Night had felt even more desolate than normal, the air in my bedroom was hot, stagnant, heavy with dust suffocating me under my half removed blanket. Outside from the nearby window, I could hear nothing. The static searing of the empty void pounded against my ears as the damp, sweat covered sheets stuck to my body. I had been laying here for hours, but how many hours had it been? It was the period of night that you should be asleep for, the overbearing sense of disconnection, darkness, the only feelings surrounding you are those of the unwashed blankets encompassing your body, and the pain in your neck from the pillow that flattened hours ago. Tomorrow would have been terrible if the early morning had held anything for me, a few hours of oversleeping would hardly be a problem. The sleep did not come easily.

Visions of suffocation plagued my mind throughout the night. I felt the sense of time pass, how long exactly I had no idea. I felt existence in that void of reality, a reality of fever ensued machinations, of far off deserts and sweltering labyrinths of all matter of horrors that I could not remember, but experienced in every way. There was no other night that had felt so long, so lucid, surreal but impossible. I experienced every moment in those hours, reality becoming cross with the unnameable things that asphyxiated my mind and prevented any possibility of rest.

When I awoke my mind was overrun. Suggestions of dreams, memories of nightmares, my mind quickly forgetting them as I came to, repeating to myself what was real, what held consequence in this world and what was nothing more than a product of my overheated mind. I came to realize the sun peering into my room. Beams of orange light pierced through every crack in my blinds and curtain, each dust particle ignited like ash from a blazing fire. This was no cool morning sun, not a white drape to slowly wake me in its crystalline warmth, this light was blinding dark orange that signaled the suns peak. A fiery gaze looking down upon me. How late is it, how late had I slept? My mind was already fogged with the vestigial events of the night and I could not gather my sense of time. I understood that I would be waking up later, perhaps an hour more even though it would truly be an hour less. Daylight savings time had come, and the distortion of time could have very easily effected my sleep, but not to this caliber. The clock on my bedside showed late evening. Before sleeping I had set it only an hour forward, if the clock was correct, I had slept nearly 16 hours. 16 hours was unprecedented, and simply losing an hour would not have caused that. My stiff muscles and locked joints felt as if it had been days, my greasy, matted hair almost stuck to the damp pillow sheet, my blanket sodden with sweat. Was the night truly that stressful, to keep me asleep for hours on end only to gain no rest? Something else had pierced my senses, there was no sound. In the late evening the sounds of gatherings and day workers returning home would be blaring outside my window, but there was nothing. Not a laugh nor a shout, there were no roaring engines or horns blaring. It was a cause with potential outcomes startling enough to force me from my bed, to my window, and quickly after I had seen what lay beyond it, I would rather return back to my fever dreams and the comfort of false reality. It had taken me a moment to understand that this was not just another dream. I was truly awake, truly experiencing the physical senses lost in nightmares: pain, discomfort, hunger, all while the pressing sense of emotional turmoil came down on me from that one glimpse outside the window. It truly had not just been an hour, the clocks had not gone forward, nor backward, it had not been a day, a week, a month or a year. No amount of time within my ability to comprehend it could have done this. All sense of modesty was gone, and I stepped outside half naked, I had to know it was real. With my own eyes I saw it, and I truly believed I was the last able to. A forest of desolation, a desert enveloping the last remaining suggestions of the civilized world I saw not more than an hour before I slept. Towering buildings crumbled against each other, the red sun penetrating each broken window as it sunk down beyond the horizon, leaving nothing but a sickened orange sky, bare of any streak or cloud that might have filled it on a normal day. Rationality in my mind had left me, answers could not be had, it had been a no more than five minutes since I had woken up. I walked through the old street that sand and rock had all but tore away, the metal beams of posts and the bodies of the few remaining vehicles stood as nothing but shells of rust, each gust of wind tearing away another piece. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the sand it carried, tearing against my pale skin as I walked down the road into the city. My eyes burned in adjustment, black scars blotted my already blurry vision, squinting at every window, every door and every object that once suggested hospitality in the hopes that some answers would reveal themselves. Answers for questions I couldn't ask, and no man, woman, or any living creatures presented itself, nor did the remains of any. No bodies could be seen, not even the bleached bones of a long forgotten street beggar peered from the shallow sands. No bodies, no remains, no signs of destruction or war. Simply the wind, consuming everything. Feelings of hunger and weakness pressed upon me, but it did not stop me from traversing the city. Every street, every skyscraper, vehicle and shop was identical to the previous, an unrecognizable maze of rusting metal, and concrete shells. The city ended abruptly, where the highway would take you was now little more than an endless wasteland of stone pillars and metal rods. A desolate stretch of highway could be seen, black pieces of old road in a suggestive path that suddenly ends. Where the old road ended, I could see nothing beyond the horizon but the sky of orange, darkness slowly revealing itself as the sun fell out of sight. When the sun ended, a new light revealed itself beyond the old road. One that grew in intensity as I came closer to the end, a red beacon shooting up into the star filled sky from underneath a horizon that was lost to me in the darkness. Until I came to the end of the old road. I could see it there, a black pillar of no shape, projecting its beacon into the sky from the crater beyond the horizon. As I starred at it, my vision cleared and my anxieties dispersed, I could no longer feel the heat against my neglected body, nor the ache of hunger and the pain that once resonated from my every movement. All the answers to the questions I did not have presented themselves to me. The beauty of this thing brought me to it, it brought all of us to it, down into the crater where we could be close, where the sweltering heat was replaced with a resonating peace and indifference. Where we could all exist with it, with a singular purpose as the lesser beings to look upon it, and bathe it its eternal beauty.


**Warning: Possible Triggers! Explicit Language, Mental Health, and Some Violence** “I HOPE WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOU GET DRUNK AS FUCK AND YOU BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF WITH A SHOTGUN, FUCKING BITCH! ”

