“Accounting tells me you haven’t docketed any pro bono hours,” the Partner said. He was one of the law firm’s most senior partners, and he occupied a vast corner office down the hall from the shitty cubicle where I worked. The Partner only summoned me to his office when I’d done something wrong or pissed someone off. I spent a lot of time in the corner office, getting chewed out by the Partner. “Do I get any credit for all the dockets that my boss deletes? Those have to count for something, at least.” My boss, a three-year associate, docketed more time than any other junior at the firm, and I docketed the least, mainly because my boss deleted my dockets, and re-entered the time as his own. I’d complained about this before, but no one cared. I was a nobody, but my boss wore bespoke suits from Surmesur and shoes from Leone. He golfed with the partners at a private club and ate with them in places too expensive for me to even order an appetizer. So far as the firm was concerned, my boss owned me and my dockets, and could dispose of either as he saw fit. “Your sarcasm isn’t doing you any favors,” he said. For a moment I thought I’d pushed the Partner into one of his meltdowns, but he’d decided that I wasn’t worth yelling at. I wasn’t a keeper. “Do you have any pro bono files for me?” I thought I might as well try; my boss wasn’t giving me any. “Ask your boss. You only need to docket four hours. How hard can that be? You draft an agreement, or give an opinion. It’s not hard, Calledinthe90s.” I started to ask a question, but then the Partner’s phone rang. He waved a hand at me. “That’ll be from a new client we’ve unboarding. Talk to me later. Or better yet, don’t talk to me. Talk to your boss.” I slunk back to my desk and returned to the stack of work that always awaited me. It didn’t help that I did more than my share of court appearances. I was doing three or four motions a week, spending a lot of time in court, and then working late at night to catch up. When I sat down at my desk, I saw there was a piece of paper on top of one of the stacks that hadn’t been there earlier that morning. I picked up the paper, and then my phone rang. It was the firm’s bookkeeper slash office manager. “You haven’t docketed for any pro bono work,” she said. “That’s true,” I said. “I left a form on your desk. You can’t docket any pro bono work unless a partner signs off on the work you did. So do the work, fill out the form, get a Partner’s signature, and then hand it in.” She hung up before I could reply. The office manager didn’t like me very much; she blamed me for the fun people made of her after the office Christmas party. She’d been the butt of some jokes, jokes that I’d told. I looked at the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission form with its various boxes and lines and questions and bullshit. I had nothing to put on that form. I’d asked my boss for some pro bono work, many times, but he had no pro bono work for me. The firm had a few charities run by this or that spouse of a partner, and the juniors competed to do whatever pro bono work was available. I didn’t even get a nibble. But I had to try. “You gotta give me some pro bono files,” I said to my boss again a few minutes later, “I’m getting heat from the Partner.” “Please fuck off,” my boss said. He didn’t use those exact words, of course. What he actually said was “yeah, ok, sure, I’ll find something.” But in downtown law firm speak, his words meant “please fuck off,” so I headed back to my desk, glad that for a change I had no court that day, so that I could catch up on stacks of files that grew like mushrooms on all the flat surfaces of the shitty little cubicle where I worked. I opened one at random, and started to work on a routine motion. I had been at it for less than ten minutes when I got interrupted. “I forgot to mention that I need you to go to court for me,” my boss said, standing over me. “For what?” “Refusals motion. I just don’t have time today.” He tossed the motion record on my desk, and walked away. I grabbed the papers and my jacket and headed out almost at a run. I made it to court just in time to sign in. The list wasn’t too bad that day, and I sat in the body of the court as the judge vetted the list. I listened as he granted or refused adjournments, tossed a motion for lack of jurisdiction, and another for citing the wrong rule. I was listening with half an ear, reading my boss’s motion record, trying to make sense of my boss’s shitty drafting, when I heard the voice of a young woman. “I need an adjournment, Your Honour,” she said, “I need more time to find a lawyer.” “It’s a simple debt collection case,” her opponent said, “and it’s already been adjourned twice.” I looked up. The lawyer I ignored, but the young woman was different. She was not someone that could be ignored. The only thing about her that was average, was her height. In a room full of dark suited lawyers, she stood out like a bright jewel. “It’s hard to find a lawyer I can afford,” she said, “and the legal aid clinic downstairs won’t take it on.” “The clinic can only give advice,” the judge said, “they can’t argue a case for you. If they won’t do it pro bono, you’ll have to argue it yourself.” “How am I going to argue a case?” she said, “I don’t make enough to pay a lawyer, but I make too much for legal aid, and I can’t get someone to do it pro bono.” I sensed an opportunity. “I’ll do it pro bono,” I said. “Really?” said the young woman, and the judge, and opposing counsel all at the same time. “Sure,” I said, “but I’ll need an adjournment, just a short adjournment. A week at most, just to read the file--” “No adjournment,” said the judge, “but I’ll take you up on that pro bono offer.” “But--” “That was very generous of you to offer,” continued the judge as I started to sweat, “very generous indeed.” I sat there feeling like an idiot. I felt my face turning red, certain that I’d embarrassed myself, and I was sure that I would embarrass myself even more when I argued the case. It got even more embarrassing when the case my boss sent me on got adjourned, because my boss had forgotten to file his legal argument. I stepped outside, and gestured to the young woman to follow me. “I saw your case isn’t going ahead,” the young woman said in the hallway, “and if you want to go, I won’t hold you to helping me out.” “Too late,” I said, “now I gotta do it.” Judging from her expression, I sensed that this perhaps wasn’t quite the right thing to say to the woman that was to become the love of my life. This was more than thirty years ago, and I still say the wrong thing around her sometimes, or rather, a lot of times. I asked to see the paperwork for the court case she had that day. “I’m getting sued on a credit card,” she said. I nodded. “I’m being sued by a bank,” she added. I nodded again. I’d learned that at a glance. She was being sued by Evil Bank, a lender that was so subprime, that it was barely above payday loan level. They had a big book of business, and it was growing. They were the go to card for people with bad credit, so I had one of their cards, too. I heard their ads all the time on the radio. I hardly ever listen to the radio now, but back then, back in the 90s when everything was shit because we had no internet, we listened to the radio a lot. We watched a lot of shitty t.v., too. It sucked back in those days, before the internet. “How do I say your name,” I said. Her name was on the papers before me, spelled out in black and white, but her first and last names had so many syllables that I didn’t even want to guess how to say it. “Just call me Angela. That’s what everyone calls me.” Her English was perfect, a native speaker’s English, but the sounds came with the tint of her home country, a slight and beautiful lilt. I was attracted to her from the start, but it was her voice that I fell in love with. She continued to talk, just like clients always do, explaining all about her case, and I mm-hmm’ed and h-huh’ed and nodded, the polite part of my brain maintaining the pretense of a conversation, while my fledgling lawyer brain read the file. “Are you even listening to me?” Angela said. “Yes,” I said. “Then what did I tell you?” she said, wanting proof. You’d think she was the one doing me a favor, by letting me work for free. She was even worse than my firm. At least my firm paid me. “You said that upon the bank's lending you money at a high interest rate, you defaulted when you failed to manage your money properly, and--” “It’s not my fault a cheque bounced!” “--and then the bank pursued legal action against you. You offered the arrears, but Evil Bank declined reinstatement and refused to engage in settlement negotiations. Instead, the bank unilaterally chose to increase the interest rate and imposed additional fees, charges, and expenses." “Oh. I guess you were listening.” She sounded apologetic. But I hadn’t been listening to her words, only the sound of her voice, and what I told her was info that I’d easily gleaned from Evil Bank’s claim against her. “Can you negotiate a deal for me?” She spoke in a tone of entreaty, and looked up at me like she needed rescue. “Just one sec,” I said, as I flipped through the affidavit from an Evil Bank employee. I stood up. “Gotta go to the library.” “Should I wait here?” “You can come along,” I said, and she did. I headed for the law library at my usual pace, striding along, the young woman’s shoes clack clacking behind me, but before long she said, “Can you slow down? I’m in heels.” I looked at her shoes, and saw the high heels, and realized that she wasn’t of average height, not without heels to help her. “Sorry,” I said. I slowed down to what for me was a slow crawl, and eventually we reached the law library. I walked up to the librarian. “I’m in a rush,” I said, “where’s the Criminal Code?” The librarian pointed, and I took off. Angela tugged at my sleeve. “Slow down” she said again, and I did, but by then we were in the stacks, and I reached out my hand for the bible, for the holiest of holy legal writ: Martin’s Annotated Canadian Criminal Code, a book I first read when I was fifteen years old. It had been a constant companion since then, but I never needed it for work, because our firm only did civil cases, not criminal. I gently pulled the book from the shelves, slowly and with reverence. I carried it with me to a table. “Have a seat,” I said, and Angela sat, while I opened Martin’s and started flipping the pages. “Am I in trouble?” she said. “I thought I was only being sued. Could I go to jail?” “What?” She pointed at the book. “You’re reading a criminal law book,” she said. She spoke loudly, and heads turned. The librarian issued a low ‘sshhhhh’. “I just needed to check something,” I said. It wasn’t the statute itself that I needed to read; I knew the Code inside out. But it was the annotations I had to double check, and as Angela sat there looking beautiful and a bit confused, my eyes scanned the book's annotations, each of them a tiny summary of a legal case, explaining how judges had interpreted the words of the Code. “You don’t happen to have a calculator, do you?” I said. She looked at me like I was an idiot. Nowadays, everyone has a smartphone, and smartphones always have a calculator, but that was another thing that sucked back in the nineties, not always having a calculator on you when you needed one. “S’ok,” I said. I pulled a pad and pen from my briefcase, and the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission fell out. I’d snatched it up with the court papers when I ran out of the office. I shoved it back into my briefcase, and then opened the motion record, and went again to the affidavit sworn by Evil Bank’s employee, setting out the interest rate they’d charged, and which they’d increased after default, and the fees they’d added and the expenses they claimed. When I’d read the numbers the first time back in the courtroom, I’d given them a quick run through in my head, but I needed to double check. I wrote out some numbers on the pad. “First you start looking in criminal books, and now you’re doing math. Are you like an actual lawyer? Is this going to help me?” It was something that my boss might say, but my boss didn’t look like Angela. “We gotta get back to court,” I said, picking up my note and my briefcase and the bible, the holy of holy writs, Martin's Annotated Criminal Code. “You’re walking too fast again,” Angela said as we headed back to the courtroom. I slowed, and explained to her why I’d been looking at the