the sunlight.

I’m sorry, John. I never imagined it would be this way. I didn’t know it would leave me so messed up. But I’m trying to fix it, John. I’ll find a way to fix it… for you.


Cold, moist air moved uninhibited through the massive ponderosas as amber streaks of dawn burst through the sparse canopy. Brenton fidgeted in his sleeping bag as we moved with cumbrous angst in the confined space. He took mental note that the tag on the bag said twenty degrees, which he presumed to align with his warmth at temperature that low, but throughout his first night ever sleeping outdoors he realized it was more of a suggestive survivable temperature threshold than a designation of comfort. The orange nylon walls of his tent, bought only a couple days earlier, quickly brightened as the sun crested higher over the horizon, and the thin walls were thoroughly covered in water droplets formed overnight as the temperature dropped to just above freezing. “Better than being at work,” he thought to himself as he thrust an arm out of the bag and shook the tent walls, curious as to how the beads of moisture would react as a cold shower of false rain fell onto his face. He shook his face and felt suddenly awake from the shockingly cold water. A faint smile crept onto his face as he knew all the stress, anxieties, and pressures of his demanding world back home was a hundred miles away. Brenton slowly crawled out of his sleeping bag, feeling all the aches and cramps of laying on the rocks, roots, and pine cones that created the forest floor, and opened the zippered door. He’d never been seen the morning light on the woodlands of the Colorado Plateau and was awed by the portrait displayed in front of him. Thick beams of golden light showered upon the brown and tan trunks of the hundred year old trees that towered a hundred feet upwards with vibrant green needles creating a net between the ground and the strikingly blue cloudless sky above. It smelled of freshness combined with a notable tinge of organic plant materials slowly decomposing underneath; a naturalness not found in his usual urban life that allowed limited time for moments of serenity. He felt relief of this wondrous discovery; of finding nature; of overcoming his physical discomforts from sleeping on the hard ground. Having spent ten hours cocooned in his tent through the night a surge of another need for relief soon powered its way through Brenton. Putting on his moistened boots Brenton got up and walked over to a nearby tree. It was quite the opportune restroom, deserving just for him, and with nobody else around he felt at ease leaning over the bed of pine needles. Then, out of the ordinary, he discovered a sweet, butterscotch aroma that wafted from the ponderosa to his nose. This required a second, closer inquiry as Brenton postured with his nose stuck deep into the pine tree’s furrows, stunned at the scent the tree gave off.  It was enough to make him hungry, enough that he licked the tree’s bark, but decided that the taste wasn’t going to match the scent as he’d hoped and spit out the woody debris. He continued walking between trees, enjoying the calmness of the pines, seeking another discovery that’d connect him deeper with nature. As awkward as he might have looked to an observer – still holding onto a semblance of suite-and-tie professionalism - he decided that he didn’t really care too much and continued his meandering through the woods as a gleeful wood nymph. Each step furthered him from the routine of his life back home. There was a slight magic, a positive cleanness and burst of energy within the air, which the forest was bringing out within him. Startling Brenton, he heard the undulating whoosh of a large raven flying overhead as he spied the bird gliding through the under-story of the pine forest. A few more birds followed the same path as they sailed over the small hill just beyond his tent. All of the birds disappeared out of site, but, as Brenton concluded, not too far away. There was something out that way, something those ravens were interested in, and Brenton felt inclined to include himself into the venture. He kept a line of sight on his tent as he walked towards the cawing, but eventually needed to lose the visibility of his home base to continue forward. It’d be fine, he figured, since he could just turn around once he found whatever it was the ravens were congregated around, and then he’d simply retrace his steps until the fluorescent orange tent reappeared. The butterscotch aroma dissolved from the air as an unpleasant profuseness overcame his nostrils as Brenton narrowed upon the ravenous birds. There were three of them congregated in a triangle that involved plucking and scratching at something. Squinting his still sleepy eyes he noted blotches of dark red on the birds’ beaks as he closed in, moving more cautiously now as he become nervous to what he might find. Suddenly that feeling of stress, that surge of discomfort from opening confrontational emails and dealing with distraught clients all day – the reason for his wilderness escape in the first place – reclaimed his emotions. The logical step would be to just return back to his tent, figure out his gas stove, make a coffee, and just pretend whatever was over there was nothing. Yet, human curiosity forced him forward; to find out what was