THE SECURITY GUARD

by Annie Hite   Thirty five year old Harold Crackwilder, otherwise known as “Bub”, short for “Bubba” due to his stocky physical development, became a security guard in a somewhat dilapidated well-known Catholic hospital.  It wasn’t what he really wanted to do.  He had started out as a police officer and was fired after two years for lying to a senior officer more than once.  The lies weren’t even very good. An example of one of his lousy lies was:  he fell asleep after a romantic entanglement and was very late for his shift.  When questioned about being late, he told his commanding officer that he had a flat tire.  The officer replied, “For eight hours???”      The hospital was desperate for security guards and hired him with the understanding that he would be on a probationary term for eighteen months as well as work the midnight shift for 4 years.  Not ideal but it was a job that provided some income and minimal benefits.  His uniform was pretty cool, too.  Black with yellow buttons and his name engraved on his front chest pocket, also in yellow.      Bub had issues with sleeping in the daylight.  He even researched ideas online and bought blackout curtains and earplugs.  Still he was prone to having nightmares and rare hallucinations due to lack of sleep, which caused him to doze off at work.      As a Security Guard, he enjoyed working with the computers and monitors needed to assess various areas of the hospital.  As a matter of fact, he became the “go to guy” when the computer system acted up, which seemed to happen frequently.  Another favorite part of his job was stopping people at the Emergency Room entrance and questioning them about who they were and where they were going.  And of course, he used his official deep policeman voice, which could be quite intimidating.  On rounds in the hospital, he would notice the pretty nurses and attempt to flirt with them without much of a response.  Oh, well, he’d keep trying.      On this particular November night, as Bub was driving to work, the weather was chilly and windy.  There was debris in the street which caused him to swerve several times.  He noticed the large full moon shining brightly, causing shadows to appear and fade as if someone was intentionally turning on and shutting off an intense spotlight.  This scene of the full moon, scattering debris, and shadows put him on edge.      He was a little shaken when he got to work.  He took a report of the last eight hours from Sam, the Guard working from 4pm to midnight.  Sam reported eerie conditions such as lights flickering, the computers and monitors going off and on and strange loud noises.  All this was due to the wind.  While the two Guards were talking, there was a large boom and the emergency generator came on so that there was minimal lighting and power.  “Better keep your flashlight handy tonight, Bub!” Sam said.  Sam also said that Bub’s partner, Charley, was going to be two hours late because he had a sick child at home.   Bub shrugged his shoulders since there was nothing he could do about it.  Sam left to go home and called out, “Good Luck!!”      Luckily, the hospital had low patient census and therefore reduced medical staff as well as ancillary staff.  This would help keep power at a minimum and hopefully not stress the generator.      The computers and monitors came back on after Bub finagled with the wires and poked around with the keyboards.  He poured a cup of the remaining hot coffee and sat down in the desk chair, sipping his java so he could stay awake.  Shortly after, he dozed off for about 15 minutes.      When Bub awoke, he saw something on the monitor in the hospital lobby.  He rubbed his eyes and blinked.  The monitor had low lighting but it looked as if Charley was in the lobby looking at the camera and was waving his arms about as though there was an emergency.

And then the monitor went blank.  Bub got his flashlight, baton, and pepper spray.  Then he started for the lobby, which was the furthest away from the Guard Department.      Security Guards have core values listed as:  Honesty, Integrity, Respect, Trust, and Courage.  Now Bub was lacking in some of those values, especially Honesty, Integrity, and Courage.  If there was an incident in the hospital, you can bet Bub was hanging out in the restroom until it had passed. And you can bet he had an elaborate lie about where he was.  He also lied a bit to his co-workers about his personal life, adding extras to make his life seem more exciting.

     As Bub traversed the darkened hallway to the lobby, using only his flashlight as guidance, he heard eerie silence.  He started trembling, not knowing what to expect.  As he approached the hospital lobby, he heard Charley screaming for help.  He stopped and wondered what he should do.  Go back to the office and call 911?  Run and hide in the restroom?  After a few minutes of thought, he decided to continue on.      When Bub reached the lobby, he saw Charley hanging upside down from the ceiling by a rope tied around his legs. A man dressed in black was wielding a large knife at Charley.  Bub hid in an alcove under a table.  He was terrified.  The unknown man had found a way into the hospital because the front doors were not locked.  This was Bub’s responsibility and he had not followed through.  Again.      The crazed man sought after Bub, calling out, “Bub, Bub!  I’ve been looking for you!  I know you are here!”  Bub wondered how the man knew his name!   “What lies have you told?” the man shouted.  “Remember when we were kids and you left me alone when we were running away from the police?  Remember when you left me to die when I cut my leg open on the fence?  Remember when you were supposed to marry my sister and you left her at the altar for someone else?  Remember when you scammed my parents for hundreds of dollars?   I want to avenge the dishonesty, the disrespect, and the cowardice that you brought upon me and my family!”  The man roared as his sharp crooked teeth looked creepy, like they wanted to bite something.      Bub figured out who this man was.  It was his best friend Grant from years ago.  What Grant had been saying made Bub realize how he had lived his life.  His parents had taught him that it’s better to lie, thieve, and disrespect. They did not do this verbally, but through their actions.  His parents had been raised by parents without morals, thus passing it to decades of family members. Bub knew something was wrong with his life but didn’t know how to correct it.  So it was easy to continue his lifestyle of dishonesty and disrespect and especially, cowardice and the blaming of others when he felt deficient.  Change is a difficult concept.  He didn’t know how to start changing because he didn’t really want to make the effort.  Too challenging.  But there was a part of him that felt guilty for all the “crimes” he had committed.   Who could forgive him?  Who would help him find his way?      Bub stayed hidden in the alcove, wondering what he would do to save Charley if he saved him at all.  Charley was a pretty decent guy.  He was married with 2 children and devoted to his family.  He was friendly and treated everyone with kindness and respect.  Bub was guilty of using Charley by calling in sick when he wasn’t sick, borrowed money from him, asked for favors, was sarcastic about Charley’s lifestyle, and would lie about situations to make himself look good.  Did Charley deserve to die from Bub’s selfish actions?  Bub went into deep thought about being afraid that he himself would get hurt or die if he decided to help Charlie.

     Meanwhile Madman Grant was becoming more angered as he continued his search for Bub.  He was swinging his knife while Charley was crying in pain and fear.

     Grant started to near Bub’s hiding place, becoming more intent on finding him by forcefully overturning furniture, vigorously throwing glassware, and loudly yelling Bub’s name.  Grant’s face was scowling with animosity.   His eyes were bloodshot and he was foaming at the mouth.  Bub had no desire to approach this angered being.  Finally, he left the alcove and quietly approached the man.  Grant closed in and Bub stopped.  Bub looked into the man’s bloodshot eyes and calmly said, “You are right.  I have wronged you and your family and I’m very sorry.  Please let my friend go because he has nothing to do with what’s going on between you and me.”  The angered man bellowed, “Saying ‘I’m sorry’ is the easy route.  It’s not enough!”  Bub was shocked.  “Wh-what would you like me to do?” he cried.   The man yelled the word “CHANGE!”  Bub shuddered- there was that word.  That word he didn’t want to think about.  The word that would make him work harder than he ever had in his life.      The man disappeared and Bub ran to cut down Charley from the ceiling.  But he was too late.  Charley was dead.  Bub started sobbing hysterically and apologizing to Charley.  He thought of Charley’s family and how devastated they would be without such a wonderful man.  Charley had no choice with what was occurring and solely depended on Bub for help.  And Bub didn’t pull through.  A man’s death was his responsibility and all he did was show cowardice.  He was more inclined to save his own skin rather than help someone else.      “Bub! Bub! Wake up!”  Bub slowly opened his eyes after recognizing a familiar voice.  He looked up and saw Charley’s smiling face.  They were both in the Guard Department with Bub sitting in the desk chair.  Bub was ecstatic and stood up and hugged Charley.  It was then that he realized he had been dreaming and hallucinating.  That nothing had happened.  He had never left the desk chair.  Due to lack of sleep and being unnerved by the weather, his mind had played tricks on him.      Full power had been activated and everything was working and online.  He apologized to Charley for being such a jerk and asked him how his sick child was doing.  Then Bub asked Charley for something he had never asked anyone before.  He asked for help.  Charley told him to seek counseling, seek Christ or a religion he believed in.  And that Bub could talk to him about anything, anytime.  That’s what friends are for.

     When Bub returned to the safety of his home, he realized something.  He never had a best friend.  He didn’t even have a friend named Grant.  He recognized that all the things Grant spoke of had actually happened but not to just one person and their family, but several people.  The shame overtook him, he got on his knees, cried, and he asked for forgiveness from whoever was listening.

     A few years after his incident with Grant, Bub had made several changes in his life.  Of course they were not easy but he persevered.  When Grant called Bub out on his sinful activities,  it made him understand the fear and pain those people had gone through because of him.  Just like Charley did when he was strung from the ceiling.

     Bub was now a Security Guard who followed the core values of Honesty, Integrity, Respect, Trust, and Courage.  When an incident occurred at the hospital (or anywhere for that matter), he was at the front of the line instead of hiding in the restroom.  He encouraged people, protected family and patients when necessary, and could think quickly.  He now greeted people entering the hospital through the Emergency Room instead of intimidating them.  When he made rounds, he no longer flirted with the nurses but respected their profession of patient care.  He worked as a teammate and had excellent leadership skills.  When he was up for a promotion, he turned it down and suggested that Charley would be a better candidate.