The voice; screaming , spittle flying, from the backseat through plumes of thick cigarette smoke belongs to my fourteen year old son. I am eighty-four days sober and am about to drive without a valid license to take him, for all practical purposes, to a ‘ mental institution ’ roughly seventy miles away. Smoke continues to roll toward the front of the car while outside, the Texas sky fills with dark, ominous clouds and a growl of thunder reverberates off the surrounding hills. As I look out my window, a fork of lightning flashes intensely across the sky and then a hard and unexpected volley of kicks are delivered to the back of the passenger seat, violently jostling it in the chassis accompanied by an animalistic shriek of hatred. I startle. My hands shake and my heart takes off at a gallop. I fight back my own fury and try to remember what all of the therapists and the literature has told me; a negative response would be " completely counterproductive and only further inflame the situation… " I take several slow calming breaths but I am pissed that my son thinks that in any realm of reality, I would feel okay with him brutalizing my vehicle. Thunder cracks loudly then rumbles lowly, making the windows rattle. My hands go from shaking to absolutely vibrating. I suddenly feel as if there is something constricting my flow of oxygen. I break into a clammy, sick sweat. Furtively, I grab my purse and find the orange bottle. I hope, for once, that Kevin is too ensconced in his state of self-righteousness to notice or care about what I am doing. My left hand shakes as it pops the top off the bottle and I shake one of the tiny green pills onto my right palm. I tip my palm toward my mouth, and take a sip from my bottle of water. Kevin’s screech of accusation lifts me about a foot out of my seat: " OH, GREAT ! MY PILL HEAD, BITCH MOTHER IS GOING TO KIDNAP ME FROM MY OWN HOME , DRIVE ME TO ANOTHER CITY ALL STONED OUT OF HER MIND ON DRUGS, TO CHECK ME  INTO A LOONEY BIN??! WHO'S THE FUCKING HYPOCRITE NOW, BITCH? I BET YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOUR FUCKING DRUG HABIT! IT'S JUST GOING TO BE ABOUT ME AND WHAT A HORRIBLE, FUCKED UP, DISAPPOINTMENT I AM! ?” Something warm, wet, and unwelcome smacks my right jaw and falls unceremoniously onto my blouse, where it remains. " Well, it could be worse , " I think, as I try to dry the spit from my face. “ FINE, DON’T ANSWER ME YOU FUCKING WHORE! I WISH YOU’D HAVE DIED INSTEAD OF DAD !” If he were anyone else, he might have received a stinging backhand across his face. However, this is my son, kind of... once we reach this point - Kevin kind of... checks out for a while, he is not at the helm, no one is steering the ship... I put the car in reverse to back up and face our street, I longingly glance toward the house with its warm, amber light pouring from the windows. The sun, once a fierce blaze in the sky, slides behind the clouds and is quickly obscured by the ever gathering mountain of thunderheads. I watch the clouds, pregnant with the rain, seem to sag under the weight, threatening to let go at any moment. I flip on the headlights, turn on the defrost, and put the car in drive. I try to keep Kevin in my periphery as I pull onto our road. I then turn left onto a two-lane highway. Once, as a passenger in the front seat, while I was doing about eighty down I-10, he attempted to grab the steering wheel. Another time, he slapped me in the face as he was screaming , windows down, that I was kidnapping him and to please call the police! “ Yes, someone call them !” I thought momentarily. Since those attempts, Kevin has been relegated to the backseat and only with the child locks engaged. " Please, please let this go as smoothly as it can ." I just have to make it down one other relatively brief stretch of highway and I'm headed to an onramp to the interstate. To be honest, I probably should have pulled over and called 911 and let 'Crisis Management' handle his transport, but I just... couldn't. I couldn't call 911 on my son and unfortunately, he knows it. He knows it and he exploits it. I approach the onramp flip on my left blinker and merge into traffic. In my experience, police that really understand someone in the throes of a mental health crisis are few and far between. I also did not want him to wind up in the custody of the State, in their hospital, or in jail facing charges for actions he may not even remember. So, he rides in the back seat and listens to his music- LOUDLY, chain-smoking, and occasionally puffing on a joint. "Yeah, I know , shame on me . So long as we can make it safely, and without incident, I no longer care ." If I did call EMS and he were to flip the fuck out, the paramedics would forcibly hold him down and administer what is known as, " The Booty Juice ," which is either a hefty dose of Haldol or a cocktail of antipsychotics that renders the person almost catatonic. My son was given this cocktail. He said that one moment, he was being pinned on the floor by burly orderlies and the next; he was in his bed, covered in Cheeto dust, roughly twenty-four hours later... I prefer the pot. I set the cruise control and remember. My husband washed his hands of it awhile ago, having been the verbal punching bag one time too many. Kevin’s biological father currently resides in the local cemetery and has since the Boy turned two, so, no help there. Being the mother of a mentally ill child is one of the loneliest things. I-10 is the primary reason the child locks are engaged … Well, I-10 and Kevin himself. He has threatened to jump before to, “just fucking end it all.” In a blind rage... I believe he actually could do it, which gives me nightmares. In these, his body leaves the car doing eighty down the freeway, then he flips, toes over nose, cartwheels, finally striking the pavement in such a way, I can hear skin rip and burst, and bones snap and shatter. Once his mangled body finally comes to a rest, a semi barrels toward him and crushes him. It’s essentially how his Daddy died and so far, his feet have beaten the same path as his Dad's, which scares me to death. If I dream of, or even imagine this, all I can think about are those mesmerizing moments, so long ago, so fleeting, where I counted his tiny fingers and toes as an infant while staring into eyes of the deepest of blue, or how I blew raspberries on his tummy as a toddler and he shrieked with peals of laughter... You see, a mother's error is that she often doesn't see things how they are. In my mind, my son is not a mentally disturbed adolescent in serious need of medical and behavioral healthcare intervention. He is a little boy, naked except for a pull-up and somewhat over-sized rain boots, sloshing his way around the backyard. A frog wanders into his purview. He stoops, his tiny butt peeking out of the back of his pullup, and picks up the frog. While looking it in the eyes, he inquires in his saccharine 3-year-old voice, " Where your Mommy, Frog ?" When it didn't reply, he held it up to his ear and proceeded to shake it a time or two in an attempt to get it to work. He is forever my tousle-haired sweet boy asking for cereal while wearing his Spiderman pajamas, and shooting 'webs' about the kitchen. Motherhood really is a force of nature. It transcends time and space. It holds the deepest empathy and unwavering forgiveness one will ever know. I was just on the brink of a panic attack, so scared it affected my physical self, and facing a potentially serious thunderstorm... I'd rather not but of course , I will... for him . It's for my Frog Whisperer in those Spiderman pajamas. I was and am more concerned with his immediate needs than my potential ones.

He leans forward to grab the cord to charge his phone. Immediately, I flinch and shield my face with my forearm. For an instant, our eyes meet and in his, I see indescribable sadness and guilt. The moment passes, my eyes, back on the road as the ear-splitting sound of explicit rap erupts from the speakers. I crack my window an inch or two to help the smoke disperse, then I light up my own cigarette. With hands that remain unsteady, I take a deep drag and continue quiet contemplation. Kevin has always been a handful. Before he was ten years old, we had been through three broken arms, several rounds of stitches, and more bumps, and bruises than I could count. As a child, he had trouble in Elementary School; learning disabilities and behavioral issues. He was also dyslexic. He was in Speech therapy and was pulled out of class regularly for all of these programs that were to help him. Medication had been mentioned in a couple of Parent-Teacher Conferences’ but I just wanted to be as certain and as educated on it as I could be before giving my then eight year old, pharmaceutical grade speed. With the blindfold of A doration removed and the glasses of education on, it was plain as day, and we moved forward with the ADHD diagnosis and unfortunately, the meds. Now he was being called out of class once again everyday around lunchtime. All of this set him up to be fodder for bullies. They shoved him into the wall or door and called him, “ retard ,” or, “ faggot, regularly” They mocked him because his father was dead. While the medication did help, it felt like he was a lab rat as he was switched from pill to pill to multiple or different pills and dosages. With that, came side-effects: weight-loss, weight-gain, insomnia, hypersomnia, random and involuntary tics. Then - puberty struck. With it came his intense desire to not attend school, and his dramatically increased aggressive behavior that seemed to manifest from thin air. This affected the entirety of our daily lives: our marriage, my relationships with my daughters, my livelihood, and it put severe strain on my friendships where well-intended people thought that Kevin "just needed a good, old-fashioned ass-whipping", or "a healthy place that could be a positive outlet for all that excess energy!" These people really just didn’t understand. Then possible legal action against me arrived in the form of a certified letter from The State of Texas, hand-delivered to me by the Constable regarding Kevin's truancy. Years ago, when Kevin would refuse to get dressed, I would just carry him and his clothes and tell him it was his decision on how he wanted to arrive at school, in his undies, crying, or dressed for the day and put together. I was at a breaking point; I was a powder keg. I had been written up at work for my tardiness, as had his sister’s. Rain began to spatter the windshield in quick, fat drops that quickly became a deluge. I turned the wipers on high. We made it another ten miles before visibility forced us to a crawl. I risked a few glances at the rearview. The Wrath of Kevin was receding as fast as it came on. As we continue down I-10, I start to feel the same way I always do at this point: Uncertain, full of doubt. Why am I looking to have him admitted? He’s all but docile now, is it really necessary? “ Okay, yes ,” he threatened to strike a female classmate but he didn’t . She is his Constant Tormentor. Isn’t this just Kid Shit that should be sorted out at school? Is it really worthy of all this ? The rain begins to let up as we approach a town on the outskirts of the San Antonio city limit. It's just a steady drizzle now. I think of the stack of referrals from school that I brought along (to aid in my ‘ transgression) that are tucked away with my anxiety medication that began as an, “ as needed ,” basis but had now become a, “ two times daily ,” prescription. I let up on the gas pedal and let the car coast down to the speed limit of the fast approaching town. Beneath the booming music and the noise of the storm, I hear the sad and helpless, crying coming from the backseat. I use the master audio control on my steering wheel to turn the volume off. “ Please talk to me, Son ,” I implore, feeling hot tears well up in my eyes and I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat. “ I wasn’t going to hit her! Dammit! I don't want to be locked up in there, Mom! Mommy?" My heart feels as if it might implode as I listen to his terrified appeal. Internally, I scold myself and remind myself of the referrals. I tell myself I am doing the right thing and not to be manipulated by this abrupt change in demeanor. The thing is, his apology or explanation might very well be steeped in truth but... We reach San Antonio and pass Fiesta Texas. The roller coasters rising steeply up in the dark grey day, waver, dreamlike outside the rain soaked windows. “ Please, Mom? Please don’t send me away again ?” A tear betrays my false bravado by sliding miserably down my cheek. I sniffle audibly. Not too far ahead of us is the off ramp that will take us to the side street where the hospital is... whose doors only lock from the outside. The silence between us after the music, the intense but brief thunderstorm, and the noise of the tires eating up the road is excruciating. I slow to a stop and turn on my blinker to pull into the parking lot. His soft crying becomes sobs of stark fear. He is begging, incoherent now. He's drooling and rocking back and forth, curled into a tight ball. I find a parking spot, slide into it, and press the button to kill the engine. I look at Kevin, desperately searching his face as if it holds the key to release me from the ambiguity I feel trapped in. “… Kevin screamed in the face of an elderly cafeteria employee after throwing his tray across the room…” whispers a snippet of a referral. I begin taking out my earrings and then release the catch to remove my necklace. I drop them into my coin purse. I intentionally wore shoes without laces. I remove my rings; and add these things to my coin bag. "... Kevin punched hole in hallway wall after being removed from class for throwing his desk and calling Mrs. Jiminez a ‘f***ing c***’… ” While surreptitiously peeking at my son in the rearview mirror, a war rages between my heart and my mind. I undo my watch, grab my cell, and shove everything deep into my purse. I grab my wallet, extricate my ID, and his insurance card, along with the stack of damning referrals. I take a shuddering breath and with palms pouring sweat, I cram my purse into the glove box and lock it. The noises from the backseat have quieted, there’s an occasional moan or whimper of possible contrition and acquiescence. “ Good ,” I presume, “ maybe getting him from the car to the hospital won’t be that bad. The hospital where he loses his identity and becomes a patient number ..." I place both hands on the steering wheel and take several centering breaths, then I open my door, and slide the ID cards into my back pocket while stepping out of the car. The rain has all but stopped. Timidly, I open his door and prepare myself for ease of transition or a chase through the sprawling urban jungle. I am on edge, fucking fried, and so exhausted. Sometimes I wonder if the relief I feel when I leave this place has more to do with him getting help or with me having a moment to breathe. "Who is this really for?" I reach my hand out to him in a show of solidarity. His hand reaches out, quick as a snake, and smacks my hand away. He steps out of the car, towering over me. Looming over me... For a moment, I am truly afraid of my son, my Frog Whisperer.. “Stupid bitch , ” is his snarling response as he stomps off. My hand falls slack at my side, I swallow all of my feelings, then square my shoulders and follow in his brisk wake toward the entrance.


