It has been five days since the war had begun. I do not know what the word “war” means, but I am too scared to ask Da, because he seems so sad all the time. I wonder what makes him feel that way. The power was cut off permanently and Da says it won’t come back anytime soon. It might be for the best, because then the night would be less scary and my sisters and I wouldn’t have to risk seeing the bleeding people on the television. They might be in black and white, but they still frighten us all, even Ma. Da is sitting in his office, again, frantically scribbling on paper with a gas lamp on his desk, and Betty and Lily are hiding in their rooms. They’re as scared as I am, but Betty told me I would have to become a man if we wanted to survive this. What “this” was, I do not know. Ma is with me in the living room, and she looks as grave as ever since the news broke out. It seems like I was the only one who had no idea what was happening, so maybe it was time to find out. “Ma? What’s a war?” My voice is barely a whisper, but it jerks her out of her thoughts with a hint of alarm on her face. Perhaps her nerves are always on edge now. “You don’t want to know, Eamon. It’s best if you don’t know,” She rubs her temples dismissively, despite the fact that she hasn’t given me the answer I wanted. Instead, I cuddle closer to her on our worn out couch, and in spite of the dust and the cold and the fear, I decide not to voice my complaints or fears. Like Betty said, I had to grow up. “But I need to know, Ma. Otherwise I can’t help you at all,” I look at her misshapen brown curls and her sad green eyes and it fuels me with such determination to banish the misery out of her eyes forever, to find her the solution to all our problems. “A war is when a disagreement happens between two countries, like Durshall and Kringa,” She spits out the word in disgust. “and instead of fixing their problems verbally, in a civilized way, they fight against each other, dragging countless innocent people into their problems for no reason.” Durshall was our country, but Kringa was the country everyone here hates, and I wouldn’t blame them; they were always taking from our country without payback for what they take, but I still do not see why they couldn’t have solved their issues privately. “Is that why the world is so dark all the time? Is that why Da is always so upset?” I am seven years old, and I think of myself a man. However, what Ma said afterwards shook all the hope out of me and dragged me down and endless spiral of nausea and petrification I would never forget. “I’m not sure how much of this you can take,” She pulled me closer to her chest until my dirty hair was on her chest, and my ears could hear her tense heartbeat, slightly faster than it should be. “But everything is so dark for the mere reason of the guns and the lifeless bodies lying around. Everyone feels hate, everyone feels greed, and especially now, those feelings are what’s driving those people to destruction. The sky never clears now because the gunpowder is so excessive it painted the sky black, and buried the last inch of comfort and security under its ashes,” She pauses abruptly, her eyes suddenly on the door behind me, the one leading to Da’s office. “Wait here,” she commands, pushing me gently off her lap and onto the ragged couch. Its color is of faded dreams and lost hope, of all the bad feelings swirling around our neighborhood and how everyone is scared, even when they pretend to be brave. Ma disappears inside Da’s office, taking one of the gas lamps with her, plunging me into the darkness. It makes me realize how the darkness is everywhere, it’s just that we found a way to illuminate it, but we can never make it go away forever. The dark will always follow. I try to smoothen out my blond hair to no avail, and since we barely have enough water to drink and cook with, a shower is out of question. I’ve always been a thinker, but it was fun when I was thinking because I wanted to, not because I had to, and back when everything was still normal and all I had to worry about was not getting caught by Rudy in a game of hide-and-seek, that sort of simple thinking sounds like a piece of heaven. Even though I just learned what the word “war” means, that didn’t mean I had no idea what it meant. In fact, I was asking merely for a confirmation, in case it meant something different, and maybe less catastrophic. A few trips to my mind palace later, Ma and Da show up out of the office, each with an unlit candle and a gas lamp in each hand. It is time to go. The look on their faces says everything. I rise to call Betty and Lily, but Da places a hand on my shoulder and urges me back to the couch. I guess that being a man starts from now. Da looks like he had grown at least ten years older in a span of a few days; his eyes were glassy, rimmed with red around the edges. An unshaven stubble on his chin was a contrast to his sunny face, and suddenly I feel as if he’s five seconds away from tearing a piece of the weight on his shoulder and placing it on mine. Ma and Da share a private look until they’re both looking at me. It’s Da who speaks first. “Look, son. This is the last thing