Criminal Code, and why I’d been doing math. “No way,” she said. “Yes way,” I said. “No way,” she said again. “Just watch.” “You’re gonna embarrass me. I just know it. I come to court to throw myself on the judge’s mercy, to try to catch a break--” “You can still try that,” I said. Angela’s looks could get her only so far, and I was starting to get pissed off. “You can try throwing yourself on the mercy of Evil Bank, too.” “I already tried that,” she said, “but it didn’t work.” “Then let me do my job.” We were outside the courtroom, and I looked through the small window. I saw a lawyer on her feet arguing a case, so we still had some time. “Have you ever argued a case like this before?” “Nope.” “Well, at least it will be interesting to watch,” she said. \* \* \* “I need an adjournment,” I said, not needing an adjournment, not wanting one. I was just baiting the hook. “I have an argument I want to make, something that I think is a good argument, but I just need a little time to--” Opposing counsel was on his feet in an instant, but before he could open his mouth, the judge shut him down. “No adjournment,” the judge said, “I already ruled on that. This case is going ahead, no matter what.” The lawyer for Evil Bank, a junior lawyer like myself, smiled with satisfaction and sat down, and he smiled even more at the judge’s next words. “Mr. Calledinthe90s, I have to tell you that I’ve read Evil Bank’s materials, and your client has filed nothing in reply. It’s good of you to take this case on at the last minute, but there’s not much you can do here, so if you have trump, you’d better lead it.” I got to my feet, and I led trump. “Evil Bank is charging an illegal rate of interest,” I said, pulling Martin’s Annotated Criminal Code out of my briefcase. I pulled the book out slowly, and watched Evil Bank’s lawyer from the corner of my eye. He started at the book, taking in its title. He sensed trouble, and stood up. “The defendant never raised an issue about the interest rate before now,” he said. “I’ll hear it,” the judge said, “ex turpi causa and all that. Go on, counsel,” he said, motioning me to continue. “The maximum interest on a loan is sixty percent,” I said, “and when the loan default, the interest popped. It jumped to four percent a month--.” “That’s only forty-eight percent,” my opponent said. “--and to that we add the fees and charges and expenses,” I said, setting them out for the judge, slowly so that he could write them down, and Evil Bank’s lawyer did the same. There was an extension fee and a default charge, and a charge for this and a fee for that, and it took a while before I finished. When I finished, Evil Bank’s lawyer stood. “Counsel’s numbers don’t add up to more than sixty percent,” he said, “I added them up while he was talking, and they reach” “Fifty-nine point nine nine percent,” the judge said, “at least, that’s what I got.” Evil Bank’s lawyer’s head bobbed up and down gratefully. He looked at me angrily, annoyed at the bad scare I’d given. “Sorry, counsel,” the judge said to me, “I know you did your best, and I wish I could help. I really do. The interest rate is horrible, rapacious really, but unfortunately it’s still legal.” He reached for a pen to write his decision on the back of the motion record, but I stopped him. “There’s one more thing,” I said. The judge’s pen stopped moving, and opposing counsel looked up again. The fear was back in his face. “The interest rate is compounding,” I said. “Compounding?” the judge said. “Compounding,” I said, “as in Evil Bank is charging interest on overdue interest. It says so right in the contract. Each month it adds the overdue interest to the principle, and charges interest on the new balance.” “But that hardly makes any difference,” said Evil Bank’s lawyer. “It makes enough of a difference to put the rate over sixty percent,” I said, explaining that four percent a month compounded was not forty-eight percent per year, but instead, but just a fraction more than that, which together with all the fees and charges and expenses and bullshit, was just enough to-- “I need an adjournment,” Evil Bank’s lawyer said, “I need to speak to the client, or the partner. I need to speak to someone about this. I need to speak to someone about the numbers, about the math, about how everything’s calculated.” The judge looked down at him from the bench, and grinned. “You can add, just like I can, and the interest rate is over sixty percent.” “Only by a tiny fraction of a percent,” he said. “It’s either over the legal limit, or it’s not,” I said. “De minimis,” Evil Bank’s lawyer said, but it was a desperate argument, and I could see from the judge’s face that I didn’t need to respond. The judge told us to sit down while he wrote his reasons, and we sat in the silence of an almost empty courtroom and listened to the judge’s pen as it scratched across the back of the motion record, which is where judges in those days wrote their decisions back in those days, in hand. He flipped over the page, and wrote some more, and then to the back of another page, and continued writing. He wrote, and wrote, and the longer he wrote, the worse Evil Bank’s lawyer looked. If the judge had been writing a decision in his favor, it would have taken him only a few strokes of the pen to write a decision granting judgment on a credit card debt. But a lengthy decision meant that bad tidings were coming Evil Bank’s way, and the lawyer looked like he was a prisoner awaiting execution, which the judge soon delivered, reading his decision out for us. We listened as the judge talked about the contract, and set out my arguments, and quoted the Criminal Code, and mentioned the evils of usury, and the importance of protecting the public from rapacious, unsavory lenders. “The debt is uncollectible,” he concluded, “not just the interest and fees and charges, but I have the discretion to disallow the principal as well, and I do disallow it. Ex turpi causa non oritur actio,” meaning that Evil Bank’s case was dishonorable, and that the court would not hear their complaint, due to the whole breaking the Criminal Code thing, committing a crime when they gave my client a credit card with illegal interest attached to it. The judge stood, and so did counsel. “That was an excellent argument,” he said to me. He asked who my principal was. I gave him the partner’s name. “He’s lucky to have you,” he said, and then he exited the courtroom. The clerk gave me a copy of the decision, and another to Evil Bank’s lawyer. His face was white and he looked crushed when he took the document into his hands. If the boss he reported to was anything like mine, he was in for a serious talking to. I pitied him, actually. But me? I was heading back to the office with a big win, a win I could brag about. Sure, it was only a little credit card case, but to me, it felt like I’d hit a home run and scored a touchdown at the same time. I’d really stuck it to Evil Bank, plus I’d hit my pro bono quote as well. My boss would be pleased. The bookkeeper would be off my back. And the Partner would be impressed. I stepped out of the courtroom with Angela, and we watched Evil Bank’s lawyer slink off into the sunset. She started to thank me, but my brain got in the way. “My pro bono sheet!” I opened up my briefcase and pulled out the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission Form. It was creased and crumpled. I straightened it out. “You were amazing,” Angela said. She was beautiful and grateful and impressed and happy, but my brain had temporarily become attached to another task. “You gotta sign my pro bono sheet,” I said. “What?” “I need to get credit for this,” I said, “you gotta sign my sheet.” I passed her the crinkled paper, and a pen. I pointed to where she was to sign. She looked at me strangely, took the pen, and signed. “Thanks,” she said. She turned, and started to walk away. “But--” She didn’t look grateful or impressed any more. She didn’t look happy either. Instead, she looked a bit disappointed. But she still looked beautiful, and I was beginning to realize that I’d said the wrong thing, or looked the wrong way or done something stupid. “But,” I said. She kept on walking. I walked after her, and caught up with her as she reached the elevator. She pushed the button, then turned, and said, “I signed your form.” Then the doors opened and the elevator took her away. \* \* \* I walked back to the office feeling down. It was the same thing that always seemed to happen whenever I got a good result. I always said or did something that ruined the win, that turned it into a loss, and I was feeling like the biggest loser on earth when I got back to the office. I’m pretty good with numbers, but women were another thing altogether. I’d been wrong to mention the pro bono thing to Angela. Angela had wanted me to win the case not for me, but for her. It wasn’t just the result Angela cared about; it was my motive. Angela had liked me, and I’d pissed her off. But at least I’d done well in court. I still had that. I’d done well; the judge had said so himself. My firm was lucky to have me, the judge said, the first words of praise I’d heard since the firm had hired me. The elevator opened to the office where I worked but before I could get to my desk I heard a door down the hall burst open. “Calledinthe90s, get your ass in here,” the Partner cried from his corner office. I’d heard him angry before, but he was at a whole new level of mad. I got my ass down to his office in a hurry. “Just what the fucking fuck were you doing in court today?” he said. He was seated behind his enormous mahogany desk. I was facing him, standing, because he had not invited me to sit. “I was doing a refusals motion for my boss,” I said. “And anything else?” he said. “A pro bono case, just a little pro bono case. I even have the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission Form.” I pulled the ragged paper from my briefcase. I started to hand it to him, and he snatched it from my hand. He read the form, with the names of the parties and the nature of the case and Angela’s signature at the bottom. “Evil Bank,” he said, “just like the judge said.” He looked up at me, his face a mask of rage. “The judge?” “He called me to say what a great job you’d done, what a wonderful thing you did.” That sounded good, and I didn’t understand why the Partner was so angry. “You idiot,” he shouted, “the firm spent months trying to land Evil Bank. We wined them and dined and schmoozed them. We golfed with them and got them hockey tickets. We bought them booze and laughed at their jokes, and we signed them today, at lunch, a couple of hours after you left my office.” “But I didn’t know--” “And what did you do? You fucked them. You fucked them, Calledinthe90s, that’s what you did.” “It’s only one case,” I said, and then he really exploded. “You destroyed their standard agreement,” he said, “a contract that hundreds of thousands of their customers have signed. This case is going to be reported. It will be in the DLRs. Do you have any idea what will happen, once the word gets out?” I was starting to get the idea, but I shook my head as if I didn’t understand. “Everyone with an Evil Bank credit card is going to refuse to pay them back, if they have half a brain in their head. A superior court judge has ruled that their contract is unenforceable, and that their paper is worthless.” I opened my mouth to say something, but he ordered me out of his office. That night when I got home, I opened my briefcase and called a phone number. Angela picked up. “I need to give back your legal papers,” I said. “You can keep them,” she said. “They’re originals. You need the originals.” “You can mail them to me. Maybe you can claim pro bono time for that, too.” “I’m sorry about that,” I said. That's the thing about beautiful women; you do them a favor, and they still get pissed off, and then you have to apologize. Or maybe that’s just Angela. “Can I buy you dinner?” There was a long pause, and for a change I had the sense to keep my mouth shut. “It better be a nice place,” she said. “It will, I promise,” I said. I was going to take her to the most expensive place I could find. I had an Evil Bank credit card, too, and I would not be paying the balance on that card. Evil Bank would be paying for the dinner, and that made me feel good. “Ok,” she said, and when I heard her say that, I didn't care about my boss or the Partner or the firm that paid me badly while treating me like shit. Everything had turned out just fine in the end.