I smell home. Everyplace I was held captive, the smell of the food reminded me of home. I dreamed of the day I would get to go home and see my Hope, see my home especially the food. The smell of American food, burgers, fries, hot dogs is making me itch to see my Hope. I close my eyes and I see my Hope smiling at me. My Hope has the most beautiful smile. During my captivity, I thought about my Hope. I fought hard to stay alive. I never gave up. The foods I ate during my captivity reminded me of the exotic foods me and my Hope always used to eat. Some was good. Others were terrible. But me and my Hope ate it regardless. My Hope always made the funniest faces when she tried something new. I laughed at her. My Hope, I hope you are still looking up a storm. You always loved cooking. Besides trying all the food New York has to offer, my Hope loves to try new recipes. I can't say where I am because it's a secret. What I can say is that my life was saved by some good people. I'm in a safe place getting medical treatment. I sent my Hope a letter telling her I'm alive but nothing more. My Hope is the most beautiful woman. She has a heart of gold. She cooks so much food that she always gives to the shelters. My Hope is also a very talented baker. Cookies, cakes, cupcakes and so much more. Chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, my Hope always bakes for me. Christmas is my Hope's busiest time of the year. I can just imagine my Hope in the kitchen cooking and dancing. I wish with all my heart that I am with her right now. Her long beautiful brown hair. Her hazel eyes and that smile that takes my breathe away. I can smell the food filling up my nose. It's almost dinner time. Steak and mash potatoes. My Hope cooked this exact meal for me the day I got back from my first deployment and the day I left for my last deployment. I love steak and the way my Hope cooks it always made my mouth water. The nurses bring the tray of foods to the patients who need the nourishment first. I'm in the middle of the pack when it comes to getting food. In the six months I've been here, I gained weight and been eating a lot better. I get my food. The steak and mash potatoes look and smell better then yesterday's food. I grab my knife and fork and cut the steak. The steak taste so good, mouth-watering good. I close my eyes savoring the steak. I'm transport back to a time full of memories. A life I miss and to the one woman who owns my heart. The day before I left for my fourth and final deployment. I never told my Hope it was going to be my last. It was going to be a surprise. Never the less, I see my beautiful Hope with her dazzling smile standing before me. My Hope is twirling in her red dress I love, the one that makes her eyes sparkle. Her smile is as infectious as ever. My Hope is telling me something. I can't understand what she is saying. I'm too busy watching my Hope. She smiles at me. I say okay to whatever my Hope wants. My Hope happily walks back to the kitchen. I remember this day. I smell the cookies baking. I see the wine is out. The music is on softly. The smell of the steak is hitting me. I get up from my chair and walk to the mirror. I look at myself. Today is the day I left for my final deployment. My last time with my Hope. "Baby, are you okay?" I nod. I turn to my Hope and give her a hug. She smells like cherry just the way I like it. "Food is ready my love." I grab my Hope's hand, together we walk to the table. We sit down. My Hope sits next to me. I love her so much. I tell her the food looks beautiful. My Hope is not looking at me. I take my hand, place it under my Hope's chin and lift it up. "Talk to me baby." With tears in her eyes my Hope tells me "I love you. Come home safe, please." How can I tell my Hope this deployment is going to be my toughest one to date. I simply tell my Hope "I will fight to come home." Me and my Hope eat in comfortable silence. I steal glances at my beautiful lady. I want to memorize every feature my Hope has. From her beautiful smile to her beautiful brown hair, to her amazing hazel eyes, to her stunning cheekbones and her luscious curves. I don't want to forget how my Hope looks. Did I mention the food taste amazing. I can eat my Hope's cooking every single day. "Did you like it?" I smile at my Hope. She giggles. "I can eat your food every day. It's that good." My Hope gives me her award-winning smile. My Hope gets up from the table and clears the dishes. I offer to help but she tells me no. I sit back and watch my Hope in her element. I love the way my Hope dances to the music. She's too beautiful not to look at. I get up from my seat, walk to my Hope, wrap my arms around her and together we dance to the music. "My Hope." I tell her. "You are my Hope because you give me the strength and hope to come home. Don't forget how much I love you." "I love you too, Jaxon." Me and my Hope kiss. It earth shattering. Me and My Hope smile after the kiss. "Want cookies?" I nod. My hope feeds me the best cookies I ever ate. I in turn feed my Hope the best cookies. Of course, who can have cookies without milk. Me and My Hope chug down a glass of milk, then we dance some more. We laugh some more. We kiss some more. We hug some more. By the time the sun goes down, the snow starts to fall. My last snowfall for a long time. I take it all in. My day and half my night with my Hope goes by in a flash. It's 9:30. It's time for me to say goodbye. My Hope begins to cry. I begin to cry. I grab my Hope. I hug her and kiss her. I tell her to be strong and I will come home. She simply nods. I grab my bags, open the door. I turn around and whisper "I love you." My Hope whisper's back "I love you too." I close the door. I walk to the staircase, walk down the steps and out of the building. I look back up and see my beautiful Hope looking at me. I wave to her. She waves back. Who would have thought this would be the last time I would see my Hope. "Mr. Jaxon. Are you finished?" I wave for a taxi. The taxi stops in front of me. I look at my Hope. She's still watching me. I look at her one last time. I get in the taxi. The taxi drives away. "Mr. Jaxon. Are you finished eating?" I hear someone calling me. I open my eyes and to my surprise, I'm in the same place I've been in for the last six months. What was in the food? I was back in my apartment I share with my Hope, four years ago. That was all too real for me. It was me and my Hope sharing our last meal together. Our last dance together. Our last hug together and our last kiss together. We ate steak and mash potatoes. The same meal as today. Every memory of that day is etched in my mind and heart. I promised my Hope I would fight to come home, that is a promise I kept for the last four years. My Hope I'm coming home for good. A promise is a promise I made. I honor my promises. I can't wait to see you my beautiful Hope. I can't wait to taste your cooking.


It had been twenty four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. A wrought iron table, graced by two swirled iron chairs. Even the kiss of the sunlight filtering through the flowering hedge was inarguably a mirror image of the one she’d seen years prior.

However, most paintings tended to stay the same, no matter how many years they stayed in a museum, so that wasn’t of much notice. What made this painting exquisite, irreplaceable, was not just the level of details and brilliant paint colors; but the people. Lounging upon the chairs were two women, a ghost of a smile hiding on one’s lips behind her raised teacup as she met eyes with the other. Her gown, cascading to the ground, was the most arguably phenomenal piece of clothed artistry ever painted. Tiered, each layer was a shining golden, painted with real crushed flakes that sparkled in the light and sewn with dark blue strokes almost tangible through the canvas. Her pale skin, framed by curls of pinned white hair, flushed with life. Opposite her sat a woman made almost entirely of plants. Her dress appeared stitched together with flowers, and she glowed with light from her dark exotic skin to the moonlight lacing of her silver sandals. “Persephone’s Tea Garden with the Sun”, ~Alexandra M. M. Halen. Mariah Abernathy pressed her heels together, peering over her short spectacles at the art. It had faded slightly between the hundred years spanning its lifetime, but the color was so captured it felt like a portal into the other world.

Well. Mariah had little time or need for feelings. “Jadyn,” she said, not moving her eyes from the painting. A girl at her right stiffened, jolted to attention, and glanced back at her. “I want this museum upon the highest level of security possible for this week’s duration.”