Although staring at monitors at night could be very boring, he embraced his career. Did he mess up sometimes?  Of course he did.  We all do.  But he would get back on that horse and do the right thing.  But the greatest thing that happened to him was he married a nurse who adored him.  They had a child and one on the way and were happy as bees making honey.  Bub was happy with his life and was thankful of the angered Grant, whoever he was.


We are meeting at the fenced off old amusement park tonight. The one with the signs warning about danger and not entering, and we are going to ride the roller coaster that is still under official investigation after that terrible accident there last month. The one that claimed two young lives and inflicted what the mealy-mouthed call life-altering  injuries on two more. We will walk past the deflated bouncy castle, where pools of water have already gathered in the flaccid, fading plastic folds, and past the waltzers that waltz no more, and past the dodgem cars that do not bump into each other with flashes of fluorescent light, and past the ghost train where the synthetic screams have been silenced.

     I have never much seen the appeal of roller-coasters, though I’m not afraid of them of course (and this is a simple statement of self-evident fact, not a boast). But we believe in playing fair, and Naomi loves roller coasters and fairgrounds. It’s my turn to pick next month. I have already made my mind up. We are going to dash back and forth across the railway line, and we are going to do it where it comes close to that old-fashioned and over-priced hotel where I once stayed for a couple of nights, listening to the trains as they disappeared into the woods and the limbo land between stations. I love trains. Perhaps someone arriving late or early at the hotel will see us, and will tut-tut, and will report us, maybe, but will end up feeling either foolish or frustrated, because we will not be caught.      Last month it was Ian’s choice. He fancies himself as a scientist, and perhaps he may have been one, if things had turned out differently. We wandered around the laboratory that was inside an electrified perimeter fence with skulls and crossbones signs and spent a strange sort of night surrounded by all manner of bacteria and viruses and chemicals and radiation. I had thought it would be rather boring, but there was something oddly compelling about the equipment and the constant half-light. I was reminded of when I started at college, and ended up getting hopelessly lost (I never did have a sense of direction) and wandered into the science block though I was a languages student. Looking back I realise that what I caught glimpse of was a bog standard chemistry lab in a bog standard campus university, but it made me think of science fiction B movies.

     There is an element of hypocrisy about being reminded and remembering. It is not actually forbidden as one of the rules of the society, but it is disapproved of, it will “serve no purpose”. But we all do it. Mike, who took us to the forest where the wildfires were raging the month before last, said it might be better if we had all lost our memories. But I don’t think he meant it.

     I fancy this place was dilapidated and well past its prime even before the accident on the rusting roller coaster. The little stalls that once sold doughnuts and ice cream and candy floss and cones of chips are now blind behind their shutters, their paint flaking. It is a place that seems lost and forgotten. Which is suitable enough for those who are lost and forgotten.      Except, of course, we are supposed to call ourselves The Immortals. We are the ones who have dared death, and who have escaped its clutches, and now we cannot die. I have heard a rumour that there is one way we can be released, but I don’t believe it.      To be sure, some great writers and artists and composers have evoked our ilk. But they are like legends and fairytales, even to us. Especially to us. We are the dull and drab ones, who are not swathed in soaring music or winding words or glorious colours. We are the second-grade, the mundane ones, who are left to our own devices, to organise our own meetings.

     Our newest member, Andy, doesn’t seem to quite get it. He is barely old enough to scrape in. He asks why we seek out danger when we know there is none. He will learn. I daresay all of us asked the same question once, even when we were older. He is sitting on one of the down at hoof horses on the carousel that always did moan and creek and disappoint, and looking as if he is trying to figure things out, and I wonder if the scream will come tonight, the scream that you think will never stop but does, eventually. Or does not. It will be a few months before he is allowed to decide where we meet. The power has come back on now. The carousel is turning and we can ride the roller coaster. I have dull, futile thoughts about those young lives that were claimed and maimed. I do not pity them. They would not pity me.

     “Beware,” says Henrietta, quietly. We are supposed to be equals, but of course that is so much nonsense, and she is the leader, or at least we act as if she is. But we all know what is meant by the single word “beware”. It does not, of course, mean be careful, or watch your step. It means that there is at least a chance that someone who is not one of us has penetrated, unwittingly, our meeting. Two things can happen now. The first is the more usual. They can go away, or their own volition, or with some presentiment prompting them. Then they will have strange dreams, and wonder why, and avoid the place where they had trespassed, and all places resembling it, and not be able to explain it, but they will have had a lucky escape. Or they can choose to investigate further and give in to the promptings or curiosity and daring, and then they will become one of us, but never wholly one of us. They will be in a limbo within a limbo. For reasons I don’t quite know I am willing the intruder in the amusement park to feel uneasy, to realise that they have made a mistake, and to slip back through the barrier they have somehow penetrated without the skills that we have.      They have not. They intend on staying. They have paused by the chipped and closed booth where cones of chips used to be sold. And I have a sudden urge to break the rules, to break one of our most strict rules, and to try to meet them. The consequences of this could be so awful that even we only speak of them obliquely.      I jump down from the apex of the damaged roller coaster and land safely on the concrete beneath, ignoring the warning cries of my companions, who truly do seem to have been stirred to a sort of panic. Andy is still on the carousel, as if he hasn’t quite grasped his unasked-for powers and doesn’t want to go on the roller coaster, and makes as if to follow me, whilst unable to believe what I am doing at the same time. “Dora, where are you going?”      “Stay there!” I command. He obeys.      I am coming nearer and nearer, and see that the person standing by the booth is a woman. Quite an elderly woman, though still, I think, sprightly enough, despite her slightly bowed posture. She is wearing a dark green coat that seems to glow both darker and brighter green in the lights of the amusement park, and seems to be lost in thought.

     An emotion is swelling through me that is both terrible and wonderful. When I was at school we once went on a trip to an amusement park, and I did not enjoy it. Perhaps because I’d had a tummy bug lately anyway, I had turned queasy on the roller coaster and, as I thought, shamed myself, and I had started crying. But our class teacher, Mrs Holt, could not have been kinder. She cleaned me up as best she could, and told me she’d had something similar happen to her, and looking back I wonder if it was a kind lie, but at the time I believed her. She took me to a stall to buy a cone of chips to “put a lining on my stomach,” as she said. They tasted good and the world became a slightly better place again. She had been wearing a green coat that day.      I am vaguely aware of voices calling, warning, unable to believe that I am breaking this taboo of all taboos. They seem to fade into a grey mist. Mrs Holt is smiling, and holding out her arms, and says, “Dora! What a lovely surprise!”

   It is a warm, human voice from a kind person whom I had almost forgotten. But she had not forgotten me. And that is what matters. I step into her arms, and there is peace.


“He’s using you.” “What do you care?” He gulped, slightly, if I hadn’t had known him so long I wouldn’t have had picked up on it, but it was a little thing. Like how his eyes were looking anywhere else in the room, but me. How his index finger was drumming against his side repeatedly. How his breath had shallowed. “I care. Of course, I care Hales.” It came out as a hiss. Four years. Four years and he hadn’t sent a care in my direction, four years since it happened. Four years since the day it all went to shit. Four years, Three months, Seven days. Since my life fell apart. Now it was my turn to gulp. “You’re just jealous.” I stood up and wiped my palms on my thighs, attempted to smoothen down my shirt. He scoffed. “Why would I be jealous?” He was standing, leant against the wall next to my bed. Calm. Calmer than he just was, a glitch in the matrix. His mask was back, and I was over it. So over it. I turned around, bit my lip when he couldn’t see. So many thoughts, contemplations, expectations, wonderings of what could’ve been. I breathed. One. Two. And turned around. He was in front of me. “Give me one reason Hails, one reason why I would be jealous.” I looked up at him, slightly. The lies slipped off my tongue. “Cos I’m finally happy.” I turned around, again. Desperate to rid any thought of him, any trace or particle that he was even entangled in my life, and I started to walk. One step, two. He pulled me back to him, my hand on his chest. “You don’t seem happy Hales.” I put my head on his heart, the thudding in my ears. His steady heart. “How would you know?” I whispered. “How would you know any of the shit that has happened or how I feel?” I pulled back. “How the fuck would you know Jer? How the fuck would you know what happiness feels like?” I stood there, panting. ” You weren’t here for any of it.” “I know you Hales-” “No.” I put my hand out, took a few steps back. As much distance as I could muster. “You don’t. Four years? Remember?” He frowned. One look. One look in his eyes and I was gone. His beautiful emerald eyes. Stop-no. Remember. “That’s what I thought. You don’t. You don’t care. You left and here I was to pick up the pieces. You don’t know shit Jeremy. You know why? Because you weren’t here. Now get out of my room, get out of my house, and get the fuck out of my life!” I was on the verge of breaking, if not already broken. The rage burning everything up and leaving me to bathe in the ashes. I hated him. I hated him so fucking much. He was it. Death in the form of beauty. A stone carved assassin. One who could ruin me, and I hated him for it. He took a step closer. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Another. I took a step back. The strides came closer, and I was backing away, clashed into the wooden door behind me. Frozen. Like ice. One wrong foot and I would be ruined.