I had ever wanted to have to tell you. If I could, I would have done every single thing I could to ensure you wouldn’t have to go through something as bad as what we are all going through right now, but what needs to be done needs to be done.” I swallow anxiously, the dread slowly inching back into my body and filling every organ of my gazing at me like this might be the last time they will see me alive was unnerving. Ma’s eyes are already tearing up. A loud bang sounds outside. It nearly tips me sideways, even though I had heard it at least ten times in the course of four days, but with my nerves set on a trap wire, it’s hard to control my reflexes. Da is unexpectedly kneeling in front of me, righting my balance and placing me back on that disgusting couch. “You’ve heard a shell strike before, Eamon, now listen closely.” His voice was veering into nervousness, and Ma has taken off up to the rooms and is now speaking in hushed whispers amongst my sisters. That could not mean well. “I hear you, Da.” He reaches for my hand and clutches an ivory-colored envelope sealed with red wax in it, then I am immediately aware of what I need to do, even before he speedily says, “Eamon, you know where the post office is, correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. I know it’s dangerous to go out at night, let alone to the post office, but this could shape our next few months. The army is shelling houses on our same street, Eamon, and we need to leave. The Gerg’s sent Rudy out tonight to do that as well, so when you deliver the letter, we’ll be able to evacuate the city by midnight. After you hand it in, head to that motel next to the office. You should find Rudy there. Both of you will move at midnight to meet us at the docks, where a liner will be waiting for us, understood?” I’m shaking. I cannot feel my hands, and I feel sick by the time Da’s finished. Yet, I still bob my head up and down in agreement. It’s not like I have any choice; I’m technically their only hope. My eyes travel down to the envelope and allow a surge of purpose to overwhelm me. I was getting my family out of this city, tonight. The clock is announcing the tenth bell by the time I’m creeping down my street, head low, shoes barely making a sound. I can’t call me own street The Playground anymore, since all that is left of it is rubble, along with a few sole houses whose residents probably wouldn’t survive long if they don’t resolve to leave the city. The post office is at least three streets away, but now even the neighbor’s house seems far away, which I guess is what happens when impending doom is settling upon everyone and everything you’ve ever known to love and cherish. I nearly halt as I register my thoughts. For once, they don’t seem like my own. It seems as if they were passed on to me, because I would never let myself focus on the dark sides of a situation when I have something to do about it. Perhaps that’s why everything is dark. Even the streets are dark. Every single lamp post is either smashed to crumbs, or lying on the ground. I keep to the shadows as I pass house after house, broken glass after dumped garbage after scurrying rats. I barely recognize my home anymore. Vaulting over a garbage can, I drop with a thud in front of the unlit post office. Anyone who doesn’t know better might have assumed it closed, but it’s perfectly operational. They only turn out the lights so they wouldn’t draw much attention. I take a deep breath before pushing the creaking wooden door open and stepping into the office. My shoes only brush the ground before someone with an air of importance yells out, “Who goes there?” I halt in my place. There is an equally likely possibility that the solider here is Durs as much as Kringan, but they weren’t equally horrifying. The government declared that the last call for evacuation is at midnight today, but in order to claim your place, you had to send a letter with the member count of your family and a small fee, then they would arrange for your transportation. However, word had gone out that they were taking more money than they should have due to the scarcity of boats and liners, despite the high demand over them. Part of me believes that’s because they converted half of the nation’s medium-to-big boats into warships. “I said who goes there!” The voice in the dark yanks me back into reality as I debate my next move. Da had severely reminded me that this is a stealth mission, and that being caught by the wrong person at the wrong place could lead to consequences. I stayed silent for a little more before determining that staying silent could mean getting shot. “I’m here to deliver a letter,” my voice cracks agonizingly, so I repeat louder. “I am here to deliver a letter on behalf of a Durs household. Who is here?” It’s a big risk to ask for identification from either armies, and I know that, so I inch back to the door in case I need to bolt.  “You have no right to ask for identification. This city was put under curfew on August 9 th , 1921, five days ago. You are violating one of the new laws put on the city-” “But I do have a right to deliver a letter.” The soldier’s eye burns into mine, for interrupting him I suppose, if blue eyes could ever be cold. “The government allowed them if you’re evacuating the city…I have a right to deliver this letter.” The soldier approaches me slowly, a predator stalking its prey, and my blood freezes in my veins as he flashes me a sinister smile, the floorboards creaking under his military boots and pounds of body muscle. I take a few, reluctant steps back, unaware of what the man wants to do with me, but I realize that I do not want to find out. He makes his lunge for me just as I swing the door open and clamber outside into the dark night. For a second, I think I escaped. My feet carry me down the streets, unsure where to head. I do not want to lead him to Rudy’s hiding spot, but I also cannot navigate through the narrow streets with all the rubble when there isn’t so much as a gaslight to guide me. His heavy boots are racing after me, and when they seem to slow down a little, I steal a glance over my shoulder, and my heart stops. It’s not the sight of him loading his rifle with a few bullets, it’s not how terrified I am or how breathless, how our hope of fleeing is slipping through my fingers. No, it’s not that, because a few yards away, moving at a pace so slow and without so much as a sound, is Rudy, creeping behind the soldier, his head hooded, his pale face almost translucent. I want to scream at him, ask him what does he think he’s doing, but I can’t, so I keep running until I duck into an alley that gives me a clear look of the street I was just in. The soldier has stopped running, now glancing around with a shadow of uncertainty on his features. Rudy draws closer, and now I notice for the first time the odd glint of metal at his hands. It’s only when he strikes that I know what he is doing. It is only when the soldier collapses that I am able to comprehend that Rudy has just stabbed him. But the soldier is stronger than he looks, and by the time I reach them, the soldier had bonked Rudy on his head, both lying unconscious on the road. My breath catches in my throat, I stop breathing for a few seconds as I try to wake Rudy up. I shake his hood off his head, surveying the welt on his head, blood caking him from head to chin. My muscles ache from the rush of adrenaline, and I’m feeling dizzy, yet I force myself wrap my arms around his shoulders and drag him into the same alley I was in. It’s then that the panic kicks in. His breathing is slowing, and in the lighting, his head looks more badly injured than at first sight. I scramble to tear off a part of my shirt and press it to his wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it’s no use. Rudy starts to cough, miraculously, signaling that he’s waking up. My relief turns into distress, however, when I realize that he’s coughing up blood. “ How is this possible?” I cry out to no one in particular, but a part inside me hopes that someone is out there, and will hear me and help me, even when no one shows up. Apparently, the soldier –still lying unconscious on the ground– has shot him at some point. It’s the only way to explain the blood. Or maybe he’s already been hit. Nevertheless, he’s awake, but he can’t open his eyes just yet. I wonder how I got here in the first place; how I’m laying with my lifetime best friend in a dark alleyway while he bleeds to death. Another cough, but Rudy’s soulless eyes are on me now, my heart skipping a beat. Maybe there’s hope for him after all, maybe he’ll make it! “Eamon…” He whispers, his voice coarse and rough, as if it hurts him to speak. Maybe it does hurt him. “Rudy, can you stand? We can get you out of here! We can go somewhere safe, get someone to fix you up. Do not give up on me. I’ll never forgive you if you did.” I’m already getting up, looking for a floorboard or a blanket or anything I can put him on so I can drag him to safety, but he holds my hand and pulls me down to him. There’s blood dripping from his open mouth, and his hands are colder than ice, but his eyes are on me. Wistfully, I squeeze his hand, letting the tears come, letting all the pain wash down, letting go of everything that has ever hurt me. I think Rudy cries too, but I’m too sad to notice. “Listen, Eamon.” He sounds more like himself now, and his voice drags me back to real life. “Go to the post…Give them your letter, and go home…Alright?” I nod frantically, sniffling and hiccupping, for this seemed like goodbye, and honestly, I don’t want to let him go, not just yet, but I know that I have to. “Don’t go to the motel…It’s closed down.” His eyes darken more, and he’s staring me with an intensity that could break. “Take care of them, Eamon. My family, and yours. I did it all for them, you know…Not just my family, but for yours, because they’re my family too. Don’t let me down, Eamon, or my ghost will haunt you in death.” He chuckles, then clutches his side in agony. I laugh a little. Even in his pain, he is still Rudy. He closes his eyes, and waves me off. “Go now. You can’t see me like this.” I don’t want him to be upset, so I turn and walk away, my heart cracking. Rudy was eleven, only four years older than me, yet he managed to save us all, even if it meant he couldn’t save himself.