Jade noted in her clipboard, slowly returning her gaze to the painting. “Ma’am, how much exactly is this piece worth?” Mariah didn’t move. “More than our entire wing of ‘Charletomones’. I have seen this painting only once before at a gallery, when I was a young girl. And while our brother museum makes their renovations-” Mariah clasped her hands behind her back- “they have entrusted us with its protection.” She turned her head, her eyes falling onto a clock ticking over the doorway. 6:07 P.M., or approximately 18:00 hours. “Shall I call for your driver-?” “No.” Mariah pursed her lips, breathing in the colors cast across the canvas like smears of liquid gemstones. “I stay here, for the entire duration of this painting’s stay.” She clenched her jaw, raising her chin with a fierce glint in her eyes. “And if needed, I will protect it with my life.” * Mariah De Bronx sat at her desk, dark eyes firmly set on the screens flickering before them. A dark hallway stretched across a small patch of her cams, the historical armour winging the corridor glinting in the low light. On another camera, the art pieces pinned against the walls became reduced to mere shadows.

For the past four nights, the painting had sat firmly on the wall, protected by bulletproof glass, safe and sound. The Alexandra M. M. Halen section of the brother museum had almost finished construction, and the borrowed painting would return to them at the end of tomorrow’s work day. If anyone could attempt to steal the famed painting, tonight would be their last night to do so before it was placed into the highest security museum in North America. Mariah hadn’t blinked in two minutes. Sitting tall, her perfectly pressed pantsuit and coat matching her dark rimmed glasses, her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, she appeared to be a very proper statue.

Her office glowed in the bright lights from the screens, a table lamp the only other lighting in the small room. While her office had a small refrigerator and a circling fan overhead, Mariah gave no notice to anything except the screens in front of her, pursing her lips. * Jadyn Abernathy watched her through the security cameras, frowning. “Is- is she breathing?”

“Mariah doesn’t need to breathe.” Jade tipped her head towards the security guard in begrudging agreement, distracted. The guard said nothing else, sighing to himself in a bored, regretful way.

Jade pushed back from the table. “I’m going to get some food. Just to get out of here for a couple minutes and try to wake up. Call me if anything happens, okay?”

Godric didn’t look back at her.

“Jade. It’s a painting no one even knows is here, nor cares that it is. The only reason I’m here is but because Mariah is paying me overtime. It will be fine .” Jade held in a sigh, clenching her jingling keys in her palm as she headed for her car. * Mariah sat tall, and as much as she hated it with a burning passion, her back was starting to burn as well. She adjusted her position, not taking her eyes from the screen. The long, slow ticking of the clock dragged to grow even slower. She glanced down at the few digits glowing from her screen, snapping up her gaze. 11:37. Twelve more hours until the museum’s opening, when the extra day-officers would arrive. Twelve more hours was a mere blink. Mariah widened her eyes, forcing them to remain open. Tiredness pressed heavy hands on her shoulders, dragging her down in its grasp.

Jadyn and Godric are watching the security cameras, just as diligently as I am. If I falter, there will not be a blind spot. Slowly, Mariah raised her head, taking a breath for the first time in minutes. Multiple guards are posted along the walls; and even if they should fail Godric will see. Jadyn won’t fail me.

Mariah tensed her shoulders, leaning back as she finally let out a long breath. She could use the restroom, at least. She started to rise, turning- The barest flicker of a shadow made her stop.

Mariah’s head whipped, looking at the screen just in time to see a black flutter vanish out of the corner of her screen.

Mariah’s hands clenched on the edge of the desk. Furiously clicking, she switched to the next camera, catching the last glimpse of a black shape melting into the blind spot.

Her blood went cold.

Following the glimpsing path of the cameras, it was headed right for- Mariah snatched up the walkie-talkie, manicured fingers slamming for buttons as she jerked it to her mouth. “On floor two there is a figure. I have seen it on multiple cameras, it is headed for the painting. Jadyn, phone the police immediately- Godric I need your team sent to this floor post haste!” She slammed down the device, stepping back, eyes flicking to the wall where hung a decorative, painted machete.

“I- I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” A crackle of silence. “Mariah, Jadyn’s gone, half my team went on a break five minutes ago-” A single, terrible headline filtered through her head. A flutter of darkness flicked through the cameras, and Mariah’s heart seized. They were on this floor. They were after the Alexandra M. M. Halen. “Send in your team!” Mariah ordered, then hurled the walkie talkie to the desk, snatching the machete off the wall. Before Godric could manage to sputter a single other word, she charged out the door. * Jade’s car smelled of cold, bundled sandwiches and artificial air conditioning. The rain dripping onto her windshield was less-than-adequately being wiped away, smearing the traffic lights into colored blurs.

She let out a long sigh, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Steaming coffee settled in the cupholder, but she doubted it would do anything to wake her. She hadn’t been this tired since college. Jade took a single glance down at her phone and nearly swerved off the road. * Mariah sprinted down the hall, the click of her heels shrouded in the muffling walls. Clenched fast in her fist was the machete, held fast in her palm as she ran down the hall. Mariah De Bronx did not in any way know how to use a machete. But nothing, not even logic, could stop her from saving that painting.

She stopped against a wall, muffling her heaving breaths. Mariah raised her knife, ducking around the corner to see an empty corridor. Her heart hammered, adrenaline drowned out from the ferocity of her anger. It had been well over three minutes. The painting’s temporary exhibit was right through the next room. She ran for the arched doorway. Minutes before, she had only glimpsed the dark shape flitting through the cameras, but it settled deep in her heart like a spike of fear. Mariah screeched to a halt, stepping onto a glass floor that showed the main lobby two floors below. Her eyes fell onto the painting. Set into the wall, hidden behind a veil of bullet proof glass, was Persephone’s Garden Tea With The Sun. Multitudes of emotion tumbled through her. She let out a long, long breath. They had not made it here yet. Mariah brandished her weapon, taking a stance. Most prim, petite late middle aged museum directors would have a hard time looking dangerous, but Mariah De Bronx was not someone you typically chose to cross. Seconds ticked by, even slower than before, the only sound echoing through the corridor her own controlled breathing.

Suddenly, a swash of colors burst through the lower room below her, the glass tiled floor glowing with red and blues beaming from the tall windows. “Exit the building with your hands up!”

The police had arrived. The thief had no way to know they were onto him; he wouldn’t have had time to escape. He was still here. Mariah took a shuddering breath. Judging by her calculations, if the robber continued at the same pace it had been going on the cams, he would appear in few seconds- She gripped the machete with all her might as an army of footsteps burst into the lobby three floors below- A single, low sound came from the shadows around the corner, and out stalked a cat .

Mariah stared, the black feline shamelessly rubbing against the muralled walls, casting her a glare.

Her heart faltered.

No. That shape on the cameras- She had only looked at this floor, assuming it had been an intruder and acting accordingly.

No. More sirens built outside the museum, a slam of a door joining them with another loud call- Mariah heard none of this. Her eyes stayed trained on the cat, machete frozen in her hands. “A cat?” Mariah’s knife dipped, and she leaned back. The heart inside of her chest fell from her lungs. Thundering footsteps filled the room below, police filing into the entrance hall. Her eyes flitted to the doorway to her right, her reputation and everything she had worked for going with them.

Hurried footsteps stumbled into view. Godric Mason loomed far in front of her, leading a squadron of vested officers, his eyes wide with panic. “Mariah-” She sheathed her machete, locking eyes with the head of police beside him. She allowed herself one long, deep breath before speaking.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding.”

“SIR!” Both of them turned, seeing a young man muscle his way through the ranks.

“We found two suspicious characters hiding on the first floor. Two late adolescents. They said they had heard of the painting, eluding the final sweep and staying after the day hours to take it at night." He tensed his jaw. "We are still working out the details, but they confirmed they were attempting to steal it. They have been taken into custody. We are in the process of contacting parents to come get them at the station.” Mariah’s eyebrow quirked, but no one noticed her. “Thank you, Jonas. I will be down in a second.” The young man nodded, raising his radio to his mouth as he moved back to the stairs.

“We are going to sweep the entire building and around it, to make sure there are no more accomplices.” Mariah barely heard him, the wheels spinning through her head. She had only watched the cameras on the third floor, solely focused on the prized painting. If they had not moved from the first floor, then that meant.... the single form she had glimpsed through the security cams would have been the cat. She would never have caught sight of the would-be thieves before it was too late. If not for this unknowingly heroic feline who had appeared.

The officer moved a hand on the radio strapped over his bullet proof vest, frowning with sharp gray eyes. He tilted his head. “I am wondering, why didn’t your security apprehend them in the first place?” Mariah inclined her head at Godric, who had the good graces to look very, very uncomfortable. “That is a valid question.”

She looked away from him, back to the officer, who was actually smiling. “It’s still under investigation, director, but I believe you’ve caught us some art thieves. Thank you.”

Mariah glanced down at the cat rubbing against her leg, knowing someone else had played a very valid part.