I reached for the handle, he put his arm on the door. Kept it closed. “Let me the fuck go, or I swear-” “I don’t care?” He said it like it was funny, but his face was dead. His lips pressed in a thin line. Not his eyes-no matter what I would not look into his eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking accuse me of not caring Hales. Four years. Four fucking years, three months, seven days, three bottles of vodka and rehab has not made me forget every inch of your body, every tear you shed, every smile you wore until I melted. I fucking melted okay?” My heart was in my throat, my brain foggy. “You destroyed me.” I barely caught the whisper. I looked up. I looked up. I fucking looked up. I didn’t believe it. His eyes, swimming in a pool of tears. Incomprehensible pain. He counted. He’d counted the days. The days we lost. “I’m not a naïve eighteen-year-old Jer, this has to stop.” It strained my voice to say. He leant into the crook between my head and my neck. One small, soft peck. Lips soft, planted on my collarbone. Like a breath of fresh air. He pulled back. “Do not ever think that I do not care for you. I want you; I need you to know.” He shook his head, tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “Fuck it- I want you Hales. Only you. I’ll choose you. I’ll keep choosing you. Forever.” “Jer-” “Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t say it.” Say what? My mind had gone blank. I had waited eternity for him to say it, and he did. So many feelings, emotions, I just kept shaking my head. All I could think about was the fucking ring on my finger. A promise. A promise I’d made and needed to keep. An engagement to my future, a good future, an easy future… “Jer-” “Hales.” His voice cracked. A tear slipped out of his eye. I broke, the tears started pouring down my cheeks. One person, all of time and space and infinite possibilities, one destiny, one destination. He was mine. “Take it off.” I sobbed. “Take it the fuck off.” He looked at me, confused. I put my hand on his chest, so he could see it. His eyes widened. “Hales-” “Jer,” I wiped my eyes on the corner of my sleeve and stared at him. “Take it off. Please.” His hand brushed mine, ever so slowly inching the diamond ring off my left hand, his lips pursed. My heart pounding. This was it. This was it. This was it. It was at the edge of my finger, and he paused. “Are you sure?” “Jeremy, take the fucking ring off before I throw it at you.” He smiled, dropped the ring to the floor. “Hales.” “Jeremy.” I smiled. “Guess what?” “What?” His hand touched my cheek. I closed my eyes and smiled. It wasn't going to be easy, nothing worth having ever is... I looked at him. “I choose you too.”


A high-pitched ping echoed throughout the empty lobby. The elevator doors opened with an arduous shudder. Michael, eyes fixed on his phone, took a step forward. He retracted his foot at the sight of the elderly woman and her dog that live on his floor. The woman wore a knee length, black dress, floral pinafore, knee-high stockings and pink slippers. She stared at Michael through thick glasses and smiled. The little white terrier gazed up at Michael and let out a little yip . Michael took a step to the side and nodded at his neighbour. Both dog and owner waddled out of the elevator and into the lobby.

Michael stepped into the small metal box, locked his phone screen and slid the device into his jeans pocket. He pressed the yellowed, plastic knob marked “26”. The button creaked with the pressure of Michael’s index finger. The elevator doors rattled shut and closed with a thud. The tiny compartment smelt strongly of stale cigarettes and an indistinguishable meat smell. The wall panels had the initials of neighbourhood kids scratched into their artificial wood grain. Michael plunged his hands into the deep pockets of his navy blue bomber jacket and leaned against the wall. The elevator gave out a deep whirring sound and he began his ascent to the 26th floor.

The overhead fluorescent lights flickered through a metal cage. Michael let out a deep exhale and blinked a long, satisfying blink. His contact lenses were dry and irritating. The little orange dial above the door began to move as the elevator climbed higher and higher. At floor 15 Michael started to fiddle with the keys in his pocket. He slid his index finger into the keyring, all the way down to the base. With his thumb he spun the metal hoop around his finger like the wedding ring of an anxious adulterer. Michael is the coworker that clicks his pen in meetings. He’s the guy at the coffee shop that bounces his knee when transfixed on his laptop. He’s the man that whistles in the showers at the gym. These small distractions soothed him, whether he realized it or not.

At the 21st floor the elevator stopped with a jolt. Michael was jostled by the force of the halt. The fluttering fluorescent lights extinguished. Michael was left in complete darkness. “For fuck sakes!” he cried out. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. At that time of night everyone was at home. Everyone was cooking dinner and everyone was watching TV. The building’s ancient power grid couldn’t cope with its modern-day demands. Michael stood upright and reached for his phone. There was no signal. “Fuck!” he spat through gritted teeth.

Michael switched on his phone’s flashlight and inspected the column of buttons in front of him. He punched the red circle with the bell symbol. Nothing. He thumbed it a few more times. Still, nothing. Michael crouched down and opened the small door below the column of knobs. He took the black, plastic telephone off the hook and held it to his ear. He stood up, bringing with him a foot of cord ending in a spray of smaller wires and plastic casing. The other half of the cord was still attached to the elevator. “Fucking kids!” Michael grunted to himself. He kicked the elevator wall and threw the phone receiver to the ground. It ricocheted on the tiled floor and landed in the corner. Michael pushed both of his palms against his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He slammed his back against the elevator wall, slid to the floor and hugged his knees. Michael sat in the darkness.

A faint creaking came from above. Then a twang. A twang like a thrown rock into a corrugated iron storm drain or a skimmed stone on a frozen lake. The elevator dropped. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. It was enough to turn Michael’s stomach. His heart was trying to escape his chest by way of his mouth. Another snapping sound came from overhead and Michael jumped to his feet. He looked up at the ceiling. He listened. He was desperate for silence. With a final metallic splinter the cables above separated from the elevator and the box began to plummet down the shaft.

Michael’s feet lifted from the floor. Although he was falling it felt like flying. His bomber jacket bellowed behind him like a cape and his hair flowed as if he were underwater. Everything was moving in slow motion. Michael released the grip on his phone. It tumbled through the air illuminating the walls of the elevator. It cast Michael-shaped shadows on surrounding surfaces. Michael knew he was going to die. He didn’t have the time to process it in real-time. There was no saving himself. There were no poetic final words or goodbyes. He wasn’t scared. He just existed in that moment. In the last few seconds of his life he was at peace. Some say your heart explodes during a fall like that. A heart attack kills you before you hit the ground. Some say you die instantly on impact. What Michael did know is that your life does, in fact, flash before your eyes before you die.

Everything Michael had ever experienced came into sharp focus. Old, forgotten memories filed deep in the recesses of his mind were now illuminated and vivid. His memories were like home movies but everything shot from his point of view. He remembered all the times he cried, feeling warm tears running down his face and collecting on his chin. He remembered every lie he’d ever told and the heat on the back of his neck and the knot in his stomach whenever he told them. He remembered every romance he’d ever had; the first time he laid eyes on them and the crushing moment he realized it wasn’t meant to be. All the times he let his mother down and all the times he enraged his father. He also remembered all the times his Dad carried him to bed after falling asleep in the car and all the times his Mum kissed him on the forehead on her way out the door. His dog Charlie licking his cheek, his first slow dance, his first hangover. Michael felt these sensations all over again. He remembered dancing around a bonfire in his bathing suit, watching the sunrise wrapped in a blanket and diving into frigid lake water. He remembered every flu, strep throat and earache he’d ever had. He felt the sensation of burning his fingers on a baking sheet again, the sheer panic after misplacing his wallet and every time he stubbed his pinky toe. He re-lived every orgasm, every meaningful hug, every electric first kiss. He replayed every knowing look from a friend from across a room. He felt the sweat running down his back and the burn in his lungs after every run. He felt the sticky feeling and heavy eyelids after a long-haul flight. The fear and excitement of a foreign city and the comfort of his own bed. He felt embarrassed at the times he just yelled English words louder or the times he returned a wave not meant for him. He experienced the adrenaline of jumping off a cliff into the ocean or stepping off a curb and narrowly missing a speeding car. Waking up next to someone you love. Waking up to a complete stranger. He heard the satisfying thud of throwing garbage into an empty trashcan, the feeling of a chiropractor re-aligning his spine and the smell of his first car. He remembered lyrics to long-forgotten songs and every password he’d ever made. Michael could smell the incense his ex used to burn and the perfume his grandmother used to wear. He could taste his mother’s spaghetti sauce and the dandelion nail polish he used to try and stop biting his nails. He remembered the comfortable silences he shared with the people he loved the most. He remembered the first time he caught snow on his tongue. He remembered the sun on his face.