“Hi honey.” Mom says. “Hi mom.” I drop my backpack on a dining room chair How did you mess it all up this time? You always find a way . My head whispers.

“How was your day?” “Alright I guess. I’m tired.” I yawn, feeling the weight of the day in my arms, my legs.

You’re always tired. Lazy piece of crap .

I tell myself it's just depression speaking, and if I ignore it, it will go away.

“How’s Amelia?” Mom asks.

“She’s okay” She hates you.

No she doesn’t, I insist internally. “How’s her painting coming along?” “It’s coming. I told her it looked nice” What a stupid thing to say. Of course it looked nice. How about some insightful praise? You should have said something smarter. She thinks you’re boring. She doesn’t want to be your friend anymore I studiously ignore the voice in my head. “I can’t wait to see it at the show next month” Mom remarks.

“Hmmmm” I mumble. No one wants to be your friend. Who would be friends with someone like you? This, I think, might possibly be true. I try half-heartedly to list the evidence against this thought.

“Sara, you know that I love you” She’s lying “And I only want you to be happy” They don’t love you.

“And healthy, and living a good life” And no wonder. You do not deserve to be loved. I give my head a shake to dislodge the voice.

“But we need to talk about your grades.” Worthless. “I know you’re having a hard time right now” Good for nothing.

“This isn’t easy for me either.

Life is pointless.

It’s still there, in my head.

“Can we just talk about it for a bit?” You want to die I want to die, I think.

Life is not worth living when you’re a person like you are.

“I’m not trying to make you upset, I just want to have a discussion” A bad person.

I’m not a bad person. I think firmly. “Sara, did you hear me?” Mom says.

I jerk my attention back to her.

“Yes, yes, mom, I heard you.” “Why can’t you just pay attention when I’m talking to you?” Yeah, Sara, why can’t you? See, I told you that you would mess it up. Listening isn’t that hard! Shut up! I shout mentally. “We’ve really got to get your grades up. I know you work hard” “I do work hard” Never hard enough “But universities are only going by your transcript, honey.” “I know!” Ugh, university. I freaking hate when she brings that up. I hold back the tears that pool behind my eyes.

Because you’re too dumb to get into university like a regular eighteen-year-old I’m not dumb! I yell back in my head.

“I’m not dumb!” I yell aloud. “Of course not! I never said you were” I did “You’re very smart. You’re just struggling right now. And I would hate for your struggles to be the reason you don’t get into university” University is pointless “Well, I’ll write an essay about it then, and use my struggles to get into school! Can we not talk about this anymore?” I turn to walk out of the room.

You are pointless. “Well, when are we going to talk about it?” “When I’m better” I reply.

You’ll never be better “Sweetheart, that’s the point. I don’t want to wait until then. Applications are due in 6 months” 6 months is a lifetime. An eternity. “If I can’t even bother to apply to university, how do you think I am actually going to do IN university!?” I exclaim in frustration, a tear slipping loose of my tenuous restraint.

Useless. Stupid.

Shut up! I grip my head with both hands.

“We’ll figure it out. We’re getting you help. You just need to be patient. Let the meds work” “I’m SO TIRED of being patient!” Only burdensome people aren’t patient. “I’m doing the best that I can!” Mom says.

“You are?! What do you think I’m doing? Struggling every day just to get out of bed, to open my eyes to a brand new day. Just waiting for the meds and hoping that this time they will be the ones that actually work!” My tears are coming in earnest now, dripping down my chin.. Give up. Give in.

“I am trying my BEST to keep living. Do you know how hard that is? And it’s still not good enough for you!” “I’m just worried about you” Mom says gently. Lies.

“Yeah well, so am I. Lot of good that does us.” I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve Look. Now you made her cry. Good job. Happy now? I can never do anything right. The thought rings like truth.

You can never do anything right. The voice agrees.