* Mariah De Bronx sat in her office, clicking through her computer. A small buzz, a message from her assistant Jade, lit up her phone, but she ignored it.

Her fingers danced across the keys, and she paused, eyes flicking over her work. She allowed herself one exhale before submitting the email.

Mariah cast a look around her office, settling her eyes on a small cat bed laying beside her desk. The dark cat was gone at the moment, mousing around the museum, but she knew he would be back.

He always was, scarcely leaving her side since that fateful day. Although she had mistaken his small, stolen form for an intruder when they were first introduced, he had assisted in the apprehension of two genuine would-be art thieves, who were now serving time in community service.

After that, Tyler the cat had well earned a place in her museum. The celebratory plaque settled on the wall above her desk, congratulating Mariah’s capture of the intruders, belonged just as much to him as it did her. Mariah stood, resting her eyes upon the plaque with a small, rare smile. In its original museum, the newest exhibit for the Alexandra M. M. Halen painting would be unveiled soon. Mariah and Jadyn were invited to the first viewing. While it had been an honor to care for it in the little time she had, the stress that had come with it was more than enough for her lifetime.

The painting was safe; and that was all that mattered.


“There is nothing so lonely as an unmatched sock.” Thomas Brodkin When it comes to women, there is no one definition of beauty. Most would agree, however, if there were such a definition, it would not describe Lily. She stood just under six feet tall, had no figure to speak of, and her hair was almost the exact shade between blonde and brown, making it seem as if her hair had no defined color at all. To make matters worse, Lily’s voice had a smoker's raspiness, even though she hadn’t smoked a single cigarette in her entire life.

However, as is the case with many plain women, Lily had developed quite the sense of humor. She had an endless repertoire of raucous jokes, quick-witted quips, and humorous stories that, due to Lily’s reserved nature, rarely found their way into polite conversation.

Lily wanted nothing more than to dive into life, make scores of friends, attend endless events, and meet someone special. Yet, for reasons known only to her, she usually faded into the background, living vicariously through the lives of others. Each morning Lily woke up, showered, and dressed for the day, routine as clockwork. She would then take the elevator down to the first floor, heading to Joe’s Joe , the local coffee hot spot.

Joe's wasn't trendy or hip or even especially modern. It sat on a corner and had large windows covering both street-facing sides of the building. The shop had original oak wood flooring throughout and ten tables strategically placed so as not to block the counter, the door, or the hallway to the bathroom. It was always impeccably clean and the fresh-brewed coffee was the best for miles. In a world where one can find a Starbucks inside of another Starbucks, Joe’s Joe was a miracle. The small shop held its own against the competition due to the sheer will of its owner, Joe Artino.

To pay the exorbitant rent, Joe ran the shop as a one-man operation. He arrived at work long before the sun came up; most nights he would head home well after dark. For as long as anyone could remember, just like the post office, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night prevented Joe from opening the shop precisely at eight o’clock each morning. He closed just as precisely at eight o’clock each night. It wasn’t that Joe didn’t want to live life—he just didn’t have the time. Five days a week, sometimes six, Joe would ask Lily, “What can I get for you?”

Five days a week, sometimes six, Lily would answer: “Large brewed, black.”

Even Lily’s coffee order was plain.

Month after month became year after year, and there was no change to either Joe’s or Lily’s lives. Until one day, a small change changed everything. The line for coffee was unusually long, and even though Joe was handling it with his usual expertise, the gentleman in front of Lily grew angrier by the second. When the irate customer finally reached the front of the line, he used some colorful expletives when ordering his coffee. Lily could practically see the smoke coming from Joe’s ears as he took the man’s order. Once Lily stepped to the front of the line, Joe asked, as he always had, “What can I get for you?” Only this time, Lily didn’t respond with her usual order. “I have a joke for you. Are you ready?” she replied. On almost any other day, Joe would have politely declined. He didn’t have time for jokes, but on this day, he did the unexpected. “Sure. Fire away.” “What’s the most dangerous number?” Lily said, a deadpanned look on her face. “I don’t know. What is the most dangerous number?” Joe responded, genuinely curious. “It’s seven,” she quipped. “Because seven eight nine.”

It was a joke worthy of any fourth grader, yet both Joe and Lily broke out into spontaneous laughter. From that day forward, Lily had a willing audience for her daily jokes. Five, sometimes six days a week, she would share a new joke with Joe while he made her coffee, just as she liked.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, Joe and Lily became more and more friendly towards one another. Even when the line was all the way out the front door, they would find time to share a story or an anecdote. And there was always a joke from Lily. Lily discovered Joe was three years older than she was, and Joe found out that Lily worked as a bookkeeper at the same firm that handled his business taxes. Joe regaled Lily with stories of growing up as the child of an immigrant in the middle of a big city, while Lily told Joe of her love of books and shared her expansive knowledge of old movies.

The one thing Lily never shared with Joe was the simple fact she had never been on a date. When she was younger, she had dreams of finding a nice man with whom she could settle down and build a life, but no one ever asked. Even if they had, she probably would have declined. Lily’s guarded nature had protected her all these years—until Joe. This busy man with no time for anyone was suddenly finding time for Lily. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

On a cold day in January, the inevitable finally happened. Lily, bundled up in a parka, made her way to Joe’s and patiently awaited her turn in line. When she got to the front, Joe had her coffee ready as he always did. When Lily started to tell Joe her joke of the day, Joe, uncharacteristically, stopped Lily midsentence. “Lily,” he began sheepishly, “I am not a good looking man—I know this—but I care for you. Deeply.”

Lily, shocked by the admission and feeling lightheaded, listened as best she could, but she only heard his every other word. “I haven’t been on a date since high school,” Joe continued, too nervous to notice Lily’s unease. “But I would love it if you would allow me to make you dinner.” For a moment, the two just stared at each other in silence.

“You mean like a date?” Lily inquired. “Yes, like a date. With me. And you. What do you say?” “Say yes,” came a quiet voice from behind Lily. She turned to see a very short, very old woman grinning up at her. “Don’t make this poor man wait to hear you say you’ll go out with him.” “Yes,” Lily responded, taking a sip of her coffee and walking away. Leaving the counter was probably an inappropriate thing to do after accepting a date, but Lily had never accepted anyone’s offer before and she was lost in her uncertainty. “Tomorrow night?” Joe called out to her, watching Lily’s back as she headed out the door. “Okay,” she responded, without turning around. She simply left the shop, heading into the cold. Lily didn’t go to work that day. If she could have called in panicked , she would have. Since there was no such thing, she called in sick instead. She retraced her steps back to her building, went up the elevator, down the corridor, and into her condo. She didn’t even get undressed before climbing back into bed. She, of course, did not sleep all that day or most of the night. She kept thinking about Joe and their date. I’ll call him and cancel , she thought to herself before realizing she didn’t have his number. I’ll just never get coffee again, she thought next. But that too was ridiculous. Then it occurred to her: she liked Joe. She liked him a lot . She wanted to date him. She wanted more than that—but it couldn’t work.

It wouldn’t work .

He couldn’t care for her, not if he really knew her. Nobody really knew her . . . but maybe Joe was different? Somewhere around four in the morning, she finally decided it was worth the chance. Only then was she finally able to fall asleep. The next day was just like every other day while not being like any day ever in her whole life. She got up, showered, dressed and headed out for coffee, and more importantly—to see Joe. When she arrived, she could see a relieved smile on Joe’s face. The events of the previous morning had left Joe confused and unsure, yet all his fears were put to rest when Lily got to the front of the line. She told him her worst joke ever. “Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” she asked, cracking a knowing smile. “I don’t know, Lily. Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” Joe responded, smiling back at her. “Because he was dead!” Lily said, as they both laughed as hard as they had since the first joke she had told him. “Where do you live? What time should I be there?” Lily asked, confirming their date. “Six,” Joe answered, writing the address on a piece of receipt paper. “Six?” Lily repeated. “Yes, six,” Joe responded, ignoring the audible gasps from the shocked patrons. "Don't be late," he finished writing, flashing a sweet smile. "I won't," Lily said, also with a smile. "See you then."