Twas the Week Before Christmas Ah, at last, the Christmas cards are finally sealed and ready for mailing. All they need now are some holiday stamps from the post office. “Did you get the stamps I asked you to pick up?” my wife called down from upstairs. “Running out now,” I replied, as I threw on my jacket and scarf. “Better hurry. I was hoping to get those cards to everyone before Christmas.” “Not to worry.” I dashed out the door and headed for the car. After a short drive, I pulled into a crowded parking lot in front of the post office. A cold wind cut through the air as I bounded from the car to the front door. What’s this? A green sign taped to the front glass of the door caught my eye: DEAR CUSTOMERS. WE ARE OUT OF CHRISTMAS STAMPS. HOWEVER, IF YOU USE THE SELF-SERVICE MACHINES, YOU STILL MIGHT FIND SOME CHRISTMAS STAMPS AVAILABLE THERE. I thanked a kind gentleman who was leaving through the adjacent door and held it open for me. “You may not want to thank me after you see the line in there.” Sure enough, as I entered the lobby, a line of about twenty people extended out from two customer service windows, each with a post office clerk standing behind it. In between them was a customer service window that remained noticeably unattended. Was there a clerk working that station? Was he or she on a coffee break? Was that person coming back anytime soon? Reminding myself of what the sign on the door had said, I turned my attention to the two self-service machines standing up against the back wall of the lobby. As I approached, a man suddenly finished a transaction at one of the machines. Looking around to see that no one else was waiting to use it, I stepped forward and began reading the instructions. Now normally, I would probably prefer not to use a machine like this. But under the circumstances, I felt I had no choice. It seemed simple enough. I began pressing the screen as it directed me through a series of promptings. Did I want stamps? Yes. Choose from the following values of stamps depending on the weight of the letter or parcel you are mailing. Does your letter or parcel weigh 3.5 ounces or less? Yes, I think so. Press here for 60 cent stamps. Done. How many stamps would you like to purchase? 50. Press here to complete your transaction. I hesitated. I couldn’t help but wonder why the machine hadn’t given me an opportunity to see what Christmas stamps I might like to choose from? I turned my head and noticed that a line had suddenly formed behind me. “All right!” exclaimed the woman at the machine next to me. “Got my Christmas stamps! They aren’t the Madonna and Christ child I was hoping for, but I’ll take them.” She held them up for all to see––a collection of stamps each with what looked like one of Santa’s elves holding a wrapped present with a bow on top. I turned again and noticed the man behind me looking at his watch, sending me a clear signal that it was time for me to finish. I inserted my debit card into the machine. Well––I guess elves are better than no Christmas stamps at all. As the machine produced my receipt, I could hear something beginning to collect at the bottom of the distribution bin. I reached my hand down into the bin and began extracting peel-away label strips, each with a QR code and the words U.S. POSTAGE $.60. “What is this?” I gestured toward the man behind me. “These aren’t Christmas stamps!” “That’s too bad, my friend. The machine must have run out.” After stewing a bit, I reluctantly collected all fifty of my postage labels and decided I needed to talk with someone at one of the service windows. Unfortunately, of course, that would involve waiting in the line I had hoped to avoid. Again, I guess I had no choice. Several minutes went by as I slowly made my way closer to the front. I could overhear an elderly woman at one of the windows discussing what a nice Thanksgiving she had with her grandchildren and how worried she was that the packages she was sending would not reach them by Christmas. The clerk went on to discuss with her the various types of postage she might consider paying for, along with tracking options and insurance coverages. She asked the clerk several times if he could repeat some of the options he had mentioned. “At this rate, she’ll be lucky if they get there by New Year’s,” whispered the man standing in front of me. “Don’t worry. My poor ninety-three-year-old mother at home sent me to get her some stamps. That’s all I need. I promise I won’t take nearly as long.” “No problem at all,” I said with a laugh. “I guess we’ve waited this long. Just tell me you’re not hoping to get Christmas stamps.” “Fortunately, mom wasn’t specific, so I’m happy to get whatever they have.” Suddenly, the woman at the counter was finished and the man moved ahead to take her place. “Have a Merry Christmas,” he said. “The same to you.” I paused a moment. I looked down at my fifty postage strips with the QR code emblazoned on them. It reminded me of the Peanuts Christmas special when Charlie Brown was sent out to get a tree for the Christmas pageant and came back with the scrawniest tree on the lot. But in the end, they patched it up with some ornaments borrowed from Snoopy’s prize winning doghouse and it looked just fine. “Sir, you’re next.” I glanced up at the clerk. Here was my opportunity to vent my frustrations about how I had spent the better part of that morning waiting in line and still not getting the Christmas stamps the sign on the door had promised me. “No thanks––I’m good.” I looked at him with a smile. “Have a Merry Christmas!” “Thank you, sir. Same to you.” I moved to the back of the post office in front of a wall of mailboxes where I found a table. From there, I began the long process of separating each of the postage strips, licking them, and carefully placing each one along the upper right side of all fifty of the envelopes. It suddenly occurred to me that alongside the QR codes of each of the postage strips was a vertical red line that actually matched very nicely with the rectangular red frame that encircled the addresses on each of the envelopes. Very Christmassy, I thought! After placing the postage strips on each of the envelopes, I happily carried them across the lobby and inserted them into the outgoing mail slot of the post office and finally made my way home. “Where have you been,” my wife called down from upstairs as I closed the front door behind me. “I was beginning to worry about you.” “Just spending a couple of hours with some new friends at the post office.” “New friends?” “Yeah, just some nice people who reminded me of what the season is truly about.” “That’s nice, honey. But I should tell you, we received some more Christmas cards in the mail today from some people we didn’t have on our list. I would like to send some more cards out. You wouldn’t mind running out again and getting some more stamps would you, dear? … honey?”


Tom and Gabby were drunk, swaying back and forth into one another as the train car bounced along the rails to the stadium. They made a handsome couple. Gabby was lithe and graceful, usually that is, with a slim build beneath long, blonde hair. Tom was tall and spry, and while he wasn’t particularly stocky, his muscles pushed outward on all sides of his t-shirt. Together they looked like they belonged on the cover of Getting Married, if there was ever such a thing.

The train was old and thoroughly worn out, as evidenced by the flickering lights and the faint smell of vomit that permeated the air. Just standing in the car was enough to give one the sensation of grime that slithered onto the skin from all angles. Oblivious to this was Gabby.

She was bubbly and radiant, decked out in all red, the color of the home team they were on their way to see. As the train car sputtered and shimmied, protesting loudly with metallic groans, she abruptly grabbed hold of the front of Tom’s shirt and kissed him. Before she pulled away, she whispered in his ear.

“Can’t wait to see the show, Gingerbread Man.”

It had long been a joke between them. The old children’s rhyme from their youths, repeated endlessly by caregivers and movies alike, elicited in them the childish glee of flight mixed with the almost universal love between a child and a well-baked cookie. It frequently entered the banter of their weekend mornings together. With the sun’s light sharply streaking through the breaks in the curtains, Gabby could often be seen coming in from the living room and jumping on the bed, fully naked, to holler ‘You can’t catch ME!’ Somehow, Tom always did.

At this moment, however, they were in Athens. A long and winding road had led them there, from the Eiffel Tower in Paris to the uproarious party of Oktoberfest, down through Italy, and then finally, across the Ionian Sea to Greece. This was the final stop on their vacation and they had planned it well. After two weeks on the smaller, lesser-known islands of the archipelago, Tom had booked an apartment in the city center of the ancient capital, where they had seen everything there was to see, eating and drinking as much as they could stand along the way. There were three days left before the couple headed home, so they decided to end their trip with a bang by going to see the biggest soccer team in Greece play its rival.

With a disarrayed symphony of squeaks, the train came to a stop outside the stadium. Thousands of the Olympiacos faithful streamed toward the massive structure of the stadium, all swathed in the same red colors as Gabby. Tom felt somewhat out of place in his black tearaway pants and cheap gray hoodie but he put the thought out of his mind. The couple entered the fray and headed straight for the concession stands.

No alcohol was allowed in the actual stadium itself, presumably to stop fighting and rioting, so Tom had to console himself by guzzling cheap beer as fast as possible before the game started. Gabby watched him with a bemused smile. He chugged away, belching frequently, which elicited small giggles of delight from his girlfriend. When he couldn’t take anymore, he tossed the can he was holding behind him and tottered backward toward a nearby railing. Gabby grabbed his arm then, directing them through the press of people entering Karaiskakis Stadium.

As a small miracle, the pair somehow made it past the alcohol monitors and security, then to their seats. These had been chosen carefully. Tom had wanted to be ‘part of the show,’ as he had put it, which meant sitting in the most raucous section of fans, and right near the field to boot. He had gotten exactly what he wished for.

It was ten minutes to kick off and the noise was deafening. The stadium was packed to the brim with wildly cheering people. Confetti flew upwards from seats all around them, some of the small pieces of paper catching on the humid air currents and lifting upwards towards the partially domed roof. Vuvuzelas blared their merry and triumphant tones. People of all ages screamed in Greek, waving their arms and jumping up and down while they did so. Both Tom and Gabby enthusiastically joined in. But they were waiting for something more than just the bellowing of the crowd. There was a ritual… The players were on the field now, set up in their respective rows, with the referee pointing here and there. From their close-up seats, Tom could make out the individual faces of the players. He watched as their bright smiles dampened, rapidly transitioning to the stern fierceness of competition. The noise had somehow grown even greater, almost overpowering any other sense one could have. The reverberations were so strong that Tom could feel them in his clenched teeth. And then, just as the first second of play began, their section popped the flares.

It is an old tradition that is popular around the world. A section of fans will pop road flares in a carefully laid out pattern that either spells out a word, a letter, or some kind of pattern. In this case, it was an ‘O’ for Olympiacos. But that didn’t matter to Tom. What was relevant to him was that now there was a ton of smoke, all of it concentrating to form a cohesive screen, through which anything might appear.

And today, ‘anything’ meant The Gingerbread Man.

Only a minute of the game had been played and Tom was already heading down the handful of steps that it took to get to the field. He briefly looked over his shoulder to see Gabby, smiling from ear to ear, with her phone out, no doubt recording the action. But then she was gone, blurred by the thick smoke wafting in all directions. He could feel the pulse of the crowd. At some point, he bumped against someone rising from their seat but resolutely kept moving downward. When he got to the rail he didn’t hesitate. Tom didn’t care one bit about soccer, or futbol, or whatever it was they called this silly sport. You couldn’t even tackle anyone, for Pete’s sake. No, what Tom cared about was making sure that everyone in the stadium was going to see his ass, especially Gabby. And he was going to show it for as long as he could. Maybe forever, really, because they could run as fast as they could, but they’d never catch him.

As soon as Tom hit the turf he ripped off his sweatshirt, tore off his breakaway pants, and started to run. A lot of people will never truly run . Sure, we go for jogs, we sprint after our dogs on the beach, and maybe even some lighthearted chasing with our kids in the backyard. But there is a great difference between those lighthearted runs and running for what feels like your life. When you are being chased, hounded by someone who intends to tackle you in the rudest way possible, there is the adrenaline of The Hunt. You are the prey and you have to outpace and outdistance your opponent. In that state, you are capable of speed and endurance you didn’t think was possible.