there; to unearth the mystery of the thinly veiled. With two strident and careful steps he peaked over the murder of black birds. He gagged as he looked upon a partially decomposed doe that the ravens were voraciously picking apart with their tipped beaks and stringy claws. The deceased animal stared at Brenton with its death-riddled and lifeless black eyes. He let out a screech of panic, high-pitched and resonant, that erupted out of his mouth uncontrollably. The ravens, drunk on animal flesh and blood, turned toward him and instead of fleeing from his presence, shouted angrily with blaring, pugnacious caws. The birds appeared possessed as they hobbled in Brenton’s direction clearly disturbed by his presence. “Intruder!” they cawed at him over and over. Scared and unduly shocked by the aggressive birds Brenton stepped backwards, but tripped his heel into a rock. Suddenly, he was lying prostrate on the damp pine needles and dirt. He soon found his eyes in line with the three large birds’ belligerent and blood-riddled faces. “Get away from me!” he yelled at them, scuttling away on his hands and knees until he gained his bipedal stature, and sprinted uphill to gain some distance. The ravens continued their serious and unrelenting warnings as he retreated. The birds they stayed put at their carrion feast and changed their note to what felt like cackling to the frightened Brenton. He only looked back once, to ensure he’d made a clean escape and none of those devilish birds were following, but found that he’d lost his navigation through the monotonous forest. The tent wasn’t yet visible and each tree looked like the next, each opening similar to the one adjacent to his campsite. With a still racing heart, feeling the impending doom of becoming lost in the woods with no one aware of his location, Brenton continued frantically searching for his tent. He could still hear the birds and was unsure of their intentions. From the corner of his periphery he caught a glimpse of the bright orange nylon behind a large pine’s trunk and he took off urgently towards it. His nose was runny from the cool weather and his toes nearing numbness as he fought to keep himself gathered, staggered inconsistent breathes hampered his chest. Finally he reached his tent and decisively went about tearing all parts of his camp down as efficiently as he could manage. As he clumsily shoved hand over hand of tent, pole, and sleeping bag into his backpack a loud, shrieking caw enveloped his senses once again. Frozen, Brenton followed the flight of two additional ravens as they met up with their feast of dead flesh. “I just need to get home,” he spoke an instructive, survivalist mantra to himself as he took what he’d succeeded to pack into his backpack. Without caring beyond his withdrawal from the gruesome forest Brenton left behind a trail of brand new gear, left behind and unpacked. He booked it back towards his car, which was parked a half mile up the forest trail, furthering himself from the dreadful ravens with each step. Once he loaded his backpack into the trunk of his car, tossing it with vehemence, he got into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and sighed in the relief having achieved relative safety. Reaching into the glove box with cold, wet hands, he took out his phone and turned it on. As he looked at the sentinel trees looming over, tree that had tricked him into feeling relaxed and vulnerable, he felt the vibration of messages coming through; he’d only been gone for less than a day. It was only when Brenton checked his messages as he was driving out of the forest, cursing as he saw even more ravens flying through the wooded landscape, did he relax knowing the safety and comfort of his routine awaited him back home.


“I think it’s time that someone did something,” said Jennifer. (Jen for short.) We were having our weekly prayer and share meeting in Sharon’s living room, and the pale pink carpeting was driving me nuts. It seemed that Sharon (the pastor’s wife) had insisted on pairing the new carpeting with chartreuse sofas. Finally, Sharon had pulled the look together with bright pink and yellow plaid curtains. The curtains were pulled back from with windows with cheap sunflowers from Jen’s arts and crafts store, Sonshine Creations . Anyway, the pink carpeting didn’t have one solitary stain on it, and that was the thing that that was driving me nuts. (Well, that and the additional fact that I was three months pregnant.) I studied the pristine Precious Moments figurines on the fireplace mantle, and wondered how she kept the carpet so clean. Also, when did she find time to vacuum? (Did she keep the living room spotless by wrapping the entire thing in plastic when no one was looking?) “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Lawyer,” said Jen. “What?” I said, coughing on a dry bit of carrot cake. My name is Rachel , I thought. “I told you she wasn’t listening,” said Diane. “You can tell she’s with child.” “I’m pregnant,” I said, resisting the urge to throttle Diane. “And I wasn’t daydreaming,” I added. “I was praying.” Amber nodded. “I daydreamed all the time when I was pregnant. It’s a miracle I didn’t forget a step, and fall down the stairs. Thank the Lord that Jeffrey was born safe and sound. Did you know he’s the the most advanced student in his class?” “Yeah,” muttered