I’m not really special, I’m dead. I don’t know how I died really, that’s a weird thing about being dead. Who knows if it was suicide, a car accident, an overdose, or an animal attack. At least I remember who my family is. Day 1: They found my body, took them long enough. And what you’d expect happened. There was shock, tears, anger, and regret. I can’t feel sad anymore, but I would feel for them even if it took 1000 years. Day 2: Today the funeral took place, it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted people to be happy at my funeral, like one last birthday party with cake, and balloons, and gifts. But the gifts would be for each-other. I never wanted a nice casket, but I also didn’t think I’d know what casket I had. Day 3: Everyone is sad. I tried to communicate with them, but of course I couldn’t. I tried to let my brother at work know I was still here, I tried to let my sister taking care of her kid know I was here, but nothing worked. I wish I could tease them, love them, and hold them again, but I understand why I cannot. Day 7: I forgot what color my eyes are, and I forgot which one of my feet were missing a toe. Kind of strange, whenever I look in a mirror it’s like looking at what a blind person sees. Not black, nothing, indescribable. My family is holding up well, I wish I could miss them so much, but I can’t. They are getting back to their lives. My brother met a coworker at work and now they’re friends, my sister watched her child take her first steps. I hope they will be happy soon. Day 23: Today I forgot my favorite food, the exact shape of my face, how long my hair was, and I never noticed but my hands don’t have those indents in them. My brothers dating his coworker now, my sister is struggling to raise a child alone but is pushing through, I also forgot the small things I do, like, I don’t know; waving to the mailman, or dancing in the kitchen, death is easy though. Day 135: Today I forgot what my voice sounded like, I forgot how tall I was, and I forgot almost all of my personality. My sister is watching her baby learning to talk, she finally got a name too, Sammy. My brother is happy with his girlfriend, he got a new job by the way. It pays much better than his old one. Money never really mattered did it? Just what we use to survive, all of us. All of this watching makes me wonder why I don’t see anyone here, also watching their loved ones. Being alone forever only allowed to watch live continue, is this hell? Day 826: Today when I looked in a mirror, there was nothing left. I saw nothing that was me, nothing was left me of me, besides some faint laughter I couldn’t do anything, besides watch. I forgot about my parents. They forgot about me too, dementia doesn’t that to people. They forget. They forget what you look like and who you are. My brother is getting married soon, and my sister is watching her baby go to preschool. I never stopped trying to communicate with them, but I think they did. Day: 2793 I forgot how it felt to feel. When I died I remembered what being scared, happy, sad, distressed, and desolated felt like. But now I can just watch. There isn’t even an “I” anymore. Just a soul watching, hoping, to not be alone. But I can’t even feel lonely. My brother is married, and is having a kid. I can’t even think anymore I can just observe. My sister is taking her kid to 5th grade. I don’t know if she’s happy, Sammy, that was her name. I wouldn’t know if she was sad either. Day: 2794 I saw my brother today, but he was dead. The gun was in his hands, he couldn’t handle it. I could finally talk with him, hug him, play games with him, and be there for him. As I went closer to his soul, he shouted. “Who the heck are you?” I realized now that in this moment, I actually died, and he would too, so I cried.


On hot nights like these, I always sleep with the window half open. Sometimes the wind howls, or the rain pelts the pearly sill that silently sits abase the glass panels on my window, carrying the weight of damp potted plants and a cracked ashtray. Those sounds never bother me though, they’re almost soothing, like white noise. The noise that sliced through the tranquil silence was however far from soothing. From the inky darkness out my bedroom window I hear the weathered creak and rattle of my back gate amidst the bustling of shrubs and dancing of branches. The eerie wail of the gate’s hinges burst through the darkness, a screech so thick it could paint a path in the night sky. It crawls its way through the ajar window and pierces my ears no matter how hard I toss and turn to ignore it. The sound is drawn out and unbothered, as if the gate itself is gingerly inching its way open. "Just the wind," I tell myself, rolling over, digging deep into my pillow so my ears are shielded from the groan of my back gate. The wind must have just blown the gate open, the latch was rusted and old anyways, probably came loose, or maybe I even left it open, I’m far too busy to even check for such little things anyw-. The return to silence breaks my train of thought, the recollection billowing up into nothingness like the smoke of my last cigarette that sits alone in the empty ashtray. Buried under the safehaven of my pillows, I sit on the cusp of drifting back to sleep, and for a moment, I feel the release of nothingness. However, following the brief escape of tranquility comes a loud bang, one that rattles and shutters as it bounces off the stars, echoing throughout the night air. This sound is one I could not ignore; it was as if the gate was forcibly thrown shut. My spine goes rigid and shoots me up where I lay. I can hear the latch chittering as its rusty grasp wanes against the collision of wood and metal seemingly pushed into it. As I now sit in my bed, wide awake, I continue to tell myself, “it’s just the wind.” It’s rational, a quick, rash breeze had just thrown the gate shut just as its soft kiss had gradually inched it open. Then it came again. piercing again through the silence, a sharp creak. While the last had drawn out for about a minute or so, this one is fast, crying out into the darkness for just shy of ten seconds before it too is abruptly silenced by another bang. Then it came again. The gate shrieks as it is now thrown open, and shudders against its latch as it is closed. Going on and on, over and over again the pace only picks up, Creeeeeak…Bang! Creeak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Creak…Bang! Cowering once again behind my shield of cotton and feathers, I wrap my pillow around my stinging ears, begging it to stop, until, just as it had so quickly begun, it ceased. The final thud comes, followed by familiarity, and security, of nothing. Not even the wind dares to make a sound now, a deafening silence blankets the darkness. Where one may find security, I only find worry. The air is hot and though the wind dare not blow, a chill lingers on my skin. My stomach sits upside down, tied in a knot, my hands clenched, gripping the sheets to bring them close to my cheeks. I finally lay back down, and try to sleep, it’ll all be gone if I just sleep. But in the back of my mind, I can't keep telling myself that it was just the wind. Though, without a means of rationalizing the situation, I instead choose to just drift back into my sleep. Time passes, but I do not know how much, in a sleep-ridden daze, I sit up, and once again, a sharp noise breaches my veil of silence. Focusing, I come to my senses, realizing this noise now comes from inside my house. Barking. Reggie has a high and squeaky bark, more like a yip to be frank, fit for his tiny frame. He's the farthest thing from a guard dog, but still, his courage never waivers, courage that I could use right now. His chain of barks is unwavering, carrying on in a crescendo of yelps akin to the fire alarm. At least I know for certain that this is not just the wind. Though I am weary of the uncertainty lurking down in the yard, I turn and step out of bed, Reggie’s barking about something, and I need to get him back to bed. My feet meet the floor with a frigid greeting. As if even the warm summer air had been scared off, the hardwood is cold to the touch. Stepping down my stairs, it is now clear Reggie sits at the large sliding glass back door, snarling at something in the darkness. He is unbothered as I creep up behind him, and when I reach out to touch him, his fur stands on end, dancing in waves with every bark. Looking into the unforgiving wall of dark, I strain to see past my own reflection. Pressing my eyes so hard against the glass that I might fall through, I see the backyard sits empty and still. My shaky breath gently fogs up the glass, moving back with a wipe of my sleeve, the backyard remains stagnant through the clear door. A wave of relief begins to surge through me, realizing there really is nothing there. Turning around to go back upstairs, Reggie presses close to my calf, his snarling silenced. “What is it, boy?” I ask, kneeling down to run my hand along his back. He doesn’t even glance at me, his eyes unwavering, his gaze present only in the yard in front of us. Getting one last look, my heart drops. I see it, In the back corner of the empty yard, I can barely make out its lanky figure amidst the shadows and bushes. It stands, as still as Reggie and I, as if it too is terrified of what lies in front of it. Finally, his long, thin leg begins lurching its way across the dewey grass. It moves in a way so animated, my paned backdoor could be a TV screen. Exaggerated lifts of each leg halt in a lunge, landing on the tip of its toe much like a ballerina trapped in the heat of a dance. With each step it swings its arms merrily, almost as if it truly is dancing. In just shy of three bounds, it has moved across half the yard, rigidly facing me once again. It’s now escaped the shadows, and my gaze remains trapped on its unique figure. Seeing it fully, it stands at nine or ten feet tall, and its skin bares such a pale gray, it reflects the moonlight as if it was basking in the sun. Its limbs hang in a way that is uncanny, stretching long and high, dangling at its side in an almost cartoonish fashion. Though its face remained shadowed, its eyes stared into mine, seeing through me from across the backyard, even past the apparent security of the lightless kitchen. Raising one long, gray limb up to its head, it gives a slow, curling wave, bowing and tilting its head to the side as it did so, before turning back around and continuing its inhuman stride across the yard. Its long gray limbs cheerfully swing. It is moving so fast, yet so slow, like light passing through water, and though its steps come down heavy, it meets the grass with silence. Reaching the border of my yard, one long step extends its leg over my neighbor’s fence and into their yard, the gray pale head disappearing from my sight, sinking behind the wood. Reggie’s muscles finally relax, and for a moment I stand, basking in the silence, grasping at straws to decipher what had just happened. Slinking up to bed, I swiftly shuffle across my hall, Reggie close behind me. In long lunges my feet silently meet the carpeted floor, carrying my muddled mind to the sanctuary of my bed. Lying under the covers, my mind is finally appeased, sinking slowly into the comfort of sleep. My eyes go heavy, and my mind shuts off, all I now know is darkness as silence fina- Crreeeeeeeak…Bang! Screeching its way through the still air of my home, I shoot up in my bed, as I hear the sound of my basement door slowly opening, before it is swiftly thrown shut.