Tom burst through the wisps of smoke that made it to the field and reached top speed as he crossed into the field of play. It took the players a few moments to realize that there was a fool streaking naked across the field, but when they did, the man who had the ball at his feet kicked it straight toward Tom. In an amazing display of the abilities of these professional athletes, the ball came very close to pegging him right in the side of his head as he crossed in flight. Some of the players laughed, some scowled. The crowd noise hadn’t abated one bit. It was impossible to tell whether people were cheering or jeering him, but Tom assumed the former.

The first security guard came from in front of him and slightly to the right. Luckily, security was easy to spot because of the bright yellow jackets they wore. This man’s running days were well behind him, maybe they had never been at all, as evidenced by his flopping arms and bouncing gut. He had exhausted himself simply getting to Tom and his winded attempt to grab the streaker’s arm met nothing but air. Tom took a hard left, jab stepped, then cut even harder left, almost back in the direction he had come. He could feel his breath, ragged but hearty, alongside his wildly pumping heart. He ran.

As he passed, a player from the opposing team reached out his foot daintily, trying to trip the naked interloper. But Tom saw it coming and leapt high into the air without breaking stride. He could see security all around him now, yellow jackets buzzing in, all of their arms flailing, trying to grab him. He zigged, then zagged, cutting through the maze of attacking guards, much to the delight of the crowd. There was an impressive sense of focus that permeated him, possible only because of how many eyes were on him. There must be at least thirty thousand people around him. He looked up at the stands and tried… As if he had been hit by a bus, Tom’s body went from rapid motion in a vertical stance to complete stillness on the horizontal plane. It took just under three seconds. His head hit the turf and bounced once, twice, then rested roughly on the plastic turf. The pressing weight was unbearable, as at least two security guards were putting their entire weight on top of him. He felt himself being abruptly and unceremoniously tugged upwards, then dragged toward the sidelines. The noise became oppressive again, with screams of joy and derision cascading down around him along with the last wisps of smoke from the faded flares.

And with that, Tom looked up one more time to see Gabby, still seated, laughing uproariously. Her blonde hair tussled with the wind, leaving her face a bright spot in the sea of red. The entire section was laughing, thrusting their phones towards him. A few others were commenting to Gabby, although she wasn’t listening. Her phone was still up in the air, definitely recording the action. He wanted to wave to her but that was impossible with the hands clutching his arms. Instead, he smiled. It occurred to him that something momentous had occurred.

Someone had, indeed, caught the Gingerbread Man.


Love’s Trap Thom Love was an unusually clever twenty-eight-year-old. Even as a young boy on the fast and furious streets of Brooklyn in 1911, he was considered a sharp kid. He had a reputation for always besting the local gang of bullies. After years playing the avenging angel for his baby brother, Albert, he had plenty of time to perfect his tactics. The fates were unkind to little Albert. He came into this seething cauldron of poverty and ignorance, generally known as The Devil's Parlor, blanched as white as a rich man's sheets. Seeing the tears leaking from Albert's pink eyes, always moved Thom to greater schemes, protecting him from the brutes that targeted him endlessly for his obvious difference.

Albert enjoyed little in his pale life.  Bunty Park, a patch of scraggly trees fighting for light under the shadows of the tenements, was his favorite place.  Women, hanging laundry on endless rope lines, set like fluttering islands between the buildings, saw everything.  They often spotted Thom, his hand wrapped protectively around Albert's, making the painfully slow journey over four city-blocks, to this green Mecca.  Watching the sturdy ten-year old and his spindly, freakishly- white little brother, brought some of these life-hardened wives to tears.  To others, it made them raise a thumb and forefinger in their ignorance, to ward off the devil. Thom found ingenious ways to foil attempts to harm, or tease his albino sibling. He became astute at reading the signs of planned ambush along their walk to the park. Some of the gang members shadowing them, would grow bored with their pursuit, or frustrated with Thom's ingenuity in avoiding their traps. With little else to occupy immature, cretin minds, the others persisted in their efforts to fool young Thom, in hopes of tormenting the ghostly looking brother.

Thom prevailed in these bouts between brains and brawn. After years of protecting the milky-white Albert from harm, he became something of a folk hero, using his unique talents to protect other social misfits up and down the street car line that was the demarcation of his neighborhood turf. His calling in life seemed life seemed predestined. Thom became a copper. Called ‘Lovey’ on the street since he wore short pants, as a man wearing a police uniform, his incredible sleuthing talents soon transcended his nickname. He rose quickly in the ranks to become a highly decorated Detective, earning a new name on the streets; ‘The Ghost.’ His area of expertise was organized crime. To Thom, that still meant gangs. He'd already scarred, maimed and terrified several of the notorious criminals roaming the gritty New York streets like war-lords. Many were well-known to him as the thugs from his childhood days. The Ghost didn't leave a clue when he stealthily took revenge on any guilty of tormenting Albert and casting long shadows over his short, tortured life.

After five years on the force, Thom managed to ferret out every man from the old neighborhood, who had been part of Albert's years of misery as their freakish target.  The ring-leader of those local urchins, passed from street bully, into politics. A seamless transition in Thom's mind. Thom watched as this man now wielded his thuggish powers over his neighbors, from behind the Police Commissioner’s desk.

Thom was obsessed with bringing his revenge to the man who orchestrated the slow killing of Albert's spirits, eventually making him so desperate, he took his own life in the fast-moving waters under the Brooklyn Bridge. The Ghost would complete his revenge by luring the Commissioner into his own trap; an ambush he'd never survive. A letter found its way onto the Commissioner's desk, listing the political cover-ups and crimes he was engaged in for his own profit. The letter was clearly an attempt at blackmailing the man, demanding ten-thousand-dollars in small bills and directing him to arrive at two o’clock the next morning, at the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Thom, dressed completely in black, concealed himself just below the street-level approach to the bridge. The Commissioner’s sleek, black Packard, slid out of a haze of street lights and onto the darkened entrance to the bridge, rolling to a stop. The engine was switched off.  He wasn't alone, just as Thom had predicted. The burly figure that exited the driver’s side, was quick to melt into the shadows. All went according to Thom's guess about the Commissioner’s own plans. The portly figure of the Commissioner exited the back seat. His steps echoed in the heavy silence. He walked slowly to the side of the bridge where the money was to be left on the high railing. One hand carried the paper sack with the money, the other, kept close to his side, held a small revolver. The Commissioner was prepared to kill his blackmailer; an easy prediction for Thom to make. Thom waited until he saw the bag placed on the ledge. Knowing the bodyguard was watching for him to make a move toward it, he put the next phase of his trap into play. Holding two flashlights as far apart as possible, he pierced the gloom where the thug hid. He surprised both the bodyguard and his boss, who reacted by lumbering toward the safety of his car.

Foreseeing the whole scenario, Thom had arrived earlier that night, disabling the few lights leading onto the bridge, and causing the area to fill like a well, with deep shadows. He switched off his flashlights, throwing them onto the bridge in opposite directions. The sounds hung ominously in the night air. Thom was moving like a cat, up the side of the ramp, toward the large vehicle. The Commissioner opened the driver’s door, sliding his large girth behind the wheel. He started the engine, ready to abandon his thug to his own fate. As he drove forward, the tires of the heavy Packard were ripped to shreds on a long plank of nine-inch nails, laid by Thom, anticipating the coward would make a run for it.

The Commissioner threw open the car door, scrambling to get out, and screaming for the lurking bodyguard to help him. Thom heard the big man panting as he ran like a dog to his master.  Thom grabbed the huge bucket he had strategically placed across from where the nail trap was laid. He came up behind the Commissioner as his thug threw the spike strip aside and began looking at the ripped tires.

Thom poured the thick, white paint, weather proofed to be used on the bridgework, over the sputtering Commissioner's head, leaning close to his quickly clogging ear. "Remember the albino? You made his life a living hell until he ended it here. Care to join him?' Without another sound, the Ghost shoved the blinded, starkly-white figure toward the edge of the bridge and ordered him to walk forward. The thug stopped his futile efforts to salvage the tires, when he saw the ghostly apparition approaching, moans and gurgled words coming from it. The shots from his gun filled the night. The apparition tumbled backward over the lower railing and into the waters below.

 Love's trap was sprung. The Ghost faded back into the night smiling at the sound of a heavy splash.