Diane, as she stuffed a bite of doughnut into her mouth, “that’s because he was held back last year.” “What did you say?” said Amber. “Nothing,” said Diane. Sharon’s cat, Jasper, ambled by and Diane scratched underneath his chin. “What’s that awful smell?” I said. Sharon smiled. “Oh that,” she said. “That’s just Jasper passing wind.” “That smells exactly like my husband’s gym shorts!” said Jen. “What have you been feeding him?” Sharon stirred her iced tea with a long-handled spoon. “Well,” she said, thinking, “he is fond of corned beef from the can.” At that moment, I wanted to sprint to the toilet and puke my guts out. I wondered what the color scheme was like in Sharon’s bathroom. “Jen,” I said, “I desperately need to use the toilet. What did you want to do something about? I don’t want to throw up all over this nice carpet.” “Well,” she said, we’re putting together an action committee, and we’d like you to join. With all of the violence in our neighborhood, it’s time to protect the less fortunate.” Diane sighed. “Just spit it out, Jen. Can’t you see Rachel’s three shades of green?” **** I flushed the toilet, and returned from the bathroom. I was still dizzy, but no longer sick to my stomach. “Well, what do you think?” said Jen. I sighed, and used a napkin to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I think an action committee is a great idea in theory. But, what you’re talking about....isn’t that vigilantism? I smiled and looked around the room. “I mean, I like Batman, but what Batman does is illegal.” “That’s what I thought she’d say,” said Diane. “Oh, shut up Di,” said Amber. “Make me,” said Diane, as she wrapped up a leftover piece of carrot cake and carefully inserted it into her purse. Amber shot up from her seat by the coffee table, and assumed what I guessed was the attack position from her weekly cardio kickboxing classes. “Bring it, bitch,” she said. “Mr. Trang says I’m his best student.” Diane quietly sipped her herbal tea. “He only says that because you’re sleeping with him,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Aiyo!” shouted Amber, as she lept into the air and kicked Diane’s purse away from Diane’s feet. Immediately, Sharon and Jen sprang forward and pulled Amber away from Diane. Amber grimaced like a prize fighter, and spat on the immaculate carpet. “Ladies!” said Sharon. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! What would Jesus think of your actions?” Diane took a compact mirror from her pocket, and rearranged her hair. “He said, in your anger do not sin. I didn’t do anything wrong to Miss Taibo. She’s the angry one, and she’s probably taking ‘roids to boot.” “Are you juicing, Amber?” said Jen. “If you are, let us know. We can get you into rehab and--” “I’m not juicing,” interrupted Amber, rolling her eyes. You should definitely check Diane’s purse for drugs, though. She’s got roofies in that ridiculous Marc Jacobs bag of hers.” “What?” I said, accidentally spraying carrot cake crumbs all over the front of my new maternity dress. “Surely that’s not true.” Amber grinned. “Check inside her bag.” I hesitated for a moment. “Well, go on,” said Jen. “I don’t know about you all, but I want to know what’s in there...just out of curiosity, of course.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay,” I said. “We live in a democracy, don’t we? Are we all in favor of a quick check?” Everyone nodded except Diane. “You won’t like what you find,” she said. “For heaven’s sake,” said Sharon. “I’ll open it.” She grabbed the purse and shook out the contents: one lipstick, one Cath Kidston wallet, and ten orange bottles of prescription medicine. Sharon grabbed a small bottle from the carpet. “Rohypnol," she read. “Aren’t those roofies?” "Oh no," said Jen, as the color drained from her face. "Please tell me you didn't, Di." "Told you that you wouldn’t like it,” said Diane. “How else did you think I was going to keep him quiet?" said Diane. "Sing him a lullaby?" Slowly, Sharon dabbed at the remnants of Amber's spit with a napkin. "I thought you were just using a bit of Nyquil to make him more...um...manageable," she said. Just then, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man screaming. "Very funny," I said. "Whose husband is joking around in the basement?" "Oh dear," said Sharon, who had just finished scrubbing Amber’s spit from the carpet, "I think we'd better show her." "I’ll second that," said Amber. "We definitely need her legal expertise.” *** The basement smelled like spoiled hamburger meat, and I used my shirt sleeve to cover my nose and mouth. It was very dark and dim until Sharon pulled the chain of a low-hanging light. "Help me," said a man in filthy jeans and a rust-stained shirt. "These women are crazy." "Quiet, Phil," said Amber. "Remember what happens if you make any noise?" "Yes," said Phil. "I remember." Tears streamed down his face. "I'll be good from now on; I promise." "Oh God," I said. "I know you. You work at the hardware store. Why have they got you tied up down here?" "I don't know!" said Phil. I knelt down to untie him, and that's when I noticed that the rust stains on his shirt were congealed bits of blood. I began to feel faint. "Why did you do this to him?" I said. "This man has done nothing wrong." "Nothing wrong?" repeated Diane. "This is Phil Harrington." "So?" I said.