“Oh mom, I’m sorry” “No, it’s okay”. Mom sniffs too.

“No it isn’t! I always mess everything up!” Always “Sweetheart.” “You must hate me. How can you stand to be around me?” “I could never hate you!” She’s better off without you “You’re better off without me.” I agree “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that! It’s not true” Yes it is.

“Your father and I love you very much, you know that, right?” “I know” I whisper. No they don’t. How could they? “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to us. I promise you” “Really?” “Of course. Honey, I wouldn’t change one thing about you! I only wish that you could be happy” Lies “Me too.” I sigh.

“We’ll get there. It will take lots of hard work and lots of time and patience, but I promise you, you will be happy again” Mom wraps me in a hug.

“Okay” I whisper against her shoulder.

Don’t believe her! How can you believe her? She’s my mom. I reply silently. Who doesn’t love you. Lies. I say firmly, willing myself to believe it.

“I love you mom” “I love you too honey” See? Truth. I say in my head.

The voice is silent, for once.


Today makes it seven months in loneliness and death. Lost in the shadows of the night. I find myself living like a caveman. I can't exactly remember how I got here, but I have a memory that never left. I was taking a nap in the early evening of April 10th 2022, when I heard voices distinctly. Then the chattering became louder. As if to wake me from my slumber. Being young and naive. I sluggishly got up from the couch, without hesitating or even enquiring who was at the door. I swung the door wide open and found two men dressed in black attire with dark shades to cover their strange eyes. I woke up maybe an hour later in this obscure and gloomy environment. I have lived the last 6 months in survival and longing for the presence of a human. "Mia" I whispered to myself. I stood up from the plank and walked towards the wall. Running my hands through the tally marks, I quickly crossed out a definite line.

I sighed. I felt my tummy rumble in disapproval. I was exhausted. I quickly grabbed my crafted spear and my sac bag and headed out for another food hunt. I walked steadily through the lonely path feeling every sound and wails of strange creatures. I went further into the forest, the center of the food chain. I quickly picked some fruits and mushrooms before heading back to my shelter.

I was almost close to my shelter when I noticed trails of paint leading to my domain. I paused for a moment and examined my environment. "Who's here?."

"Anyone?." My voice became louder this time. Slowly, I felt a rage of fear run through my spine not forgetting the eerie atmosphere. I raced down to my shelter hurriedly.

But getting there I found my wall of tallies painted out in a seemingly rude manner. I ran towards the wall. Feeling and touching it in a drastic manner. It was gone. Nothing was left. I fell onto the ground in agony. I wept. "It's of no use" A strange voice said. I turned to find a young girl about my height. She looked like a warrior with her boots and a bow and arrow placed on her back. She walked up to me slowly. "Listen, this is not the time to cry." She said with no emotions. "What? Who the hell are you" "I'm Maya, and we're the same". "Don’t Panic.” “I’m not panicking!” “Yes, you are.” “Alright, so I’m panicking; what else is there to do?” She pulled me up. Her grip was firm and quick. She offered me some water from her pouch giving me a stern look. " so what's the name? " "Alex" I replied. "You did this?."

"what? Ohh you mean the paint"

"no I didn't" said Maya.

"then who?" I asked furiously.

"You need to calm down Allie"

"it's Alex!"

I screamed at her. I was pained. She stood up from the plank and watched Me sob.

"I'm sorry but you need...... ."

"I need rest. " I cut her short before she could say anything.

I wasn't in the mood for any explanations. The world that I found myself in is real and I didn't want anyone telling me what to do. I placed my head down and didn't know when I fell asleep. I thought it was a dream but when I opened my eyes I found her staring at me.

"why are you still here?." I asked.

"because am the only one that cares about you" she said. "ohh really?." I replied in a sarcastic manner.

"so tell me, who are you and how did you find me."

"told you before, am Maya and we're the same."

"what does that mean."

"you ask foolish questions. " she chuckled. "can you tell me who did this." I said, pointing to the painted wall.

"name's Bryan. Been on his case for a year now." As she spoke, I listened carefully to her accent. I couldn't tell what tribe she would be but it was light and smooth.

"a year?."

"so you've been trapped here for a year or maybe more." I asked.