Well, that was dramatic. Perhaps I should take you back to the buildup of the current situation. Precisely one hundred and twenty minutes ago when Tristan and Adley Griffin had their most contentious fight after being married only seventeen hours. You see… it all started on Wednesday afternoon, yes, these two married on a Tuesday but that is not the point. Tristan wanted to surprise Adley with some news, news that he was very excited about and thought she would be too but alas, she was not. Tristan walked in the door, holding a medium-sized cardboard box with Christmas wrapping paper… in June. Now, I’m not one to judge but I could see as soon as Adley approached the threshold from the kitchen she did not seem impressed. Tristan looked happy to see his very new wife, he kissed her cheek and handed her the box to which she started impassively. It was as if Adley was waiting on some kind of explanation, the suspense was killing me waiting to find out what the problem was. “Open it,” Tristan said eagerly. She let out a sigh, not the good kind though as she peeled off the very terrible wrapping. Inside was no better, nor was Adley’s face as she pulled out Christmas themed socks with her face all over them. Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bright red socks against Adley’s glorious blonde hair was not the gift she hoped from her husband. “Isn’t it cool?” He asked. No, Tristan, it was not cool. “You bought socks with my face on them?” Adley asked. “No, I brought the business that makes them!” He said. Oh boy. “I hope you’re kidding.” “No babe, this is legit. It’s a real business.” “Tristan goddam Griffin, you made me get married at Kentucky Fried Chicken for christ sake and yet you brought a business? You couldn’t even afford the potato and gravy! Who doesn’t have potato and gravy with their chicken?” “It’s four dollars a tub babe, stop being selfish.” At this point, I could literally see steam coming off of Adley. “We couldn’t afford a real wedding, but you can afford a business?” “No, well yes, but that isn’t the only reason we got married at KFC. I love chicken, and it was their cheap Tuesday how could I say no to that?” “We have eaten there every Tuesday for five years, we could have missed one week!” “No!” Tristan gasped. I think Adley had crossed some invisible line made of processed chicken. “I have had KFC, every single Tuesday since I could chew food. You know how important that is to me.” “If it’s so important to you then maybe you should have married the bloody chicken!” “Maybe I should have.” “I’m leaving!” Adley yelled. “Good!” As I was saying, things got a little… heated… and I’m not just talking about the chicken. Adley stormed off to the bedroom which was approximately eight long steps from the kitchen and began packing a bag while Tristan sat at the dining table staring at the socks with what appeared to be sadness. I personally had no idea what made Tristan so inclined to buy a business that plastered Adley’s face on socks but here the newlywed couple were exasperated, vexed and I was sure another hundred other synonyms could have been used but there weren’t enough hours in a year. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, they did indeed. Adley walked out with the bag I mentioned that she was packing, still storming through their home. She stood at the door, staring at Tristan with a look that could kill if they could kill. Tristan stood up and tried to reciprocate her glare but all he could manage was to look like an adorable puppy. “I’m going to stay at Bertha’s house,” Adley said. It seemed Tristan was a gasper since he let out yet another gasp but this time it was with horror rather than offence. “You’re choosing a Bertha over me? She’s a fucking vegan.” He said absolutely mortified “She wouldn’t have chosen chicken over me.” “She hugs trees, Adley! Like literally hugs them and thanks them for their service.” Okay, this is getting more bizarre by the second. “So?” “I’m losing my mind here babe. Bertha is weird and you’re mad over socks.” “I’m actually mad about the potato and gravy. Goodbye.” And so Adley got into her tiny little car and drove to Bertha’s house and for approximately fourteen minutes she stayed there. She drank her tea a little too quickly, staring at her phone, completely ignoring poor Bertha who was talking incessantly about trees. Perhaps Tristan wasn’t wrong about Bertha, but let’s not lose focus. After burning her mouth with the tea, two bathroom breaks and one hundred and eleven phone checks later—just kidding, she never put it down. Adley got back into her car and drove home to the man she loved. When Adley walked through the door, she found Tristan sitting at the table where she left him. Staring at his phone the way she was, he was even drinking tea just as she was. The romance of it all had her heart throbbing, she stared at this handsome man whom she married only yesterday and decided their marriage wasn’t worth ending over potato and gravy. “Tristan,” she whispered. He looked up and saw the love of his - odd - life standing there so beautifully and walked over to her. They didn’t speak, for a long moment, they just gazed into each other’s eyes and lusted for one another. Eventually, Tristan found the words he wanted to say. “Do you accept my socks?” “Yes, I accept your socks. I’m sorry, baby.” “I’m sorry too.” “You are the sexiest, wildest most incredible woman I have ever met Adley. I love you.” “And you, baby, are a spunk, a hunk the love in my junk.” “You’re so sexy when you rhyme.” And that my friends, is an apology… that I never wish to receive. Adley and Tristan then locked themselves in each other’s arms and ate, I mean kissed, each other. Deeply, passionately and a little scary if I am being honest. They - literally - ran the full eight steps which equated to three runs to the bedroom and had even weirder sex than I thought possible. Their passionate three-minute love-making session had come to an exhaustive end as the happy couple laid with a lot of sweat on their bodies for a hundred and twenty-second sex session. “That was… amazing, Tristan,” Adley said. Really? Because I feel like there is room for improvement. “You were an animal baby,” he said with a wink. Well, he was not wrong, she was very animal-like. I believe at around forty seconds in, she made the noise an elephant does. “I think that was your longest time yet. God, I’m so hungry after that workout.” Oh come on guys, you’re doing my job for me here. Really? This is terrible. “Want to get KFC? I’ll even get you your potato and gravy.” “Really? But it’s not Tuesday.” “You’re worth the extra six bucks, baby.” “How did I ever get so lucky? I love you so much, babe.” I wasn’t sure if luck had anything to do with it or if these two were born on a whole other planet far, far away from earth. They drove together to KFC and sure enough, Adley got her potato and gravy. I watched, holding back vomit as they licked the chicken grease off of each other’s fingers instead of using the wet wipes provided. According to their Tuesday history over the last five years, they made out in the parking lot before going home as they had every other time. They made love again too, I think Adley even invented a new animal noise somewhere in there too. Anyway, like I said… that, was dramatic. The End…