"Oh honey," said Sharon, as she carefully retied the gag around Phil's mouth, "he's the head of the Ku Klux Klan around these parts." Jen ran her fingers through her hair. "He's also responsible for the kidnapping and murder of those two African American high schoolers." It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Yes, but how do you know that Phil was the murderer, and not, you know, a friendly neighborhood hardware man?" Phil moaned, and Amber kicked him in the face. I heard a sickening crunch as her boot met the bridge of his nose. “Amber!” I screamed. “Don’t hurt him.” “Why?” said Amber. “Didn’t Jesus say an eye for an eye?" “That’s the old testament,” I said. “Jesus never said that.” “Whatever,” said Amber. “It’s still in the Bible.” “That’s not justice, though!” I said. “Not in a democratic society.” "Justice?" said Amber, as she picked up a red container of gasoline, "What about justice for those two kids? Phil came into the fitness center about a month ago, bragging to his CrossFit buddy about killing Mark and Andrew. If we don't get justice for those young men and their families, who will?"

Utterly exhausted, I sank to my knees. “This is wrong,” I said. “In court, I've wanted to be judge, jury, and executioner. But cruel and unusual punishment just doesn't work, especially in a free society." Amber sighed. “Who said we live in a free society?” she said. "If Phil's case were to go to trial, all he'd get is a slap on the wrist. He'd do about fifteen to twenty years of a life sentence, and then he'd be paroled." "Will you join us?" said Jen. "Like I said, we need an attorney on our team. In case we get into trouble, later.” “We don’t want to go to prison or anything,” said Sharon. “We’re not criminals.” I thought about my life. Didn’t I keep saying that I wanted to make the world a better place? And didn’t I want to bring my child into a world with fewer monsters? I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I’ll join you on one condition,” I said.

“What’s that?” said Jen. I smoothed my dress over my bump. “I can’t be physically involved in any executions.” “Oh right,” said Sharon. “I get it. You can’t defend us in court if you’re an eyewitness.” “That’s right,” I said. “So you’ll join us?” said Jen. Her pupils were dilated, and her face had an unnatural glow from the light in the basement. I nodded. “Great!” said Amber. “After we take care of Phil, let’s go upstairs for virgin daiquiris. I brought some fresh ginger for that special kick.” “Well that sounds gross,” said Diane. “Count me out.” “Stop bickering, you two!” said Sharon. “Right,” said Amber, rolling her eyes. “Who wants to pour the gasoline over Phil? I think we should use the whole container, just to be safe.” “Not in my house!” said Sharon. “You’ll burn down the whole neighborhood!” “Just use a little bit,” I said. “That’s my advice.” “Thank you!” said Jen. “I just knew you’d be a great addition to our group. See you at church next Sunday!” “Yes,” I said, as I walked up the stairs. “See you next Sunday, and may God have mercy on our souls.” “Amen!” said Sharon. Outside, I jogged to my car and shut the door, before the stench of Phil's burning flesh could reach my nose.