Lily arrived at Joe’s precisely at six. His house was just outside the city in a small subdivision. Lily knew from her talks with Joe that it had been his dream to live outside the city, but someplace close enough to work to be convenient. His house was not at all what Lily imagined. It was as if Norman Rockwell had used it as a model to paint one of his famous pictures for the Saturday Evening Post . It was white with light green shutters, its yard enclosed by a proverbial picket fence. Lily half-expected Joe’s wife to meet her at the door. A man who lived in a house like this should have a wife , she thought to herself as she made her way up the walk. Joe answered the door promptly after the first knock. He was wearing a red plaid apron that made Lily chuckle. He took Lily’s coat and hung it by the door, leading her into the living room, adjacent to the kitchen where something smelled heavenly. “Would you like a glass of wine?” Joe asked, heading back towards the kitchen. “Yes, please,” Lily responded, amazed at how at ease she felt with Joe. All the nervousness from the night before was gone. “We’re having lamb chops as our main course. And I made Hassleback potatoes with asparagus, too. I hope you’ll like it,” he finished, hoping for a positive response. “It sounds wonderful and smells delicious,” Lily said earnestly. “I can’t wait to taste everything.” Joe brought her the promised glass of wine, and they shared an easy conversation while Joe finished the last touches on their meal. When it was finally ready, they moved to the dining room where Joe, ever the gentleman, pulled out Lily’s chair. “You are the first woman other than my mother to ever be in this house,” Joe confessed in a way that made Lily feel very special. “I honestly was beginning to think mom would be the only woman ever to visit,” he continued. “I’m happy I was wrong, and I’m happy you’re the reason I was wrong.” Lily blushed. “I’m glad you asked me out. I wasn’t at first, but I am now. No matter what happens after this, I want you to know how happy I am right now.” The rest of the meal was a combination of eating Joe’s excellent meal and gossiping about customers and telling corny jokes as the evening quickly passed. After the meal was over, Joe had another surprise. For dessert, he brought out the biggest strawberries Lily had ever seen, covered in chocolate. She heard the pop of a champagne cork, as Joe skillfully filled two glasses. Although Lily didn’t have any personal frame of reference, it was proving to be the most romantic moment of her life. Lily had seen Pretty Woman as a child and dreamed of a day when she could eat strawberries and drink champagne with a handsome man. To Lily, Joe was the most handsome man she had ever seen. With each bite, however, she started to feel like Cinderella at the ball. They would eventually eat the last strawberry and finish their champagne. Then the evening would be over. Lily didn’t want the evening to be over, but she also dreaded what might come next. “Close your eyes,” Joe said in a way that put Lily at ease. Against her better judgment, she did as he asked. Lily felt a soft, single kiss from a man she was now sure she loved. As Joe pulled away from her, she opened her eyes and looked into his. No words were spoken, but in that moment, she believed he loved her, too. She had only planned on the one date with Joe, just to know how it felt. Now, everything was different. “Lily, I’m in love with you,” Joe said, taking her hand in his. “I probably have been in love with you ever since your first terrible joke. Seven eight nine .” They both laughed at the memory. “Is it possible you could love me, too? Please say it’s possible.” “Joe, I have to tell you something. Something almost no one knows.”

Joe could tell by the look on Lily’s face she was gravely serious. “You can tell me anything, Lily,” Joe encouraged her. “Anything at all.” Lily had kept her secret for most of her life, expecting to keep it forever. Now she was going to take the ultimate chance and trust another human being. “Joe, my birth name isn’t Lily—it’s Lyle. I had it legally changed when I turned 18.” Lily could tell the news was jarring to Joe, but she found the courage to continue. “I was born a boy, but I always knew I was a girl.” Lily tried to read Joe’s expression as they both sat quietly, but he just stared stoically trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “I left home when I was 12 years old,” Lily continued. “My parents didn’t want me and I couldn’t live a lie.” There was no stopping Lily now. Her secret was out in the open and she was not finished, “So in answer to your question, yes. It’s more than possible. I already love you,” she said, hanging her head. “I guess the real question is can you love me, now that you know the truth?” The question hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. To Lily the silence spoke louder than words, until Lily felt Joe’s hand under her chin, lifting her head. Once again his lips pressed firmly against hers. There had been an answer in Joe's silence; it just wasn’t the answer she had mistakenly anticipated. As Joe pulled away, he looked at Lily and said, “You know what you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?” “What?” Lily asked, wiping her tears away. “What do you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?” “A flat minor.” Their shared laughter told them both everything they needed to know.


Teddy noticed everything. A young boy across the aisle from him had a Harry Potter novel open on his lap. He was on page two hundred and sixty-six. Four mosquito bites peppered his left forearm, and he had recently gotten braces. Teddy could tell because the kid kept fiddling with them with the tip of his tongue, and they were shiny and brand-new. The boy licked his thumb and turned a page. The tall, middle-aged woman to the boy’s left was listening to music on her iPod. She wore pink earphones, and her shoe was untied. There was a paint stain on the right kneecap of her jeans, and she was chewing spearmint bubblegum. Teddy could smell it from across the train car. He leaned forward in the seat of the rattling tram and pulled the hood of his navy blue jacket over his head. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore everything he saw. Today his senses had flipped into overdrive, snatching every detail from his surroundings and clutching them tightly. Like Spider-Man, Teddy thought. He smiled slightly. Yes, the sensation might be compared to that of the extrasensory character. His mind took in these details desperately, spontaneously, as if it knew these memories would be some of its last. Teddy knew that he was doing what was best. Inwardly, the idea fought with him, tormented him, ripped him apart like a wet piece of cardboard. But this decision needed nothing short of utmost commitment, and Teddy always finished his commitments.

It would not be for long, anyway. Soon, the pain would go, along with everything else. Including Rosalyn, something inside him whispered. Rosalyn. The voice of steadiness, reliability, and love. People had often said they could be twins, but Teddy disagreed. They were inseparable, but different in complementing ways. She was his best friend in the wide world, and he loved her with a brotherly love as dearly as a bird loves its wings.

At least, I did, thought Teddy. Rosalyn, his old faithful, had faded and left as quickly as a leaf was whisked away in a storm, gliding blissfully into the horizon. And with her, she took his hopes, his dreams, and his reason for living. She took the one thing he had left to love. One of the most important parts of his life, gone forever.

Teddy stared at the book in the boy’s lap across from him. What success must the author of that book feel, what tranquility, what pride. Teddy would have killed for a fraction of that stability in his writing. A fledgling in his trade, Teddy’s writing saw little of anything except rejection letters. He hated those letters, he saw each one as a reminder of his failure.

His most recent book had gone out to a publisher about a month ago. He would be receiving the payments from the first month any day now, and he knew they wouldn’t be much. But it didn’t matter, that check would never reach his pocket anyway. Today, Teddy was doing the one thing that he knew left to do.

He was going to end it all, forever.

There was a hiss of brakes as the train car stopped. A muffled voice sounded over the intercom. “Stop 13. All passengers are encouraged to leave in an orderly fashion. Please keep your feet away from the tracks as you disembark…” The voice continued blathering about departure, but Teddy did not listen, closing his ears to the sounds of life. It would only be a short while now…

The voice came over the intercom again. “This line is experiencing technical difficulties. Our engineers give all passengers their apologies. We would like to offer all passengers paid tickets to their next train stop, to assure you all get where you are going… we hope we cause minimal inconvenience, and wish everyone a good day.”

Teddy slumped in his seat as everyone in the car began to stand, groaning and complaining. His mind had blanked. Was the world conspiring against him? The train could not have picked a worse time to break down…

He stepped off the train, the cogs of his brain grinding painfully. I’ve still got time, he thought. It’s not far, I’ll take the bus, or Uber there, heck, I might even walk… he could not believe the world had failed him at this crucial juncture.