Deep in the dark, beneath everything she knew Sir Danielle Longbow was introduced to one strange species by another. Kutharma, a cenaga, held a flaming torch high to reveal four bipeds that were more and less like Danielle than the quadruped serpent with antlers that was making the introduction.             “I am Broken Hand,” said the foremost of the uamhith. Its arm was the length of Sir Longbow’s, but the width of a finger compared to her tree trunk arms.             “It is a pleasure to meet you,” said the knight. She bowed.             A wide smile revealed predator’s teeth. “There is no need to bow Danielle,” said the creature which looked older than the rocks of the cave around them. “I can only know you are bowing because I see you through Kutharma’s eyes.             Now you wonder how I see through his eyes? My people are telepathic. We talk with thoughts the way you do with words. The odd thing is that I cannot read your mind. I am old enough to remember wars with humanity long ago. I could hear their thoughts, not yours.”             “Perhaps humans have changed since you last met them.” Danielle tried to be diplomatic.             “No,” the eyeless uamhith shook its head. “It was only four thousand years ago. Not even humans change so quickly.”             “FOUR THOUSAND YEARS AGO?” Sir Longbow clapped a hand across her mouth to stop herself shouting. Her voice echoed up and down the cave. Four uamhith winced. Their enormous ears were used to hearing drops of water a mile away. Her yelling was agony to them.             “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of any creature that was four thousand years old. I didn’t think that was possible.” She kept her voice low and spoke to her feet. Shouting had been a serious screw up. Not the kind she could make in the darkness miles beneath the surface of the world.             Taking their hands away from their ears the uamhith looked at each other and nodded.             “I thought Kutharma might have told you that we are immortal. I hoped he would have told you that we have only brought you here to ask a favour of you.”             “A favour? What favour would immortals who can speak through thought need from me?” Danielle looked between the four uamhith.             “You are open to a friendship with us. You have proved yourself trustworthy to the cenaga, keeping their secret. You are a warrior with experience killing monsters.”             Danielle turned to look at Kutharma.             “I watched you in the tournament,” said the wise one. His yellow eyes with the black slits looked at her from the head of a snake which sat on a near humanoid torso with four legs and a long tail. The antlers were the oddest part of a cenaga in Danielle’s opinion.             “You fought well against Lord Fabian Castel. You are our friend and no soldier of Crann has more experience fighting monsters than you.”             “Oh dear,” she said.             “You are afraid?” Asked Broken Hand. The left hand it had offered for her to shake was shrivelled the way any human’s might be when they had lived to the limits of longevity. Its right hand was mangled and scarred. The wounds on that arm were battle scars Sir Longbow guessed.             “Anyone who isn’t afraid to fight monsters has taken too many blows to the head. My reputation for killing dangerous beasts keeps obliging me to fight more.”             “You would be under no obligation, surface dweller. We only ask in the hope you will help us. You of course have the right to refuse. This is a strange, dark world for you. If you do not wish to help. I understand.” The heads of the four uamhith fell with disappointment.             “Tell me about the creature you need killed before I make my decision. Will silver harm it? Is it a cursed creature or a natural beast?”             “The creature was one of our own, missing far out from our caverns. It returned as something else, reborn with fury. More beast than uamhith. Taller. Stronger. Longer teeth. A wider jaw. Ears more finely attuned to the slightest sound than our own. It seems to smell blood from great distances. Because it was one of us it can read our thoughts. When we try to do the same a maddening screaming sound fills our minds.             The fact that we cannot read your mind may protect you from its telepathy. Silver should harm it since it is a mutation, undead.”             “How many of the uamhith has it killed?” Danielle asked.             “Seven so far. Two who first encountered it. Then three who went to hunt it down. It has returned regularly. We find the bodies chewed. It is eating its own.”             “Wow.” Danielle sighed. “Fuck. That’s a lot.” Lupita would miss her if she died down there. It had been two days since she’d left Leonor. Two days travelling deeper and deeper into the warren of caves and caverns beneath the continent. “If I agree to do this and die, you must tell Lupita how and why.”             “Deal,” said Kutharma. “What do you need to prepare?”             “I need weapons made of silver. A spear or a sword. Arrows for my bow. I need to set a trap for it. Do you know where it comes into your caverns?”             “There are three ways that it can enter our home.”             “Can you block up two of them while I return to Leonor to find the weapons I need?” Deep down Danielle hoped her father’s sword would be reforged when she returned. Not having it by her side felt like a piece of her soul was missing.             “Temporarily we could.”             “Just until I have killed the monster, or until it’s killed me.” Danielle assured Broken Hand.             “I realise I should have introduced my friends.” Broken Hand turned to put a hand on a smaller uamhith who reminded Sir Longbow more of a woman. She had curves and was shorter than hunched Broken Hand. “This is Song Voice,” said the elder, patting her shoulder.             “Hello, warrior,” Song Voice said and bowed to Danielle as if she was a queen. Her voice was musical compared to the ancient rasp of Broken Hand.             “This is Quick Foot,” a withered hand patted the shoulder of a less wrinkled creature that was more than six foot in height. It inclined his head. “He is my youngest grandson. Only two hundred years old.”             “Two hundred and nine, grandfather.” Quick Foot’s words raced off his tongue to correct Broken Hand.             “And this is Long Ear.” The last of the four had ears that went as far up as the top of its head. “She is Quick Foot’s bride and in just three years will be the mother of his child.”             “She has been pregnant for two years grandfather. She is already the mother of my child. We talk. You talk to the baby. It will be a fine new boy for the family.” There seemed to be some family dispute behind the words, spoken aloud for her benefit. Clearly embarrassment didn’t work the same way for uamhith.             “I should leave immediately to fetch what I need,” Danielle said. “Thank you for introducing yourselves. Thank you for trusting me with this task. I will return as soon as I can.” She bowed to the creatures who looked grey to her.             “I hope you understand why I brought my family to meet you Sir Longbow,” said Broken Hand. “My people are dying out. It is no chance that we were driven beneath the earth by your kind long ago. Eternal we are, but we reproduce as if we have all the time in the world. Five years to make a child, during which time anything can go wrong. Four years of infancy. Many more before the child is fully grown. Every loss we take puts us another step closer to extinction.”             “As a citizen of Crann, I know the feeling. I cannot promise I will succeed Broken Foot. I promise to try with all my strength.”             “Then farewell and hasten back, my friend.”             Kutharma showed Danielle the way back through the myriad tunnels beneath Crann, back to the forest where five soldiers were waiting to escort her back to the capital. Two days after leaving Broken Hand, Danielle was back at the place where they had met. The border between the caves of the cenaga and the uamhith was marked by white quartz dug into the walls.             Quick Foot waited for Danielle and Kutharma. The cenaga wise one had two warriors to escort it, pledged to fight with Sir Longbow against the undead uamhith.             “You’re too late,” said Broken Hand’s grandson.             “What happened?” Danielle asked.             “Wandering Heart, I mean the beast, returned. My grandfather is dead. He was closing one of the paths into our home.” Quick Foot’s voice was the low growl of a dog defending its master.             “I’m sorry Quick Foot. I came as fast as I could, please believe me. I never wished harm to come to your grandfather. Never.”             “I know. I can hear it in your voice. My anger is not for you. It is for Wandering Heart. The fool who strayed too far from home now murders his own.” Quick Foot turned and began walking into uamhith territory.             “Is your wife safe?” Danielle asked, thinking of the child in Long Ear’s womb.             “She is under guard in the heart of our largest city. If not for the child she would be with us, ready to fight. I am ready. There is only one way into Dark Home now. When Wandering Heart returns, we will kill him. Then we will destroy him in the burning river.” In her armour, with a sword tipped with silver, Danielle followed. It was not the reforged sword of Darren Longbow. It was a blade commissioned by her friend Lord Fabian Castel after they had fought loup garous in Leonor Prison. In perfect darkness lit only by torches the cenaga carried, the walk to the uamhith city seemed to take hours. It felt like seeing the cenaga city for the first time all over again. Orange glowing veins snaked their way between homes cut directly from the rock. It was not the granite found beneath Crann. The rocks formed natural hexagons.             The homes themselves followed the form of the basalt on the outside. Inside they were furnished with furniture made of bone. Giant creatures had been sacrificed for the uamhith creations.             “What in all hells was that?” Danielle asked, pointing to a skull the size of a house.             “That’s a drake skull. Slain by my ancestors,” said Quick Foot. He smiled with pride.             “Drake, as in a small dragon?”             “Related to dragons, the way that uamhith are related to humans. Somewhere, long before the uamhith and humans we know now, we were one. Along the way we went our separate ways, never to be one again.”             Danielle ran her hand down a tooth that was as long as she was tall. Broken Hand’s blood still stained the ground where Wandering Heart had fed upon him.             “You remember Song Voice?”             “I do. I’m sorry for your loss.”             “This way is closed now, Sir Longbow. I will take you to the last entrance.”             The walk was a long way through basalt homes into the same white quartz which had marked the boundary between the territory of the cenaga and the uamhith. There were no streams of lava. The carved homes of the uamhith peeked from pillars that propped up cavern ceilings. Uamhith focussed on Danielle, not with eyes but ears. Everything about her seemed alien to them. Children who came up to her knee cried for a parent’s comforting embrace. A creature they could hear but not read was a horror that painted their faces with terror or revulsion.             “They’re scared of me.”             “Telepathy is one of our most important senses. We read every creature that walks or crawls through our caves. Only stones and plants are as blank to us as you,” said Quick Foot.             Eyeless immortals with fangs for teeth scared of her? Danielle smiled and shook her head as she walked. Whenever she thought she’d seen it all life turned a new page for her.             More of the bones she’d seen before formed bridges between buildings. Eyeless grey children climbed the ribs of monsters the size of castles. She walked through a drake’s jaw. The eye sockets alone were large enough to ride a horse through.             The clothes of the uamhith were mostly woven from dried algae that grew on the walls. Living algae glowed a pale green. Patterns of squares covered signposts and the walls of buildings.             “What do the patterns represent?” Danielle asked.             “It is our language. We feel it with our fingers. Writing on parchment as you do would be far simpler. Sometimes reading each other is not enough to preserve information.”             “Language for the blind?” Danielle wondered. “Lupita would love to know it. We could teach so many to read that never had a chance.”             “Slay Wandering Heart and we will teach you our language,” Quick Foot said absently. “We’re here.” Camping out behind a barricade was equally boring and terrifying. Danielle handed out weapons to the warriors of the cenaga and uamhith. She kept a silver tipped sword by her side. To the cave dwellers she gave arrows with silver tips. As she had when she fought loup garous, she drank beer with silver dust mixed into it. The others drank water mixed with the silver. If Wandering Heart ate any of them it would be his last meal.             A day passed in the darkness. The torches the cenaga had brought with them died. Uamhith brought them jars of glowing algae. Jars piled up around the entrance. Green light basked Danielle’s eyes.

This is a terrible and beautiful place to die. Don’t let me die, gods please .             As they sat on bone stools after what felt like eternity Quick Foot grabbed Sir Longbow’s arm.             The others drew their bows. Danielle stepped into the space where Wandering Heart had to enter the caves.             CRASH. A glass jar by her side exploded. Her heart tried to leap out of her chest. Goosebumps covered her arms. Nerves brought the taste of vomit up from her stomach.

Quiet. Be quiet , she thought.             CRASH. Her shoulders twitched involuntarily as another jar spilled its glowing guts across the white stone. The biggest difference was that all the light was around her feet.             Pitch blackness watched her from the cave ahead.             CRASH. A third jar showered the ground with glass and a green glow.             TING! Danielle stepped back as a rock hit her armour. The metallic ring was deafening after days of near silence.             “It knows I’m here,” she whispered to herself.             “It’s seen you in our minds,” said Song Voice. The uamhith loosed an arrow into the darkness. They all heard the arrow hit stone and clatter to the ground.             Nothing.             They waited.             And waited.             “Hurry up,” said Danielle. She stepped forwards. “I know you’re there.” She hooked the rope of an algae jar on the end of her sword. Her shield was little comfort as she left the light behind her.             “What are you doing?” Quick Foot asked.             “What you asked me to,” she said. “Don’t shoot me in the back.” Each step into darkness made her heartbeat faster. Lowering her sword, she let the jar slide down to the cold stone.             CRASH. Glass pinged against her armour.

Where are -             It hit her from above. Sitting on the shield it had her left arm pinned to her chest, crushing her.             “Shoot now, it’s on top of me!” The thing twitched as an arrow hit it. A heavy blow struck her face, slapping her head to the side. “GET OFF ME.”             It did. Reeling back as if she’d struck it, Wandering Heart fell off her into the mess of the broken jar. Lit from beneath she saw the mutations that made the beast so dangerous.             “TOO LOUD?” Danielle roared. “YOU CAN’T TAKE SOME SHOUTING?” She hacked at it with her sword. Arrows flew past her, most hitting cave walls far off.             The jaw opened. Canine teeth the length of her hand welcomed her sacrifice. The ears were enormous compared to even the other uamhith. Danielle thrust her sword into its wide-open mouth and pushed as hard as she could. Wandering Heart shook with the blade peeking from the back of its neck. His arms grabbed her sword arm and squeezed. She heard the metal crumple.             “NO!” It flinched, clapping hands over its ears as she screamed. Grabbing its sinuous arms, she screamed again.             Wandering Heart thrashed around, trying to shake her off. They crashed into the cave walls. She wrapped her legs around its neck, yelling hard enough that her throat stung. Arrows thudded into the beast. Some pinged off the wall behind them.             Jaws wide, it pressed towards her. She screamed until its hideous breath invaded her nostrils. The stench was death and decay. Bite or be bitten. Danielle sank her teeth into the monster’s nose. The taste was revolting but as it thrashed and ran into another wall, she could feel its breath begin to fade. Arrows whistled and chewed its back.             Together they fell. Wandering Heart’s last exhalation was an anguished whisper.             “I’m stuck,” she yelled. “Get it off me.”             “Stop shouting please, it hurts,” said Song Voice.             “Thank you,” she whispered as many hands pulled the beast away. They were carried back through the home of the uamhith. Bones of ancient drakes passed her by. Wandering Heart disappeared into a stream of lava that twisted between basalt hexagons.             Carried in the arms of the cenaga wise one, she slept until she was in the forests of the world above. Blinding moonlight welcomed her back to the surface as it clawed through the canopy.