"Yeah." she replied with a smile. "I know you didn't make that" she said, pointing to the spear.

"you're right , I found it here."

"you seem to know a lot" I said.

She turned towards me, staring into my eyes which made it awkward and weird at the same time.

"the world is cruel and filled with insane people."

"whoever did this to us will meet their doom one way or the other." she said with teary eyes.

"but you can't stay here. There's a Camp with more people like us- and we have a plan". She added.

"and you think I trust you? " I said.

"You have to believe me. And do not forget that Bryan will be back."

"he's just a spoiled kid with problems." She said

"you just know little or nothing at all." I was unsure about the situation. It was hard to fully trust Maya but I had no choice. I didn't want to be a victim of another trauma. Being alone was hard and now I found the company of not just one person but people.

" okay- I'll go with you. " "only on one condition." I said. "and what will that be" she said. "you'll tell me everything I need to know- everything." She smiled. She trusted me so why wouldn't I do the same for someone who doesn't know me.

I watched her silently as she helped me pack a few of my not so good items. I felt a chill through my spine.

I sighed deeply.

At this point, I knew that I was not only far from civilization but there were more teenagers abducted from their homes for whatever reason.

There was no time to tell stories. I couldn't think more of the pain we all felt and the pain of our loved ones. Keeping track of time was my only hope.

Now, I found something much better than a wall full of tally marks.


I know I’m only twelve, but, I know this move won’t be any better than the last. Oh, things will start off pretty good. There’s a new boss to figure out, and new coworkers to analyze. He’ll be able to keep the drinking to the weekends; he might even quit…temporarily. But, it’ll start all over again. He’ll need a few drinks on Friday to unwind from the week. He’ll need a drink each night because the boss is being too hard on him. He’ll need a drink because his coworkers are all slackers and he’s doing all the work. It may take two or three months, then the every-day drinking will start; the vodka in the coffee for breakfast will start, the barley sandwich lunches will start, and the beer before dinner, with dinner, after dinner will be continuous. And, by that point, Jen and I will be hiding somewhere out of sight when he comes home; and Mom will be wearing long sleeved shirts and sunglasses when she has to leave the house. Every once in a while things get really bad, and Dad will suddenly be “taking a vacation” to get back on track. When that happens, we pack. We pack up our lives knowing there’s a move coming up, so Dad can get a fresh start, so we can all get a fresh start. Each time he comes home from a “vacation”, our lives are great. We move to a new town. He’s happy to be home, pays attention to us, and we’re happy to have him home. Until the euphoria of freshness evaporates and reality sets in, again. He has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and Mom, working part time, can’t make enough money to do it on her own. Besides, he’s the man of the house! He needs to be the bread winner, the god we all adore, and obey. But, he can’t give up that bottle when there’s any kind of stress to deal with. We moved in on a Friday, two weeks ago, now. Saturday was for unpacking and getting a few groceries into the house. Sunday was church day and walking through our new neighbourhood to see who we would meet, checking out the next door neighbours (a girl Jen’s age to the right of us), and finding the school; and our first family dinner in our new home. Only two weeks ago, and already Jen and I have scoped out locations to hide in. Already, we’re hearing that tone of voice that means we’d better make ourselves scarce. Already, Mom is tiptoeing around the house trying to keep ahead of his demands. It’s Friday afternoon. Jen and I are in the kitchen with Mom, chatting about the kids in our class and chopping vegetables for dinner, when we hear the front door crash open. His angry voice is demanding and slurred and Mom says quietly, “Hide.” I grab Jen’s hand, hoping we can sneak upstairs and hide in one of our bedrooms. I peek around the corner and see him sitting on the stairs, yelling for Mom to get her ass over there. I hesitate for a few seconds, then quickly open the door to the cubbyhole under the stairs and slip in with Jen glued to my side.

“Alice! Bring me a beer! Where’s Jimmy? I want that beer now! What a f@&@ed up day! Where’s my beer? Alice!”