Trodding down the sidewalk away from the train, he stuck his hands in his pockets again and pulled out his phone. 3 texts buzzed there, one from his mom, reminding him to call his aunt tomorrow for her birthday. The other two were from his boss, reprimanding him for not showing up to work and informing him that the time would be subtracted from his sick leave. Teddy trudged over to a cobblestone barrier at the edge of a small park near the road, and leaned his elbows on it, considering. He swiped through his texts and called an Uber. Ten minutes away. Great. Flipping off his hood, Teddy replaced his phone in his pocket and looked out over the bay. Teal Bridge was a shadow on the horizon, blocking out the late morning sun and casting an oblong shadow across the waves. The bridge was his destination, but Teddy wasn’t going there to sightsee. He was going there to end his miserable life. The bridge spanned hundreds of meters across the water, and was at least two hundred feet above the tips of the waves. If he jumped off one of the entrances to the bridge, an army of sharp, hard rocks would meet him at the edges of the water. There would be no time for anyone to stop him. The rocks were cold, unforgiving, and merciless. They would grant him his solace without hesitation, without pause… Teddy’s eyes were drawn to a group of children frolicking on the opposite beachhead. They were only pinpricks on the distant sand, but he found himself unconsciously giving them personalities. The lone blue-bottom figure was surely the oldest child, sent to watch over his younger counterparts. The pink one-piece girl bouncing through the waves was the diva of the group, ever the drama queen. Teddy watched two green-clad figures collide. Twins, surely, inseparable, the troublemakers... Rosalyn had had a future here, on this very bay. Her dream had always been to pursue marine biology, and they had been in the groundworkings of a campaign to save the local marine life. Unfortunately a marine support group had called her away on a business opportunity down in the south, and after a semi-tearful goodbye which was hazy in Teddy’s mind, left for good. Sometimes they texted, but the gaps between the conversations seemed to be wider nowadays. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a week, but to him it seemed months. Teddy buried his face in his hands. He could not afford to think, it could only deter him from his plan. Thinking was what had caused him to back out the last time, when he had lacked the conviction to carry out the deed. And now his whole plan was in shambles again… He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, blinking. It was Rosalyn. Rosalyn, her hair caught up in a wool beanie, laughing at the incredulous look on his face. She was saying something, but he could not hear it somehow. Contrary to the sensations of the morning, his senses had dulled and blurred over, clouding his vision as he struggled with reality. The girl before him grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the sidewalk, gesturing. He came back down to earth. “Rosalyn?” She turned towards him again. “Teddy,” she said. “We need to catch up. I’ll take you for ice cream.” “But the company… your internship...” “Oh, those higher-ups thought they knew everything,” she said, blowing a strand of hair out of her eye. “They were keeping me on too tight a leash, I had to get away. So I quit. I’m gonna do my project here instead, on the bay. I’ll tell you about it over lunch, come on!” She pulled on his hand again, and he didn’t find himself resisting. His phone buzzed again. He opened it to find a text from his publisher. The royalties. Great, this would spoil the day. He opened up the app and the number flashed up on the screen. The amount… the amount was tremendous, over three times the amount that his client had projected for him! He blinked and scrolled through the messages. The rates were skyrocketing, his book was blowing up! The first payment from the royalties was more than he had made at his day job in the last month! A car honked on the street. The car described in his Uber app was sitting on the curb. He dashed over to the sidewalk and the driver rolled down the window. “You getting in, sonny?” “No, I’ll have to cancel,” Teddy said, ecstatic. “Something’s come up. I’m sorry.” The driver started to roll the window back up, his face cloudy. He had driven all this way for nothing. Millennials, they were all the same… “Here, take this for your time,” said Teddy, yanking out his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash. The driver blinked. “Take it!” He felt ten feet tall, he was successful, he had a career... “Well thank you, son. You got a date with big-eyes over there?” Teddy looked back over his shoulder at Rosalyn, who was waiting on the curb a few yards away, her eyes sparkling. “No, not a date, we’re just meeting up. Thank you, sir!” He ran back over to his friend, his sneakers slapping on the pavement with his huge strides. “You ready?” said Rosalyn. Teddy looked back across the park, over the water over which he had moments previously contemplated his demise. “Yeah,” he replied. First, he would have lunch with Rosalyn. And then? Maybe go home, work on his next story. He might call her again later. And after that? Yes, there would be something else after that. And then something else, too. It had to be good, everything was turned around now. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but he did know that he could make his own. He grabbed Rosalyn by the arm and started to run, laughing into the crisp morning air. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Teddy had something to do.


The crowd's cheer was deafening. So was Zanaya's heartbeat. She really couldn't help it. Her curly chocolate hair was neatly placed as a bun on top of her head. Her purple dress was gripped by her trembling ebony hands. Her feet shaking inside her silver sandals. Her palms sweating more than it should. Was she nervous? Another cheer erupted from the other side of the large red curtain. A shiver ran up her spine. So, it seems like she's nervous. She hears the rush of footsteps of the make-up artists rushing towards their clients. Zanaya gulped. Very nervous, so it seems. She looked up to see the other competitors warming up. Competitor nine, Suzanne Miles, A blonde girl with blue eyes, is down a split and twisting her back to the other side. Competitor ten, Clarice Gordon, a tall brunette, has her leg up against the wall and hands on the floor. Competitor eleven, Elena Forrest, a very well known dancer in her region. She has a petite figure. Her black hair is complimented by her blue eyes. She has both her legs up two seats and is making an oversplit. Another shiver ran through Zanaya's body. This is not healthy for her and her heart. She stared at the other competitors, as they laughed with no care nor hesitance at all. Zanaya is this close to run back to the van. She was gonna lose. She was gonna lose. She was gonna LOS- A hand patted her head, cutting her thoughts off. She turned around to see her mother, smiling down at her. Zanaya felt herself smile nervously back. They both share their curly brown hair, which Zanaya always ties and her mom show off. Their ebony skin which Zanaya always covered with long sleeves and jeans whereas her mom is proud of it. Though their eyes are an exception for Zanaya. Her green eyes are like forest green, Illuminating her whole face. Zanaya held up her hand which her mother readily held and squeezed. That seemed to soothe a few of her nerves, not all, but some. The host popped his head in and called for Suzanne Miles, who confidently strutted towards the stage. The crowd cheering and clapping as she smiled at them. Zanaya really didn't want to compete now. She was a bit lanky while so others were either slender or petite. She also just started to dance whereas the others practiced for years! She should've just stayed inside the van, safe and sound, but no. She had to walk out and face the audience of sharks, ready to criticize her every movement. She's basically walking in a very thin line of rope. Her mother laughed, meaning she saw Zanaya's anxiety getting the best of her. She placed her hands on Zanaya's shoulders and faced her daughter with a bright grin. "You're amazing, Zanaya. Never forget that." Her words made Zanaya feel good for herself, just a little. And so, she started to stretch and warm-up for her dance. Her mother just by the corner, for moral support. Then Clarice was called to the stage. There were no cheers but a very loud round of applause. While Zanaya lowered herself to touch her toes, a series of giggles made her conscious. She was surprised to see her mother quickly beside her and ushered her towards the toilet. As they walk past Elena and her friends, they sneered and giggled, making Zanaya duck in shame. They had to change her dress as the back part had a rip. Zanaya felt tears in the corner of her eyes. This was fate telling her to quit. She should have not joined this competition in the first place. It was too early for her. When they came out, Elena was still there, smiling too sweetly in Zanaya's comfort. Even though the backstage was a hot place, Zanaya felt a cold shiver. She looked to meet Elena's confident smug face. She ducked her head fast. She is definitely gonna lose. Not with Elena being so good at this. She's nothing. Zanaya snapped back to reality when a hug was given to her. Her mother's warm embrace and soothing words finally let the dam in her eyes overflow. Still crying, she saw Elena leap gracefully in the stage and the audience just loved it and erupted into a loud round of cheers and claps. She can't be like that. She's not Elena after all. She's just- A squeak took her attention faster than she could think. She knew that squeak. She pulled away from her mom and stared at her uncle Ben and a grinning Robert. Not even looking at Uncle Ben, she stared agape at Robert. He was handsome today, just as always. His black hair swept back and his smile was dazzling. His brown eyes twinkled in the dimly lit room. His white skin contrasted with his black hoodie and jersey shorts. His wheelchair was as shiny as ever. He opened his arms and Zanaya reflexively went to take it. While hugging Robert, she asked herself. Why did she start dancing? "Whoa! I want to move like that! Zanaya, do you think I can?" "Of course silly! If not, I'll dance for you!" "Promise?" "Promise." And their pinkies intertwined. A promise was made. Zanaya blinked and pulled away just as the host called for her. She turned to see a sweaty and grinning Elena. For some reason, she didn't look as scary as she did before. She looked back to her mother, Uncle Ben, and Robert, who gave her a thumbs up. Walking towards the center stage, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. When she arrived at the center, everything is silent. She exhaled and opened her eyes, staring at the hundred faces who were watching her every move. Should she run? "Please cheer for the new debut! Zanaya!" She closed her eyes and posed, as the music slowly started to play. "You're amazing, Zanaya. Never forget that." And their pinkies intertwined. And a promise was made. Her green eyes looked directly at the judges, betraying no emotion. And she danced, and smiled with confidence.