We were never wealthy. My family and I lived in a small village near the northern border of Romania, and we had nothing. 1852 was not a good year, as the crops were naught but dust in the wind of the coming Autumn change. Not only were we miserable, we were hungry. There was my father, mother, younger sister, and I, a tender youth of eight. The cold of that Autumn was like nothing I had ever experienced before, and my father became a brash man. An angry man. A… failed man. As any other time, our days were spent working in the field, trying our best to save each grain of wheat we could, hoping that Mother could produce a single loaf for the week, but the loaf never came. I had dreams of Bucharest butter and cream, visions of meat, the fat and all those wonderful things that other children could enjoy but us. The toil of an empty stomach wears heavy on the mind, this I know well. The pinnacle of desperation came when a traveling merchant made his way to our rat’s nest in the woods and my father murdered him to take his goods, but it was in vain. It was a con man, of Moldova, who thought to purloin what he could after gaining trust from a hungry family. As he pulled back the blanket from the merchant’s cart, Father dropped his bloody axe to the ground and followed it, falling to his knees and screaming. His screams were those of a child, a child wanting something it cannot have, and screaming the walls of the house down. Nothing quite shakes your view of the world as a young man as seeing your father falling apart in front of you. He told us to get back into the shack while he buried the slender man in the woods, where he would not be found. I watched through the window as Father slung him into his cart and took him deep into the woods. I heard nothing. He was gone for a long time, too long of a time to bury someone, and Mother was chewing her lips with worry, but she dared not disobey his command. Before long, as the sun was setting, Father came back into the shack, clothes bloody and grim, but he was back. As he stood at the threshold of our shack, he looked at us and, for the first time in months, he smiled. He smiled as he pulled out a blood-soaked sack from behind his back and exclaimed that he had killed a fox that smelled the dead man’s blood. He did not have the sack when he left. He did not have anything to hunt the fox with, only a shovel, and foxes are too quick for that. There was too much meat in the sack to come from a fox. Nevertheless, he tossed the sack to mother and told her to cook. “But it-” “Damn it woman! Cook!” She obeyed him and we had the first glimpse of a whole meal in weeks. Sitting at the table, we dined and ate the fox, lips smacking as toothless hounds, but it was wrong. We had had fox meat once before, and it was tough, difficult to chew, and tasted awful. Eating fox made us want to never eat fox again, but this fox was sweet, tender, almost like the pork we had one rare Christmas night. The idea of my father lying about the meat was a figment in my mind as its delectable taste overwhelmed my hungry self, and I gorged, consumed, even cried from happiness. Before long, the idea was completely gone as I sunk into a deep sleep by the fire, curled with my sister, whom I had loved with every fiber of my being. The Autumn night was freezing and our dire situation was halted for a single night. Until I felt the warm, soft feeling of my sister’s body against mine get ripped away from me. Her screams were piercing, as she struggled against my father’s grasp. Urged by a primal need to defend what is closest to me, I surged from the floor and lunged toward my father, but his other hand was promptly over my mouth and he was telling me to be silent. “They are outside.” Muffled screams died down into soft wallows as I realized he was not assaulting my sister, but keeping her quiet. We were huddled down in a corner of the room directly under the window, through which moonlight reared to reveal his face. He was stricken by a mortal fear, one of a man who had seen either a devil or something much worse. It was the latter. As he gently moved his hand from my mouth, I whispered the only thing on my mind: “Who is outside?” “Th… them, I am not sure. Be quiet and sit down. Do not make a sound.” He released my sister as well, threatening her with a high fist if she were to say anything, something I had grown to hate about him ever since the first time he had done it. Slowly, he crept toward the window to look outside. It was half-barred with wooden planks that we made the previous winter, so he could just peer outside without being seen. As his head came above the windowsill and he closed a single eye, and a breath escaped him. A shaky breath of a dying man, he was petrified. I could not help but satisfy my curiosity, and seeing that he was not moving out of fear, I dared to creep closer and reveal what they were. I wish I had never looked out of that window. There are things in this world that are better left for the mind to imagine, never behold. Outside our shack in the middle of nowhere, illuminated by the full moon above, stood a troop of men, all nearing the image of the wandering “fox” we had eaten for dinner. As my young eyes adjusted to the light and my mind processed the horror, the full gravity of our situation was made clear. Those were not men in our garden. They were corpses. Rotting, putrid icons of people the Reaper either did not care to take or was not allowed to take by something, they were animated, standing in our garden, seemingly pointing their eyeless skulls toward our small measure of safety - the broken and patched window. I was six years old. I was naive to the world, both the goodness of it and the horrors that resided in the recesses of the deep dark woods. I could not help it. I screamed. I screamed as those satanic amalgams burned themselves into my mind as I clawed at my eyes to make them leave. The sanctity of my own mind was raped by things that I could not fathom, things that any god would condemn and keep away from us. I sometimes wondered if whatever god there is was also afraid of what those men were… As soon as the terror escaped my mouth with my breath, the dead men sprung into erratic movements toward the house, as marionettes controlled by a cruel and twisted puppeteer. More came from the woods, but I dared not count them. My father was shaken awake by my screams and took my sister and I by the collars of our worn shirts and flung us into the miniscule cellar where we kept the spare nails and hammers. He flipped the table over and slid it over the door, so we could not get out. “Do not make a sound.” We heard the thumping sound of his footsteps getting further and further away as he took up arms, his axe, and opened the door of the shack. I’d rather not describe his screams or my mother’s wails as they had their way with her… The thing I remember most vividly is muffling my sister’s mouth and smelling iron in the air as it leaked through the floorboards, and remaining like that until the hazy light of the morning shined through the broken and bloody window. The men disappeared along with the night, and we were, at first, too afraid to move. Before long, the feeling of dread was back and we began screaming for help, for anyone to come and rescue us. Even though a god had not thought it merciful to spare my parents’ lives, it did think it wise to send us a smith, Florin, to save us. Florin was stunned by the scene in the house and did not allow us to look, and took us away to his home, where we remained, until my sister died from pneumonia seven years later. I, finding no joy in smithing and no purpose with my sister in the grave, left for a boarding school in Bucharest where I lived, until I established a family of my own. I was at peace until this night. I am writing this to express how thankful I am, truly, that my sister did die when she did. It would have been unfortunate for her to be here now. It is Autumn, a very cold night in Autumn and my wife and daughter are asleep in the bedroom. I have locked and barred the door. My inkwell is almost empty, and as I look out from my study window to the outside, I can see the same strange movements emerging from the wooded area in front of our house. I can see my father’s dead eyes looking up at me, bathed in moonlight. I have made peace with my fate. Irina, Iulia, I love you with all my heart, but I must go. There are foxes in the garden.


It was never Thanksgiving, never Christmas that got me, I think because I could see them coming well ahead of time, years ahead if I wanted. They were like an orbiting comet, you knew when to expect them and if you got hit by one, sure, it would vaporize you. But they weren’t scary because you always knew where they were. It wasn’t the holidays that got me. It was those days that came out of nowhere, like an extinction level asteroid. One minute I’m sleeping like my bed is in a hypergolic chamber, the next minute I feel like I’m watching what looks like a comet in the sky grow and grow until its light is all that I see, and I hear it ripping the air apart in front of it as it closes in, then wham! I’m extinct. Not extinct, not really. But I’ve watched the world go ‘round for 1,128 days, staring out through this small window, mostly alone. I have next to no contact with the world outside. Most days, I don’t think too much about it. This is my life, love it or hate it, and my own choices led me here. No sense in driving myself crazy over some imagined life I could be living instead. I haven’t seen or talked to a member of my family since I went away either. 1,128 days since I heard any of their voices, felt their arms around me, or heard “I love you.” The holidays I see coming. It’s days like today that are hard. Taken by surprise, days when the view from this window looks much less beautiful. Today is the hardest so far. This is the smallest my window has felt since I’ve been aboard the Scout Class : Kestrel Fury. The most alone I’ve felt since I left the surface 1,128 days ago. There are daily check-ins, of course. Weekly discussions with the Psych, regular meetings with a doctor, a dietician, the Cheerleader (he’s a pastor and a life coach, but I like my name for him. He laughs and refers to himself that way now, too.), and various other members of the team. Dry, all business. I’ve never heard “I love you” in a meeting with any of them, nor would I ever expect to. Not a comet, they don't scare me, we see those coming. It’s the asteroids, those colossal titans crashing down on you with extinction-event speed, so fast you never had a chance to brace yourself. So fast, that when you heard the call come across the comm, you barely reached your small window in time to see, just a little white-orange sparkle, a tracer round, a spectacular speck, aiming for home. Barely fast enough to bear witness, barely fast enough to look away in time and not get yourself blinded. That fast, in the blink of an eye, in the most literal sense, so quick, and then, there were no more holidays. We aren’t extinct. There are a few of us floating around out here. Could be another 7,300 days before the last of us goes. Holidays are like comets, and they're just like Earth. They’re gone. They’re all gone and none of them are coming back around.