***There are some derogatory terms used, however, they are not meant to insult or degrade any person or people*** Jackson walked into the banquet hall with his wife, hand in hand, so excited to be accepting an award for the work that he had put so many years into. When he first met Veva he had been a sophomore at Buick University studying architectural design. His dream had always been to design and build fascinating buildings that would become famous throughout the world. He hoped that one day people from other countries would seek him out for innovative and originally designed buildings.

After dating Veva for about six months they decided to move in together. With both of them being students and wanting to move out of student housing they figured if they were able to share some expenses they would both be better off financially, cutting down on student loans; there was no point in paying for two rental properties when they spent all their time together anyhow. When they finally settled into an apartment together, Veva and Jackson were given the opportunity to learn more about each other which ostensibly allowed them to grow closer together.

The apartment had two bedrooms so the second bedroom was used as an office for both students. One half of the room was full of books about teaching and education while the other half was full of building materials, tools, and miniature models. Veva had books about child development and learning disorders as she wanted to be a special education teacher one day. Jackson had models and posters displaying some of the most famous buildings in the world. Veva and Jackson supported each other in every possible way.

After the end of his Sophomore year, Jackson realized that many of the courses he needed to take were not offered in the fall semester; he would have to wait until the spring semester to fulfill more requirements. In the meantime, he wanted to continue to improve his skills so he sought out other courses that would accentuate the skills he had been learning over the past two years. One course that continued to catch his eye was Interior Design in Scale. Reading about the course he saw that it emphasized the building design that he enjoyed and knew about, but put more stress on being able to scale up or down all of his architectural designs. This could be, in Jackson’s opinion, one of the best accompaniments to his future degree.

After taking a full semester of what seemed like miniature world creations, his passion as a child came flooding back and he was reminded of all of the dreams he held growing up. He had been a happy child, able to keep himself busy creating cities for his Matchbox® cars. Sunny days were filled with buildings made of sticks and scrap wood from his dad’s workshop. On rainy days Jackson found building materials in his mom’s home office, using small boxes and tubing to design intricate buildings. The coursework in the fall semester of his junior year brought all of it back and he remembered how happy he had been as a child creating his small worlds. It had been the essence of the miniature building that led him forward to earn a degree in architectural and interior design.

“Thank you so much for this opportunity. I honestly never thought I would make it so far and I do feel pride in my accomplishments. This award has been on the horizon leading me forward. I never even thought I could be so creative. Well, what I mean is I didn’t foresee my future in creating miniature worlds.

Before speaking further I want to thank my wife, Veva, for her unrelenting patience while I figured all of this out. I would like to say that I think for both of us it has been worth the wait. During my last few weeks of work, my wife let me know that we are going to be parents! I am so grateful for all I have been given and the little life that is coming into our world.

Without boring you all with every tiny detail I will start by saying that I never believed I would be standing here accepting an award for my work with miniature building supplies. Since my childhood, I have always been mesmerized by the world of anything miniature. Studying concept design and interior decorating in school was my focus but I never imagined I would hone all my skills down to a 1/24th scale building design.

I can’t accept this award without pointing out the other members of my team who have helped get me this far in this miniature world. First, as I mentioned, I must thank my wife for her support, her patience, and her willingness to allow me to pursue my dreams. Along with my wife, I would like to thank my brother Tony for his help in building the business piece of my career. He has had so much patience with me, especially since I had no idea about advertising or marketing.

As I continue to pursue my passion I hope that all of my supporters will be here to help me continue to move forward. I especially want to ask all the midgets in the world to let me know what they think about all of my miniatures. What I mean is do they feel comfortable seeing me depict a world from their perspective? Well, that isn’t exactly what I mean. I just want dwarfs to know that I respect them and their little lives, um little worlds. Um, people of short stature must believe that I like them because I like anything miniature. Oh, wow, yeah, um I just want everyone to like small things and that includes small people and their world, which is, of course, bigger than what I build but maybe I will start making things for Little People so they know I’m not patronizing their lives. Um, I love Little People as much as I love my miniature-building business. Okay, thank you. I had better hand the microphone back over to… Jackson and Veva walked out of the banquet hall hand in hand but instead of holding their heads high, full of pride in Jackson’s accomplishments, they walked quickly to their car, anxious to forget this whole night.


How can she do this to me? I don’t want to be alone again. I’ve spent my whole life trying to find a partner, not just the romantic kind, but my chosen partner always left me. For the longest time I did not want children in my life. The thought of being tied down and woken up early filled me with dread. Over time those reservations melted away and the idea of pouring my love into a small creation of my own became insatiable, but like most things in life I left it too late: the biological bus had left the station before I found someone I was willing to share it with. In the end they left too, although it was a small Volkswagen car that they left in, taking the remnants of my youth and my best bedding with them, or did they take the towels? I guess it doesn’t matter now.    My sister is looking at me from across the room, giving me one of those ‘I’m trying to read your mind looks’. When we were young we were never that close, I was the tomboy who gravitated towards Dad and went to football games, she was the perfect lady, accompanying Mum on her shopping trips and ladies lunches. When it was just the two of us we never really knew what to say to each other. I suppose I envied her in a way, getting to spend all that time with Mum, before the illness took her from us.

   ‘Are you alright, Susie?’

   I turn towards my little sister and nod. She looks different. She looks older. I still think of her as the little girl, who would run screaming when I dug up worms for fishing trips and threw them at her. Our Dad used to take me out on this little boat, that was bright blue, or maybe it was yellow? No it was red and it was called…oh I can’t remember. Anyway we would spend the day fishing together and he would tell me everything. On the last trip he told me he wouldn’t be around as much because he’d found someone who made him happy. Well she can’t have made him happy for long because he left her too and then we never saw him again. My Mum burned all the photos we had of him and I can’t remember what he looked like now, although I’m starting to get that way with most people these days: just last week I invited the Amazon delivery man in for a coffee thinking he was my old maths teacher. When I close my eyes and think really hard, I can almost bring my Dad’s face into view, but his eye colour begins to blur like a kaleidoscope and his features shift and bend like cloud patterns.    ‘Do you want me to get you some water? They will be here soon.’

   My sister is speaking again, she’s good at that. Even though she was the baby, she bossed me around, and once it was just the two of us she stepped into the roll of Mum. I guess I played the part of Dad quite well, I often just disappeared too. I knew how much she would worry and how furious she would be with me when I did return. I don’t know why I did that really, because when I break it all down to the bare essentials she is the only person who has ever stood by my side from day one. Why did I feel the need to punish her for tethering her cart to me? Probably because I never deserved her love. I never managed to find it anywhere else. So why did she offer it up to me to willingly? Oh bloody hell I’m crying now.    ‘Oh Susie, please don’t cry. It’s going to be alright you know, you’ll see.    She’s walked over to me and I can feel her fingers raising my glasses off my nose and dabbing the corner of a tissue into my eyes. Her warm hand brushes through my ever thinning hair and rests on my neck. I try and bring my hand to meet her, but wince in pain when I try and move the arm that is strapped to my chest in a brace. Funny, I don’t remember it being like that? My other arm moves much better and I wrap my fingers around hers. She is staring at me, that same worried stare that she has given me my entire life: when she found me sleeping on a park bench after Dad left, when she picked me up from the airport after my love affair with the French..no Spanish waiter fell apart, when she appeared beside my hospital bed after I had slipped on the ice and broken my arm. She put her life on hold for me, she didn’t go to college because she needed to pay the bills. She put me before her husband and he left her childless and alone again. I can’t remember when she came to stay with me, I probably insisted that she leave and that I was alright. Truth be told I’ve never been alright. I have always found people who I wanted to be my rock, that I could hang on to and be safe, but they all crumbled away to dust in my hands, all of them except her.

   From across the room there’s a knock on the door. I wonder if it’s Mr Jackson, it must be about time for my maths lesson. I need to tell my sister how I feel, before it’s too late. From now on I don’t want to be apart from her, I’ve taken her for granted and it’s my time to repay her.

   She gives my hand a squeeze and a tired smile appears across her face. She dabs the tissue to her eyes and then shuffles across the room to the front door. Two women dressed in white enter. They all turn to look at me and then begin whispering to each other. I try to get to my feet but my legs won’t seem to move?     ‘Hi Susie, you’re going to come with us to your new home,’ said the shorter of the two nurses with the uneven fringe.

    They all have the same pitying smiles on their faces and now the two women in white are grabbing me with their firm hands and raising me to my feet.     I turn to my sister and try to speak, I want to tell her how sorry I am for dragging her down, I want to tell her that everything will be alright from now on, I want to tell her I love her, but the words won’t join up properly and the only sound that escapes my mouth is a whining groan.

    ‘They will look after you now Susie. I tried, my God how I tried, but I can’t do it any more. You took the best of me. I’m sorry, Sister, but I need a few years on my own before it’s all over for me.’    My eyes start leaking again and the larger of the two women presses a tissue into my face. There is a dull ache in my chest and a lifetime of missed chances spin through my mind, I want to stop each one and remove it but they can’t be expunged at this point. I now know that this is completely of my own making, created by a lifetime of small betrayals, each one cutting and slicing at my sister, finally causing her to lose enough blood and kill our relationship entirely. I offer her one final smile and look at her for what I know will be the final time.