Everything happened in a flash. I was just about to go to sleep when I heard the telephone ring. I used a rotary dial phone, which meant that I won't know who’s calling me. I walked over to the phone and held it up to my ear. "Hello?," I answered. "Hello. This is the Glasscam Police Department. I am the sheriff of this town. You have been convicted of the murder of a person named Paul Smith, who was killed this night. I have sent a few officers to escort you to the department," the sheriff replied. "E-- Excuse me, but I-- I haven't done anything w-- wrong.", I replied, stammering. "I was in my home during the evening". "Yeah right, tell that to the judge kid," he said in a sarcastic tone. A knock on the door was heard a few moments later. As I opened the door, a swarm of officers piled into the room, some with guns facing at me. One of them, who I assumed was the chief of police, got a pair of handcuffs and tied them around my wrists. "You have the right to remain silent," said the chief. I tried telling him that I was innocent, but he said the same words that the sheriff said. "What a coincidence," I thought to myself as I was being taken to the backseat of the police car. I don't remember much after that. While I was in the car, I kept arguing that I was innocent, but the officers ignored me. My height and weight were taken after I got to the station, and I was placed in a small cell. It wasn't cozy at all, just the life essentials were there; a bed, sink, and toilet. I was too weak and tired to stand, so I started to lie on the bed, starting to drift into my sleep. I woke up to the sound of an officer opening my cell. I got up and was put in handcuffs again. He told me I was going to a trial. I had no lawyer, so they just gave me one. From the looks of the lawyer's crinkled and dirty tie, his wild hair, and slightly broken glasses, I could tell I was going to lose in this trial. A few minutes later, a car came and I was taken into the backseat. What felt like hours later, I was in front of the judge, who would decide my fate. Looking at the spectators, I saw a group of people in tears. I assumed they were the victim's parents. They saw me looking in their direction. They scowled at me and turned their heads in disgust. I couldn't take it. For all my life I have never made any mistakes, so it would be unreasonable if I was accused of murder. Thinking about this made my head spin. After my testimony and the lawyer's argument with the victim's family's lawyer, it was time for the jury to decide. A few minutes later, the judge said the final statement of the trial. I only remembered a little bit. "The accused, James Johnson... proven guilty... with no chance of parole... no chance of bail... can only be released until further evidence is discovered...oh this mumbo jumbo is gonna take forever, let's get to the point... James Johnson... will serve a life sentence". Then, the gavel was heard. "Snug fit?," the officers joked when I finished switching my shirt and pants to the ugly, bright orange prison uniforms. Cell number 13 was where I was headed. "Just when I thought I had the chance to be released, the number 13 blocks the tunnel of hope!" I thought to myself in a saddened tone. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, especially my friends, family, and the victim's family. But now, that chance was disappearing every second I was in this building. My family came to visit every so often. Mother and my 23-year-old brother came to visit me every day. Father died when I was 12; a few years after my brother was born. Mother always told me that I was going to be proven innocent. Greg, my brother, told me that he will find evidence to get me out. I chuckled. Everyone knows that Greg hated using his brain for education purposes, but this time, he had some hope in his eyes, which I never noticed before. Being beaten up by other prisoners took some time being used to. The food there was the worst. I couldn't be somewhere without at least one person watching me, but most of the time it was the prisoners, looking for a fight. One day, I couldn't take it anymore. That day when my family visited, I asked them that I didn't like staying here anymore. "Just a little while longer," Mother said with hope. I stared at my brother, wondering what Mother said. "Question: Good news or Bad news," Greg asked.

"Ummmm, why?" I replied. "Just answer the question," he said in an impatient tone. "Ok ok, calm down," I said. "Bad news". "I found a lead that might prove you innocent, but I hit a dead-end," he said in a sad voice while lowering his head in shame. "But the good news is I broke through the dead end and found some evidence!" he exclaimed, his head now up again. I was in shock. Without controlling it, I smiled. It was so goofy that Mother started to laugh but in a hushed voice. My brother tried holding his laugh in, but he couldn't stop the burst that almost made him fall off his chair. "Your court trial will begin tomorrow," he said. For the rest of the day, the thought of leaving this place made my heart feel warm. The day passed by without me even knowing it. Before sleeping, the thought struck me. "What if the evidence doesn't work, or-- or the evidence proves me guilty again," I thought before drifting to sleep. The next morning, I got up in a hopeful mood. The trial begins in about an hour. I quickly got ready and was taken into the court. I saw Mother, Greg, and the victim's family there. The victim's family was in a sour mood. I guess they were angry because, in their point of view, the murderer of their son was going to testify again, saying that he was innocent after being proven guilty. When Greg's evidence was in the spotlight I thought that this might actually work. It showed that I was in my house the whole time during the murder. It showed what I did on that device during that time, which was mostly binge-watching a series. After the evidence was shown, the jury made their decision and passed it to the judge. The judge read it out loud. "The accused, James Johnson... had previously been proven guilty... had no chance of parole... no chance of bail... and could only be released until further evidence is discovered... but now the evidence has been found... the jury and I have reviewed it... the conclusion was made... the decision is...," exclaimed the judge in a very dramatic and suspenseful moment, "James Johnson is innocent!". I was happier than ever but didn't make any goofy grins this time. The victim's family nodded in sorrow and regret for making those rude faces at me. I was taken home where familiar noises from the house and street filled me up with adrenaline. I walked out of the house and sat on the porch when I saw my family driving their car into the driveway. They hugged me and sat on the porch. We laughed and talked together as if nothing had happened. While enjoying ourselves, I started to ponder. "What will I do next?".


She woke up in the middle of the night to a strong gust of wind, as her bedroom shudders flung open. She raced to the window to pull the shudders towards her, until they were fastened shut and locked securely.  She let out a huge sigh of relief. She could not help but notice a shadow of a man standing in the grass one story beneath her. "Could it be?" She asked herself in a breathless whisper. She shook her head no, pushed away the thought, and crawled back into bed, for it was only 3' o clock. Fast forward to that afternoon, she was leaving school grounds to get into her little compact vehicle and go down to the seashore to get in some journaling before supper.  She noticed a man standing off to the distance, standing beside a tree, as she reached inside her purse to pull out her car keys. She happened to catch a glance at her watch, as she unlocked her vehicle, it was 3 o clock pm. Later that evening, she laid awake, restless, struggling to fall asleep, although quite fatigued.  She just could not seem to shake the thought of the man she saw earlier the afternoon, as well as the shadow of the man she saw earlier that morning when suddenly woken up by that strong gust of wind. She eventually fell asleep. Then at 2:45 am, she woke up to use the bathroom. She climbed back in bed, closed her eyes, as she attempted to get a little more shut eye before facing the big day ahead of her. It was her wedding day.  Then all of a sudden, the sound of a truck pulling up, rather quickly in her unpaved pebbled driveway approached her. She raced to the window to see who it was. The man in the green truck had shut off all his lights and stepped out of his vehicle. Just a shadow of a man stood there leaning against the truck, legs crossed, holding a bouquet of flowers. She happened to catch a glimpse of the time over her shoulder. It was exactly 3:00 am! So weird. He called out her name. She opened her window and reached for her binoculars, out of her top nightstand drawer. She got a much closer look of the fine young man. What she saw bewildered her! The man resembled her late husband, twenty years before his passing. They could be twins! " Am I dreaming?" She asked herself. She called out to him. She heard a faint whisper, " See you at 3'oclock!' Then as quick as she can blink her eyes, the image was gone. She knew that she knew that she knew that was the ghost of her late husband attempting to visit her during the hours leading up to her big day." But why?" She wondered. " Is he glad I am attempting to love again?" she asked herself as she second guessed.  He always told her since the day the two wed, that if he was ever to go before her, to not live life married to the dead. He encouraged her to find love again.  She knew that for certain. Then why did she just see him lurking behind her bedroom curtain? The next day went as fast as that wind bursting through her bedroom, just two nights prior.  At last, they were at the chapel, at half past two. Her niece Ava was fixing her veil. Her goddaughter Gianna was fussing with the sash on the back of her gown, when there was a knock at the door. The girls rushed to the door, to see who was knocking. No one was there.  They shrugged their shoulder and thought that was strange. Yet down the hallway, they saw their mom and grandmother talking in a corner, The two caught up with them, in efforts to update them on the gleaming bride's getting ready progress. In the meantime, back in the grand bedroom of the mansion, the girls had left the door slightly open. The anxious bride lifted up her wedding gown and ran over to the door to shut it. She was not about to risk the groom walking by and catching a glimpse of his lovely bride, just moments before they pledge love to one another till eternity. The moment she turned around and headed back towards the long oval antique mirror, she immediately saw an image of her late husband, sitting on the loveseat beside the mirror, " You always made a beautiful bride." He whispered gently. He patted his hand on the loveseat, while saying to her surprise," come sit for a while". He then added, "You got time yet, its only 3' o clock!" The two chatted in that next 10 minutes. It was as if no time has passed, since the blissfully happy couple departed nearly a decade ago on that windy evening in August. She was taken back instantly to that night, when she received the awful call by the lighthouse commander, informing her at 3:00 am in the morning, that his boat was caught up in a huge tidal wave. She was told, much to her demise, that there was zero chance of him making it back to shore, for there was not enough visibility The waves were much too sharp fierce, and high, for the rescue crew to make it that far out, in time to save the crew. It was at 3:00 clock, that she discovered, her honey has passed on to life eternal. The two laughed, they cried, they hugged. Then, they said their final goodbyes. She got the reassurance she needed. Her late husband had assured her, he was ok with her finally letting him go and moving on with her life.  A huge wave of peace washed over her. Then he was gone. Just moments later, her nieces rushed back in the room, as the music began to play.  She caught a glimpse of her two sharp dressed adult sons, Patrick and Ryan, waiting in the foyer, to give their glowing with joy mother away. " Come on, its 3' o clock" shouted her handsome nephew Luca, running down the lobby hallway. It was in that very moment, that she realized that no time has passed.  That whole conversation with her late husband existed within her heart. As she was escorted down the aisle by her two loving sons, it occurred to her, all will be well, a new chapter awaits her, starting right at 3' o clock!