The door says they’re closed. Am I at the right place? You’re at the right place. Just open the door. I’m in the back. Paul opened the door a crack and peeked in. Warmth, the smell of baked bread, and a few small drifts of conversation seeped out. It was enough for him to open the door all the way. Most of the tables were empty, a few were unbussed. But the hostess was still at her post, staring down at her podium, her bright and busy phone screen reflected in her glasses. She looked up at him languidly. “Uh, I’m sorry. I’m not sure if I’m in the right place.” he said. “Paul?” she asked. “Um, yes. I–” “All the way to the back.” she interrupted. Then returned her face to her screen. She seemed very young, looked almost too young to even have a job. But the way she’d spoken to him. Not rude, exactly, or disgusted. But with disinterest. With a boredom that takes most people forty or fifty years to earn. He tried to make himself smaller as he walked past her. With his eyes to the very back wall, he made his way around the empty tables. He only saw one other table with someone seated. A woman who looked about 50 was absently gazing at the wine menu. Then, while he was watching, another younger woman backed out from under the table. Her short red dress left nothing to the imagination, if only there were anyone else around to take a peek. She sat down abruptly across from her partner, who leered at her with a smirk. She hastily wiped her mouth with a napkin, scanning the room as she did so. Paul locked eyes with her for a brief, embarrassing second, then they both looked away. Paul continued through the restaurant. In another moment he heard a voice. “Paul!” It was Evelynn. She was, indeed, at the very back. She stood up and waved, smiling. The lighting was all very dim, but he could still make out her silver, form-fitting dress. Like eveningwear in a beauty pageant, he thought, but not so self-conscious. She looked relaxed. Charming. Seeing her made him unclench his jaw and relax his shoulders. When he had just about closed the distance between them, she lunged forward and hugged him. He thought it felt like more of a trust-fall, the way he almost had to catch her. They both laughed. She kissed his cheek, then told him to please have a seat. She was still smiling. “You look amazing,” Paul said. He took a quick glance at his polo shirt and slacks, then added “I feel so underdressed.” “No, don’t be silly.” Evelynn said. She reached across the table and took his hand lightly in hers. She looked into his eyes with an intensity he didn’t recognize. After a few seconds he had to look away. “So I wasn’t wrong about them being closed,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the nearly empty dining room. “Oh. no. You’re right. They close at 11. But my friend is the chef. She lets me sneak in sometimes. Especially if I’m bringing a date.” She gave him a wink. She hadn’t let go of his hand. “So, is this a date?” he asked. “I thought so,” she said, still smiling. “You don’t? “No, I mean, I wanted it to be. I was excited when you texted. But I was surprised. I hadn’t heard from you for a while. I thought maybe things were just too awkward.” She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Well, we can talk about all of that while we eat. Are you hungry?” He had been so nervous in the hours leading up to their dinner that he hadn’t actually stopped to consider that he’d be required to eat anything when he got there. But seeing Evelynn again, how sincerely happy she seemed to see him, had put him at ease. His stomach growled. “Sure.” he said, trying to sound relaxed, “I could take a look at a menu.” “Ah, sorry! One of the rules we have to follow as secret guests of the chef is that we eat whatever she brings us. Sometimes it's extra portions. Sometimes it’s a new dish she’s experimenting with. But it’s always…always amazing.” Evelynn said. She grinned an almost mischievous grin, and asked him if he had any debilitating food allergies. He said no. As if summoned by their conversation, the chef emerged from the steel double doors of the kitchen like a card shark bursting into an old western saloon. When her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting of the dining room, she spotted the pair at their table and marched over. Paul thought she looked like a cartoon version of a chef. With a stained hand towel draped over her shoulder and a few locks of brown hair spilling from her exaggerated chef’s hat. She was all smiles as she approached the table. “Hey babe.” she said to Evelyn cooley. Evelyn stood up to give her a long hug and a kiss on the cheek. Paul stood and offered his hand. “I’m a hugger, Petey.” the chef said, slapping his hand away. She pulled him in for a quick but very tight squeeze. “It’s Paul,” said Paul, without making eye contact. “You guys ready for something new and exciting tonight?” the chef said, ignoring him. “It’s something new I’ve been playing with. I got it going in the back right now. It’s just about ready. Don’t fill up on bread, ok?” she said. She gave Paul a wink, then swooped back toward the kitchen, disappearing again behind the giant double doors. Paul scanned the table for bread. There was none. “What did she say her name was?” Paul asked once he was sure she was gone. “She didn’t.” Evelyn said. “It’s Katy.” “She reminds me of my Uncle Chuck.” he said. “How did you two meet?” “Oh, we go all the way back. We grew up on the same street. She’s pretty much my big sister. She’s in ninety percent of the photos from my childhood.” Evelyn stared nostalgically past Paul for a moment before taking his hand on the table again. “But enough about her. How have you been?” she asked. “I’m ok.” he said. His eyes were fixed on his hand in hers, her thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. He had to break out of his trance to continue. “ Mostly just working around my dad’s shop. I’ve run it a couple whole days this week, while he was out getting parts and meeting some people for the car show.” “Car show?” Evelyn said.. “Yeah, every year one of the local radio stations has a car show, and my dad likes to be really involved in it with networking and all that. It always brings in a lot of business.” “Which radio station?” “I’m not sure.” “Isn’t that something you should find out if you’re gonna help run the place?” she said. That question tensed him up a little, but her sincere smile disarmed him almost in the same instant. He didn’t remember her being so charming before. Maybe it was all this dim, romantic ambiance, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to someone so effortlessly beautiful. He was about to tell her so when a commotion from somewhere behind him broke the spell. The two women that Paul had passed on the way in were yelling at each other now, and in what sounded like two separate languages. The younger woman Paul had caught crawling out from under the table was yelling in Spanish as she pummeled the older woman with her purse. The older woman was shouting incoherently and laughing in what sounded like drunken English as she held up her arms against the blows. There was also a very small dog on the floor yipping frantically and making exaggerated lunges at the older woman before withdrawing. In a moment two waiters appeared from the shadows and restrained the younger woman, leading her off around the corner. Her dog followed. The older woman, still laughing, collapsed in her chair and lit a cigarette. She caught sight of Paul staring at her. She spread her legs and shouted hoarsely “See anything you like?” Paul whipped back around, red-faced. Evelyn laughed. “That lady’s always here when I come in. I don’t know what her deal is.” she said. “I think the other girl with the dog was going down on her under the table when I came in.” Paul said. Evelyn spit water into her hand upon hearing this, and tried her best to choke down the rest. “What??” she said. They both started to laugh. But the situation reminded Paul of why he’d been so anxious about this meeting. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.” he said. But that train of thought was interrupted by a metal cart crashing its way through the giant steel doors of the kitchen. Katy had brought the food. She wheeled up to their tableside, and placed a plate before each of them. Then she began: “Good evening! Tonight, I'd like to introduce you to one of my special new dishes, a true culinary delight hailing from the vibrant coasts of Vietnam: 'Vietnamese Stuffed Squid with Ground Pork,' a dish that encapsulates the essence of Southeast Asian cuisine with a touch of sophistication.” She winked at Paul again, then continued, as Evelyn took out her phone and began recording. “At the heart of this creation is fresh, tender young squid, meticulously cleaned, and prepared to become the vessel for our sumptuous stuffing. The stuffing, a harmonious blend of finely ground pork and succulent chopped shrimp, is the soul of this dish. It's enriched with delicate glass noodles and wood ear mushrooms, adding a unique texture and earthiness.” Laughter from Evelyn. Katy continued the next part in an exaggerated French accent. “We infuse ze pork mixture with a symphony of flavors – garlic, ginger, and a selection of fresh herbs, creating layers of aroma and taste. Zis mixture is carefully stuffed into each squid, ensuring every bite is a perfect balance of seafood and seasoned pork. “For ze final touch, we slice ze squid into elegant rings, revealing ze intricate layers of ze stuffing. It's a visual and gastronomic spectacle. Served alongside a bed of fluffy, steamed rice, zis dish is not just a meal; oh no no, it's a journey through texture, taste, and ze culinary artistry of Vietnam.” Evelyn put her phone away. The drunk woman across the room stood and applauded. Katy bowed with a flourish. “Cool, thanks, bye.” Evelyn said. Katy leaned in and kissed her cheek, then leaned over to Paul and said “Don’t be jealous sport, she’s not my type.” She jabbed him lightly with a knowing elbow, then retreated back into the kitchen once more. She left the cart by their table. On it were placed a candle and a bottle of wine. Paul had heard a few words he was not prepared for. Mainly tender, young and squid. He wasn’t sure about this at all. Evelyn, on the other hand, was already elbow deep in it. “Oh my god.” she said. “This is sooo good.” Well, she had invited him. He’d come all this way. There was no turning back now. He speared a stuffed squid ring with his fork, steeled himself, and ate it all in a bite. “Holy shit that’s good.” he said. And he meant it. It was amazing. They ate a moment in silence. A waiter emerged from the shadows and opened the bottle of wine, poured a glass for each of them, then receded back into the shadows once more. But after the silence got a little too oppressive, Paul once again felt the niggling urge to address the recent awkwardness between them. “Evelyn,” he began, “this is so nice. Really. Thank you so much for inviting me. But…” Evelyn reached out and took his hand. “I know what you’re going to say.” she said. “You want to talk about Halloween. That’s fine. We can talk about it now.” “Oh, good. I’m so glad. I’ve just been feeling like, if you knew my side of it, it wouldn’t be so bad.” She gave his hand another encouraging squeeze. “I’m listening.” she said. Paul looked down at the table as he began. “Ok. I’m trying to think of where to begin. I remember I was at Nate’s party. And I was super nervous because I knew you were gonna be there too. So I started drinking a little more than I normally would. And you know, the more