Joe stood in front of the vending machine pondering his selection. The candy occupied the fourth and fifth rows, between the savory snacks and the Grandma’s Cookies. It struck him that, considering this was a hospital, there was a distinct lack of healthy options available. It also struck him that, despite not knowing who he was or where he was from, he knew how to operate a vending machine. And, although he didn't know his own name (Joe, a derivation of John Doe, was the name given to him by the nurses until he could remember his own), he knew the names of all the candy bars. Another thing he did know, was that he wasn’t in search of a healthy snack. He had been craving the rich and heady combination of sweet, creamy, milk chocolate and soft caramel for days. As soon as he'd been allowed out of bed, he'd wheeled his IV stand down the corridor to the elevator lobby, in search of his sugar fix. Now, he was torn between the chewy nougat and the promise of a peanut or two in the Snickers bar, and the crisp snap of the finger biscuits in the Twix. Twix or Snickers? Snickers or Twix? 42 or 46? 46 or 42? He couldn’t decide. A small, but restless, queue was forming behind him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His palms were slick with moisture. He wiped them on the front of his hospital gown. Twix! No, Snickers! No, Twix. No! It had to be Snickers! He punched in the first number. Four … His finger hovered over the six. But his gaze drifted to the seven. His finger followed. What was wrong with him? Push the six! Get the Snickers. SIX! SIX! SIX! He pushed the seven. "Shit!" He punched the six. Jabbed it again and again! Hammered it furiously in a sudden frenzy of rage as the bright yellow packet of M&Ms began to move jerkily towards him. "Damn it!" he yelled as the packet dropped into the tray with a soft rattle. He slammed his palm against the glass. The machine shuddered. "Hey, Buddy! Are you ok?" the man behind him asked. "OF COURSE, IM NOT OK! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M OK? I WANTED THE SNICKERS!" The man's mouth dropped open. He looked as if he was going to speak, then appeared to think better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and shuffled back a couple of paces, examining his finger nails. Joe turned and headed back down the corridor. He'd had to borrow the 95 cents from the guy in the next room. He wasn’t going to be defeated. He had to get more money. "Hey!" the man shouted after him. "You forgot your candy!" Joe turned, about to unleash a torrent of abuse. The man was waving the yellow packet of M&Ms at him. Then the flashback hit. It wasn’t the first one. That had happened the day he'd woken up. They had just taken out his breathing tube and helped him to sit up and take a few sips of iced water through a straw. He’d had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there. Couldn't remember a thing. His name. Where he lived. What he did. Whether he was married or had a family. Nothing. His mind was just one big, black hole. They were telling him not to worry. That he'd had a nasty bang on the head. That it was normal at this stage. That it would all come back in time. Then, one of the nurses smoothed the bedspread over his body. His eyes were drawn to her hands. They were small and soft and pink against the blue woven fabric. Her nails were short and clean. The hands looked familiar. Like some he'd seen before. Somewhere … else … The colors around the edges of his vision began to blur and distort. It was as if he was looking down a watery tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, caught in a circle of light, the nurse's hands moved quietly. Every detail of them was bright and intense. Every skin crease, every tiny golden hair, every blemish was illuminated and magnified. Then, the blue of the bedspread faded to a dull grey. Its uniform, linear surface became rough and uneven. The hands stopped moving and lay, palms up, pale and still. The warm pink nailbeds faded to a cold blue, and the skin took on a waxy, sallow appearance. Joe realised it was a memory pushing through. If he let it, he knew the picture would widen and he would see who the hands belonged to. But he didn’t want to. A deep, dark dread washed over him. His skin crawled and his gut clenched. He closed his eyes and pushed back against the pillows, away from the image. "No. No! NO!" he screamed. "Joe! Joe!" The nurse with the small hands was touching his cheek. Gently. He opened his eyes. "It's alright, Joe. You're safe. We've got you. Don't worry. It'll all come back. It'll all come back with time." But Joe didn’t want it to come back. From that moment, Joe took great comfort in not knowing who he was, where he had come from and … what he had done. He didn’t want it all to come back with time. He didn’t want it to come back at all. After that, there were others. One or two a day. All the same. All triggered by a simple sight, sound or smell. A glossy, swinging, auburn ponytail, a peal of girlish laughter, a waft of familiar perfume. Each one would send him spiraling back down the watery tunnel. Each time, more details were revealed. A once swinging ponytail, now limp and still. A once laughing mouth, now silent, its blue lips parted and breathless. A once fresh and vibrant perfume, now stale and faded under the scent of death and decay. It was as if he was completing a terrible jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece. Other things were happening, too. The nurses spent less and less time with him, their warm and friendly smiles and touches replaced by wary expressions and minimal physical contact. Men in suits came to talk to him, asking him questions about what he could remember (which of course was nothing). Over the past couple of days, a uniformed police officer had been stationed at either end of the corridor. He didn’t know if they were there for him. Until today, he'd been confined to bed. Nevertheless, he'd waited for the one posted near the vending machine to go to the bathroom before he had left his room. And now it was the M&Ms at the end of the tunnel. Small hands with short clean fingernails picking them out of the packet one by one. Popping them between smiling pink lips. The bobbing ponytail. The laughter. The perfume. Then, the M&M packet was lying on the rough, uneven surface. Its contents rolled across the floor. Blue, yellow, green … red. Red on red. Red smears on the pale, cold hands. Wet, red strands in the limp, auburn pony tail.  Frothy, red bubbles between the blue parted lips. Joe closed his eyes. He shut out the image. He turned away. When he opened them again, one of the police officers was walking down the corridor towards him. A hand gripped his shoulder firmly from behind. "I think you'd better come back to your room now, sir. We have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."