I drank, the more excited I was to see you and tell you that I liked you and maybe ask you out. But as the night went on, you know, I never spotted you. I asked around if anyone had seen you, but nobody had. I know I texted you some pretty angry stuff, and I apologize for that. I just get angry when I drink, and I know that’s something I need to work on. So then, I went into Nate’s parents’ bathroom to puke, and when I came out, the lights were off, and there was a girl dressed as a banana on the bed. Only her…peels were down, and she only had a bra on her top. And I asked her, hey, are you ok?, and she just kinda laid there, and it was dark and her face was painted or something. So I got closer to her and asked her again if she was ok, and she smelled kinda fruity, it was nice, and she looked over at me, and I thought she was kinda smiling at me, and I was very drunk, so I kissed her. And she didn’t really kiss me back, but she didn’t stop me either, so…” “So you fucked me.” Evellyn said calmly, still holding his hand. “I didn’t know it was you, Evelyn, I swear! Not until almost the very end.” “The end.” she said. “When you came inside me.” Paul was crying now. And hyperventilating. “Did I?” he asked. “Oh man, I don’t know, I don’t remember. I didn’t have a condom or anything.” “I know,” she said. “But I swear Evelyn, I swear, I don’t have any diseases or anything. I’m clean. I promise.” “I know,” she said. Still as cool as a marble statue. The drunk woman punctuated his teary confession by screaming “Call me a cab, Enrique! I pissed all over your good chair. Add it to my tab!” Evelyn chuckled a little at the sudden outburst, but kept looking at Paul. Paul had pulled his hand back and sat with his head lowered in his hands, elbows resting on the table. The drunk woman shambled loudly around the corner, and was gone, leaving only a thin trail of smoke behind her. The couple sat in silence. Then Paul looked suddenly at Evelyn with a feeble terror in his face. “Did you, I mean…were you on birth control?” he said weakly. “I wasn’t.” she said. “I mean, you would’ve told me, if you’d gotten pregnant or something, right?” “Maybe that would’ve been the courteous thing to do. I guess I don’t really know, Paul. I hadn’t been raped before.” She spoke without a hint of malice, or even sarcasm. The word raped seemed to loosen Paul’s bowels like a kick to the stomach. In his panic, he could taste the adrenaline burning the back of his throat. He felt dizzy, like he might pass out. Was that what he’d done? Had he raped her? The thought disgusted him. He wasn’t a rapist. They’d been drinking. He was drunk. She misunderstood. It was a misunderstanding. He wasn’t some monster. He’d had feelings for her. They’d kissed. He hadn’t hit her or subdued her or covered her mouth or anything. Evelyn reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. “Look at me Paul,” she said firmly. She squeezed his hands. “Paul, you’re ok. I need you to breathe.” His eyes finally caught hers, and she held eye contact with him. “In and out, Paul,” she said. “Calm down. Good. Have a drink.” Paul took his wine glass and brought it to his lips with a trembling hand. He drained it. Evelyn reached for the bottle and refilled it. He drank it all down again. “To answer your question,” she said after a moment, “yes, I did get pregnant.” The wine was working on Paul now, so instead of vomiting from sheer panic all over himself, he simply slumped down in his chair. Evelyn’s composure told him she was telling the truth. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t understand.” he said. You don’t look pregnant.” “I’m not anymore, Paul. I took care of it.” “Oh Jesus.” he said, planting his face in his hands. “Are you ok? Did it hurt? Can I, I don’t know, can I pay you back? My parents have money. Oh, please,” he said, perhaps considering his parents for the first time, “Oh, please don’t tell them. I can pay you. Whatever you want. Just tell me. Please.” Evelyn squeezed his hand. “You don’t owe me any money. I didn’t pay for it.” “Who did?” he asked. “Nobody, Paul. Abortions are illegal in Texas, silly. There was nowhere I could go. I don’t have the resources to get halfway across the country. And I couldn’t ask my super religious parents to spot me this one time for me to get scooped out.” She spoke as though she were telling some amusing anecdote at a bar. The calm detachment that had comforted him before was now starting to unsettle him. “So one night Katy brought over a bottle of vodka, and we looked up videos on how to get rid of a pregnancy. And honestly, it really didn’t take us long to find them.” So,” Paul said, connecting the dots deliberatively, “you and Katy, you did it yourselves?” “Yes,” she said. “And you’re sure it worked? I mean, it came out? How did you get it out?” The giant steel doors opened flamboyantly. Katy appeared again, carrying a silver waiter’s tray. “One second, Paul. It looks like it’s time for dessert.” Evelyn said, watching Katy approach. Paul was dumbstruck. “Are you kidding?” he said, raising his voice. “I never kid about dessert.” Katy said with a wink. She laid the tray between them. “Evelyn, please! Just tell me. Are you sure it's taken care of? Did you see it come out?” Paul screamed. “Woah, calm down there, chief.” Katy said. “This is a nice establishment.” Evelyn looked at Paul in a way that, for the first time that evening, betrayed an emotion. But which emotion? Fear? Disgust? No. He wasn’t sure. Everything was happening all at once, and he was drunk from the wine. She spoke at last. “I know it came out, Paul, because I held it in my own two hands. And it looked exactly like I was terrified that it was going to look. It was tiny. And it was the heaviest thing I’ve ever held in my life.” Katy stood silently by her side, placing an arm firmly around her shoulder, still wearing her ridiculous chef’s hat. Paul sat in stunned silence. He couldn’t look at either of them. “You’re wondering,” Evelyn said at last, “what I did with it. Aren’t you?” “No, I mean, I’m…what?” Paul said. “You wanna know what she did with it?” Katy said. She lifted the lid from the silver tray. All three of them stared intently at it. There was no desert. Only a slip of paper. It was a bill. “A gentleman always reaches for the bill, Paul.” Katy said. Hand trembling, he reached for the slip of paper and scanned it. Two entries for the Vietnamese Squid w/Pork. But the second entry had some substitutions. \- 1/2 pork \- SUB foot \- SUB foot \- SUB hand \- SUB hand \- SUB head \- SUB embcl crd \- SUB heart \- SUB bld clot Paul read it. Then he read it again. His face went white. “This is a joke.” he said. Evelyn withdrew her hand. “Is it?” she asked. “You didn’t really. Who would do something fucked up like that?” He looked at Katy. He noticed the small splotches of blood on her apron for the first time. It could be pork blood, right? “I get it.” he said. “You’re mad at me, and you’re fucking with me to feel better.” Evelyn sat motionless, staring as cooly as ever. She said nothing. “This is insane. This is why you invited me here? Some revenge on the poor fat loser who can’t get any pussy unless it’s some dumb drunk bitch?” “Hey.” Katy interrupted. “Watch your mouth. I said this was a nice establishment.” “Just tell me the truth and I’ll go.” Paul said. For all his bluster, he hadn’t regained any color. Katy reached down and grabbed the bill, folded it neatly in half twice, and stuck it in Paul’s shirt pocket. “You can take care of that up front with Enrique, boss.” she said. “And make sure to give him this, and he’ll give you a discount.” Katy produced a small slip of paper from her apron pocket and slipped it in the pocket behind the check. Paul abruptly pulled it out to see what it was. It was a small polaroid photo of a bloody hand holding a red blob about four inches long. The room was dark, but squinting at it, Paul thought he could just make out a small pair of eyes. He threw it and the bill on the ground in disgust. “You’re both fucking crazy.” he shouted. At that moment, two waiters emerged from the shadows. Each placed a firm hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Right this way, sir.” said the one on the left. “I’m afraid we’re closed.” “No way. Not until they tell me the truth!” Paul shouted into the waiter’s face. The men each grabbed him by an arm and began to pull him away. Paul screamed and cursed and fought them until eventually they all receded into the shadows again. Evelyn and Katy watched until he was gone. The moment paul could no longer be heard, Evelyn sunk down into her chair and cried. “I know, babe.” Katy said. She knelt down beside the chair and drew Evelyn into an embrace. Evelyn wept loudly. Katy gently rubbed her back, like another would a sick child. Another waiter appeared by the tableside and moved to refill her glass of wine. Katy gently waved him away.


Wurrem was believed to be the kindest wizard, by almost everyone in Evrit. He used his magic to help, and heal the sick, and wounded of the village, Evrit. Wurrem found it his passion in life to care for others. This made him very different from many other wizards who used their magic to gain power, and control. Wurrem was still young though, and had much to learn. He wanted to make a name for himself by helping the world. But this was difficult to do when he lived in such a small village as Evrit. And so Wurrem had an idea to create a wand for healing. It would be able to heal anything it touches instantly. But making a wand like this was not an easy task. He needed a branch that had to be gifted to him from the trees. This was not too difficult though, for he had helped the trees before.But the second thing Wurrem needed was more of a challenge. A bone taken from a living person. To Get this he used a healing spell and duplicating spell at the same time to remove one of his ribs. This was very hard though to use more than one spell at a time. But once Wurrem had both the branch and the bone, he was able to make the wand. To do this he used magic to mend them together. This was very tedious, but when it was finished it was like a long spiral. Then he set off on his way. After a few days on the road. And several people helped. Wurrem was stopped by a group of men. The apparent leader asked him where he was going. Wurrem answered in a cheery voice “I am off to help the world.” The leader (Koled) responded “Alright, then you wouldn’t mind helping us out. Would you?” Wurrem “Oh yes absolutely. How can I help.” Koled “Hand over your satchel.” Wurrem “I’m sorry you may be confused. I can’t give this to you.” Koled “I didn’t finish. Take off your clothes as well and give them to me.” Wurrem “No I cannot do that.” Koled “Well I guess we’ll just have to take it then.” The group then proceed to attack Wurrem, with one of them stabbing him in the chest. While going through the satchel they discovered the wand. Though having never seen anything like it they assumed it was some sort of dagger. And so Koled held on to it. They then mounted their horses to ride off. But Koled’s horse wouldn’t move. This was new and infuriated Koled. In a fit of rage he stabbed the wand through the back of the horse's head. The horse reared on his hind legs, throwing Koled to the ground. The wand now stuck in the horse’s head. It healed itself, sealing it there forever. The immortal horse named Unicorn was stuck with the curse of healing anything it touched. This is one of my first stories so any criticism is appreciated. I really like the idea of this story and kind of want to rewrite it but longer and with more detail.


By Chuck Hustmyre "I get kidnapped all the time," Lumpy said. I didn't say anything. Just took a swallow of beer, hoping he wasn't about to go off on one of his stories. "I'm serious," he insisted. "I've been getting kidnapped since I was a teenager. Maybe even back before that. I just can't remember. I got some memory issues. Used to be, I thought it was aliens." "Aliens," I said. "Yeah. You remember, they were big back in the day. Lots of books and movies. Whole bunch of abduction stories. And they weren't talking about E.T. types. These were big, ugly, scary aliens, the kind that strap you to a table and stick a fork up your ass." I glanced up at the clock. Almost ten. Then I pointed to Lumpy's near-empty pint glass. "You ready for another?" But he just kept right on. "After it happens, I don't remember it, not exactly. Just a few flashes of what it was like. Then when I wake up, it's always morning. I'm always somewhere else. And I'm always naked." "Wait a minute," I said, knowing that by responding I was just encouraging him, but unable to help myself. That's how Lumpy's stories were, like some crazy vortex. Without you even noticing, they pulled you in. "You're telling me that not only have you been kidnapped several times -- " "A lot more than several," he said. "Okay, a bunch of times," I conceded. "And after, you wake up naked?" He nodded. "Where? Where have you woken up naked?" "All kinds of places." "Name one," I said. "Last time was behind the old library. I came to inside a Dumpster." "What'd you do?" "I found an old sack, wrapped it around myself, walked home." "From the old library? What is that, like four miles to your place? Wrapped in nothing but a sack?" "What else was I supposed to do?" he said. I waved to Stelly, the bartender, and held up two fingers. He nodded. "When I was nineteen," Lumpy said, "I woke up in Hammond." "Naked?" He nodded. "What happened?" I asked. "What do you think happened? A nineteen-year-old stumbling around a college town early in the morning, buck-ass naked? I got arrested. My parents had to come bail me out." "Jesus," I said. Momentarily forgetting that this story, like almost all of Lumpy's stories, was pure bullshit. "What are you guys talking about?" Stelly asked. I hadn't even seen him carrying over our two fresh pints. "Nothing really," I said. "Lump was just telling me ... " I let it trail off, not sure what else to say. Stelly laughed. "One of his famous stories?" I smiled and nodded. "Yeah. This one's a doozy," meaning to say it kind of light-hearted, but thinking it came out with more edge than I had intended. Lumpy chugged half of his beer. Stelly looked at me. "Six bucks." Lumpy rarely had money. Reason being he couldn't keep a job. I kind of figured he was dragging this kidnapping story out so he could mooch a couple of beers off me. I laid a five and two singles on the bar. As soon as Stelly walked away, Lumpy said, "After that, after what happened in Hammond, I got kind of -- " "After aliens left you naked, wandering around a town fifty miles from home." He looked at me dead serious. "Not aliens." "But you said -- " "I said I used to think it was aliens." I took a sip of beer, feeling less enthralled with Lump's tall tale after buying the first two rounds and not seeing a dime come out of his pocket. "Anyways," he said, "after Hammond, I got kind of religious." "You?" He smiled. "Believe it or not. I met this pastor. Not the TV kind, more of a regular preacher. I told him about my ... problem. And he pretty much convinced me that what was happening to me was the work of demons." I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could he pressed on. "Yeah, demons. Like The Exorcist except without ... " He made a stabbing motion toward his groin. "That stuff with the cross. And no vomiting. But, yeah, demons." "I didn't know demons kidnapped people," I said. "See, that was my problem with Pastor Mike's explanation too. But he said it weren't no kidnapping, per se. I wasn't taken anywhere, at least not by someone else. I got myself there on account of the demon possessing me. I just didn't remember it." "And you thought that made more sense than aliens?" Lumpy nodded. "I know, I know. At first I did, yeah. But after a while and after it happened a couple more times, I realized Pastor Mike's idea was even crazier than mine. What would a demon even want with me, right? What would be the point?" "Okay, let me stop you right there," I said. "What would aliens want with you?" "I figured we were more or less guinea pigs to them. Human guinea pigs. And that maybe I just got chose random like. But I figured a demon, once they was inside your head and all, would know a lot about you. So this demon, whoever he was, would probably figure out pretty quick that there ain't a whole lot special about me, and he would've moved on to someone else. But he didn't. Or it didn't. Or whatever. Because it's still happening." I shot another look at the clock. Now it was ten minutes after ten. I had to be at work at eight. About time to wrap this up. "Yeah, so this weekend," I said, "your sister wanted me to ask if you're interested in coming with us to the Beer Fest at the Rural Life Museum. She won four tickets on a radio station contest. Maybe you can bring a girl." Lumpy drained the rest of his pint in a single gulp. Burped. Then looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not going to be around this weekend." "Why not?" I asked. "Look, this thing I been telling you about, these kidnappings, they happen at regular times." He glanced up at the clock behind the bar. "Like clockwork. Next one's due to happen tonight." Engaged to his sister or not, the dude was starting to freak me out. He was racing from eccentric to bizarro and was one turn from straight-up mental case. "Tonight?" I said. "You're going to get kidnapped tonight?" He nodded. "Why don't you come stay with us, then. Bren would love to cook breakfast for you. She's always saying you don't look like you eat enough. We'll lock the house up tight. And the fold-out is not that bad." Forcing a laugh that I really didn't feel, I added, "I've slept on it once or twice myself." "You don't understand," he said. "Locks don't stop them. Not regular locks, anyway. I've tried. Once, I even chained myself to my bed. Didn't matter. I woke up the next morning in somebody's flowerbed. I have three arrests on my record for public nudity." "Hey, man, that's getting into the T.M.I. zone -- too much information." "This time, though, I have a plan." For some reason I got goosebumps and the hair stood up on my arms. "What kind of plan?" Lumpy's hands were down at the bottom of his shirt. I hadn't noticed him move them from the bar, but there they were. He lifted his shirt and flashed a gun. A black-handled silver revolver of some kind. "Holy shit!" I said. "Ssshhh." He pressed a finger to his lips. I looked down the bar. Stelly was looking at me. "What?" he said. "Nothing," I said. "Just finally got to the end of Lumpy's story." "A good one, finally?" Stelly said. I glanced at Lumpy. He was staring at me. Back to Stelly, I said, "Yeah, a good one." The bartender turned to the beer tap and pulled a pint for another customer. The gun was back out of sight under Lumpy's shirt. "What the hell are you doing with a gun?" I whispered. "Look," he said, "I've thought this out. This is the only way." "Only way to what?" He took a deep breath. "I need to be somewhere they can't get to me." "And?" "Jail. They can't get to me in jail." "I don't even understand what you're saying." I shifted in my seat, suddenly very uncomfortable. "Why are you carrying a gun?" He reached down again. I jumped. "Relax," he said, his hand reaching around to his back pocket, then tossing a folded letter-sized envelope on the bar. Despite the fold, I could see the first letters of my name scrawled across the front. "What's that?" I said. "A thousand dollars ... and a letter." My future brother-in-law barely ever had two nickels to rub together. "Where'd you get a thousand dollars?" I asked. "I been saving it. Since the last time." "Last time what?" "Last time they took me. That's when I came up with this plan." "Tell me what the plan is, Lumpy." "Okay, first let me just say this." He patted the revolver under his shirt. "It ain't loaded. I mean it is, but the shells are empty. I shot 'em over in the creek. I put the empties back in because when you're looking straight at it, from the barrel end, you could tell if there was nothing in the cylinders. I had to make it look real." I just stared at him, not knowing what to say. "So," he said, "here's the plan. I'm going to rob the bar." "Are you nuts!" I glanced down at Stelly, but he was too busy to notice my outburst. "Do you hear yourself? You're going to rob ... Wait just a damn minute." I nodded to the envelope. "You just told me you had a thousand bucks." "And a letter," he added. "What's the letter say?" I felt so much like I was dreaming that I actually pinched myself. But I didn't wake up. Lumpy didn't notice. "In the letter," he said, "I explain everything about the ... kidnappings, disappearances, abductions, whatever you want to call them. And that I'm only doing this to get locked up before midnight. See, it's always right after midnight when they come for me." "Lumpy, you don't need to get locked up. All you need is some help. You ever think that maybe this is all in your head? Something left over from that car wreck or ... Hell, I don't know. Maybe something happened to you when you were a kid." "The kidnappings started when I was a kid. I don't remember the first one. Not exactly, but I know that's when they started." "No. I mean maybe you're not really being kidnapped. That you're just ..." "Crazy?" he said. "Yeah, I thought of that. I wish I was crazy. But they leave marks -- bruises, scrapes, even punctures. One time they peeled off one of my toenails. I only remember little bits, but what I remember is that it hurts. Like hell." I pointed to the envelope. "What's the money for?" "Bond." When I didn't respond he continued. "I got this all worked out. For armed robbery there probably wouldn't be a bond. But once the cops realize my gun was unloaded, and that I left a thousand bucks with you, plus the explanation in that letter, I figure they'll -- " "You can't possibly expect the police to believe you're being abducted by aliens." "No. No. Not at all. And it's not aliens, by the way." "So what do you think they're going to think? The cops, I mean." "It doesn't matter, but they'll probably only charge me with first-degree robbery. I figure even a crappy public defender can get my bond down to ten thousand." He pushed the envelope closer to me. "And that's what the thousand's for. A bondsman charges ten percent." "And you want me to bail you out of jail?" He nodded. "With my money." "I'm not doing it." I stood up. He grabbed my arm. "I really need this." "You need a shrink is what you need." I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. I saw him look over at the clock. It was ten thirty. Stelly was walking toward us. "Here goes nothing," Lumpy said. Stelly stopped in front of us. "You guys want a couple more?" Lumpy let go of my arm and pulled the revolver. He shoved it in Stelly's face, an inch from his nose. The bartender's eyes got wide. "Hey, what the -- " Lumpy cocked the hammer. "I'm robbing you, Stell." I looked past Lumpy and Stelly. Everybody else in the bar heard the hammer ratchet back. They were all looking at us. "Give me everything in the till," Lumpy said in a loud voice. Stelly cut his eyes toward me. "How about you? You part of this too?" I shook my head. "He's gone crazy, Stell. I don't know what he's doing. Just give him the money and he'll be gone." Stelly nodded. "All right, Lumpy. You can have the money." Lumpy sprang over the bar. He walked Stelly to the cash register and stuffed the bills into his pockets. While everyone watched them, I slipped the envelope off the bar and into my jeans. Lumpy crawled back over the bar, keeping the revolver pointed at Stelly. "I'm sorry," he said. Stelly's face was like stone. But you could still read the hurt in it. Lumpy and I had been meeting up for beers here for three years, ever since I started seeing Lumpy's sister. "All right," Stelly said. "We're finished, right?" Lumpy nodded. I swear I saw a tear in his eye. Then he just ran. Right past me and out the door. Stelly let out a big sigh. He pointed at me. "I'm calling the cops. Don't you go anywhere." The police found Lumpy fifteen minutes later, sitting at an all-night diner two blocks from the bar. Sipping coffee. At the police station he invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination and refused to answer questions. The cops told him they'd get him a lawyer, a public defender, but not until morning. They put him in a holding cell just before midnight. The next morning I went to check on him. The desk sergeant said Lumpy had escaped. "How?" I asked. "We think he must have slicked himself up with soap and water," the sergeant said, "then somehow slipped through the bars. One thing I can't figure, though." "What's that?" I asked. "Why he left all his clothes.


When I was very small, my aunt took me aside and asked me why I was deliberately stepping on every snail we passed. She grabbed me by the shoulder, pulling me back from my next victim. I remember we were in front of a church. “Why are you doing that?” she asked. The sun was behind her head, and it made it very hard to look at her directly. I tried anyway, squinting at her, hoping I could extract from her angry expression. Because I could, I thought, but didn’t say. Because I was bored? Maybe, but I didn’t say that either. I don’t remember what she said afterwards, or if she said anything at all. I don’t remember how that conversation ended, but I think about it everyday. I’m thinking about it now. I think about it as I watch Arnold Packet beat the ever loving shit out of another one of my classmates. The other boy was Jack Fisher. I knew him, but he was no friend of mine. I didn’t have friends. I was walking through my highschool’s main hallway when it started. I think it was something about a girl, almost definitely it was about a girl. My classmates think I’m simple. I don’t talk much, and I don’t try very hard to fit in. They’re dismissive of me, but I don’t really care. It doesn’t bother me. The important thing is that I see more, understand more than they know I do. Maybe they let me see more because they think I’m simple, maybe I’m just that good. I try not to let it go to my head. I’m no narcissist. For weeks now both boys have juggled the heart of one Jessica Noel, undeniably the prettiest girl in school, as they were themselves the most handsome boys. I was partial to Jack fisher myself, and so was Jessica Noel, not that I cared. I was partial to Jack, but impartial to their love triangle. It wasn’t the type of thing I tended to care about. The hiccup was that Jessica Noel was ostensibly the girlfriend of the aggressor, Arnold Packet, but they weren’t seen together much at school, preferring to rendezvous after class in the evening. They met in the corner booths of local diners, and stole kisses in the darkness of movie theaters. What they didn’t do was interact at school. They didn't dare exchange a single wanting glance in shared classes, or in passing in the hallway. But do you know who Jessica Noel did share ethereal romantic exchanges with? That’s right, Jack Fisher. I don’t know why she didn’t just leave Arnold Packet for Jack Fisher, or why she didn’t publicly acknowledge Arnold as her boyfriend at school. If I had to guess, it's because while Arnold would like to think they were exclusive, Jessica Noel would not. I think, but I’m not sure, that Jessica Noel liked to visit lots of other boys, and only Jack Fisher was fool enough to blatantly eye fuck the girl that the biggest, meanest, son of a bitch in town wanted to be his and his alone. All hearsay, I should warn you. I didn’t know any of this for sure. It was a story I pieced together through hot romantic glances, through rumors and speculation. To the rest of the school, Jessica Noel was very much Arnold Packet’s girl; who only, just only, enjoyed teasing other boys, and nothing more. As far as the rest of the school could tell, Jessica Noel kept a marital bed. So when Jessica stopped buying tampons from the dispenser in the girl’s bathroom, there was no question why, and who. Obviously it was Arnold Packet’s kid, obviously. Except unless you were paying attention. Any guesses? I walked past the viscous, and brutal mauling of Jack Fisher in the hallway. It wasn’t my business. There was no starring role or bit part for me in the soap opera of their lives. Like I said before, I didn’t care. Not then anyway. It was weeks later, closer to a couple months I think, I can’t recall now, it’s been so long and I only had a passing interest in the entire affair. Jack Fisher had gone missing. No one knew why, but many suspected that he simply decided to run away, riding his motorcycle into that cool orange sunset reserved exclusively for handsome teenage boys. Never to be seen again. I knew better though. Jack Fisher didn’t ride off to wherever teenage heartthrobs ride off to. He was still in town, taking a long nap underneath a heap of dirt. I wonder who had tucked him in? The rest of the town certainly never found out. It was another one of those secrets that you could only know through the tension between lovers, through a hot war gone super cold. After the vicious beating of Jack Fisher, Arnold left him completely alone. It was almost like someone had intervened on his behalf, sparing Jack Fisher further beatings, but sealing his death sentence in the long run. Who can say, really? All I had was cold conjecture, not concrete fact. I had enough for myself though. I had been partial to Jack Fisher, maybe, I think, I had a fondness for him. Maybe I had liked him, as much as anyone like me can like anybody. “Why did you kill Jack Fisher?” I asked Arnold Packet one night. He was alone, drinking beer by a misty lake, leaning on the hood of his car. It was prom night, but neither he nor I were attending, had never planned on attending. I couldn’t care less about prom, and he was miserably single. That on top of being a newfound reject. Since Jack Fisher’s mysterious disappearance he’d been very quick to anger, and very emotional. His instability at this time had nearly cost him the life of what everyone believed to be his child. Jessica Noel wanted nothing to do with him afterward, and the entire town, including Arnold’s parents, had stood behind the mother to be. “Why did you kill Jack Fisher?” I asked him again. He didn’t answer. I don’t think he had a good one. I shot him. Once in the gut, and once in each knee, in quick succession. I don’t mean to sound narcissistic, but I was a very good shot. I blew away the smoke from the end of the barrel like I was a femme fatale in a movie. I watched Arnold Packet crawl away from me, his bleeding gut leaving a trail of shifted dirt, not unlike a snail’s.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Happy Holidays, everyone - or if you don’t celebrate, happy end of year! Let’s get into the spirit this week! **Image Prompt: ** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Use at least 3 of the following words - tinsel - yule - menorah - invictus - elves - spirit This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. Get creative, you can use it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for *Note, there will be no campfire or post next Monday (Christmas Day). We will follow the same schedule, but it will be moved to Tuesday. Don’t forget to submit your nominations then!* - u/MaxStickies *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Yesterday I met death. I've met him hundreds of times before, I've just chosen to ignore it each time. Do you remember that old story about the man who runs from death? He goes town to town, desperately fleeing apparitions he sees, only to realize the eventual cause of his death was his own flight. He comes to know its invevitability. I don't believe in spirits or apparitions of death but I do believe in divine symbolism. Something made us what we are today. Perhaps it is as the scientists believe and we are all products of random chance, thrust into existence through a one in a billion event. Perhaps the theists are correct, or at least one of them. The truth is that whatever put us here has a proclivity for irony. If God is the creator then I think I'd like to meet him. He has a funny sense of humor. If chance and naturalism are to be our God, then we simply interpret things as symbols and choose to draw meaning from them. Either way I believe firmly in a divinity of symbolism. Sometimes I will see a person at a bus station and they are looking right at me. I don't have the usual social anxiety about staring, perhaps rudely, at someone, especially if they are looking at me. It is during these times I find myself across the street from a stranger locking eyes in a seeming battle of wills; who will glance to their boots first? And perhaps it is a battle of wills for them - or a masculine urge forcing them to keep their eyes pinned to a stranger. They may twist their features to appear tougher, scuff their boots like a charging bull, or maybe they will simply stare back. It is these I have begun to fear. The one who flexes their muscles or sucks in their gut I can see as yet another scared, emasculated, and rejected figure looking to win an arbitrary mental battle. They are always the first to break down. *The second you look away so do they. Their eyes look like mine* It is the ones who stare back with no feeling of embarrassment or shyness that have made me recognize the symbols I have for so long chosen to ignore. Life is made of cycles; beginning, middle, and end. Each has carried its own unique symbol throughout history in every culture around the entire globe. *The face of death looks an awful lot like me* So when they stare back I see fire in their eyes. The cold face of death. That is what so many choose to ignore. It is the face of the person sitting next to you. It is the man sitting in the library window. It is your husband or your wife. And I don't mean to make you paranoid or to suggest I check over my shoulder at nights. I only invite you to stare back next time. To meet death at the bus stop and invite him into your home. Because if you don't invite him in, if you don't find a way to drink tea with him, he will find his own key.