Jen and I are holding our breaths, afraid to move, afraid to make a noise. Mom runs to the fridge and we hear the rattle of the cans, then the quick phsst , as she pops the tab, the sharp slap, and quick indrawn breath, the quick gulping noise of a beer disappearing, and another sharp slap. “Another one, damn it, woman! Can’t you see I’m thirsty!” He bellows, and Jen shrinks into a tiny ball on the floor. I squat down to hold her, and my elbow catches on something just inside the door. Suddenly, another door on the opposite wall pops open. A soft glow lights up our hiding place. We hear a choked scream and a loud thud, and I take Jen into my arms and creep through the mystery door. “I wish we were at Grandma’s,” Jen whispers in my ear. And there we are, at Grandma’s door. At our knock, Grandpa opens the door and ushers us in with hugs and kisses, and leads us into the living room. Grandma’s in the kitchen...we can smell cookies baking and hear her singing an old tune that I don’t quite recognize, although it sounds familiar.

“What’s up, buttercup,” Grandpa asks. Silently, Jen and I look at each other and grasp hands. I quietly tell him what’s been going on. I tell him about the drinking. I tell him about Mom’s bruises. I tell him about our hiding place and how we got here. I tell him about moving and leaving friends behind. I tell him about school. I tell him about our neighbours. I can’t stop talking until he takes my hand in his. He gathers us both into his arms, tears slide from his eyes into the grooves etched in his cheeks, and fall helplessly onto our heads. Then I hear Mom’s voice, and we’re back under the stairs in our cubbyhole. “Daddy’s gone to bed. It’s safe to come out,” she’s holding the door open. Jen looks at me in surprise. “But, we were just snuggling with Grandpa!”

“What do you mean, Jen? You’re right here with Jimmy, with me, in our new house.” Mom has a worried look on her face. “Jimmy was with me. Weren’t you, Jimmy? We were snuggling with Grandpa and Grandma was in the kitchen, baking cookies and singing a sad song. We were there Jimmy…weren’t we?” She looks at me with those sad blue eyes. I reach over and touch the wet spot on her head where Grandpa’s tears fell. “Mom, we were there. I know we were. Grandma was singing that song …the one with ‘fields of gold’ in it, and she was singing it so softly but I could still make out some of the words, and it smelled just like her oatmeal cookies, the kind she always bakes for company. And, Grandpa said “What’ up buttercup?” like he always does when we get scared or lonely…Mom, I told him everything that was happening here. He started to cry and his tears slid down his cheeks onto our heads. Feel it, Mom! Feel our heads, they’re still wet! We were there, Mom! We were…but now we’re here, again. I don’t know how that happened.” I looked around, sad and baffled. Mom was crying silently. “It’s impossible. You couldn’t possibly have been with your Grandpa. I wasn’t going to tell you just yet, but, your Grandpa, well, he died three days ago.” She gathers us into her arms and our tears fall quietly with hers. Several weeks after the funeral, we fall back into a vaguely normal routine that includes school and homework for Jen and I. Mom’s part time job ends and she’s looking through the newspapers and job boards on social media for something else, still part time because of Jen and me; and keeps meals on the table and the house in order. Dad has toned down the drinking and seems to be trying to hold it together. We’re kind of floating through the days, just getting slowly back to a semblance of normal, when suddenly, Dad gets laid off.

The economy has taken a downturn and he was the last hired, so he’s the first laid off, but not the only one – ten people are laid off at the plant. Dad is furious! He brings home a brown paper bag that he’s constantly sipping at, and his temper and voice keep rising. Jen starts to whimper and Dad grabs her arm, twists it behind her back and pushes her up the stairs, yelling at her to shut up and quit being a baby. I hear a thud, and a slap. I hear her scream, and a door slams. Her muffled crying seeps through the door and Dad swears his way down the stairs. Mom meets him halfway up, yelling at him to stop…suddenly she’s flying backwards down the stairs, crashing through the banister. I duck into the cubbyhole under the stairs, hoping he’ll leave and I can check on Mom and Jen. The door is yanked open and Dad drags me out by my hair. He punches me in the face, kicks me in the stomach as I fall, then turns and crashes through the door and out into the street. I can’t breathe and I think I faint, because everything goes blurry and out of focus, then slowly comes back into very sharp focus. I crawl over to Mom. She’s breathing very slowly, as if she’s asleep, but I know different. Something is broken. She whispers, “Lock the door, Jimmy. Call 911…I’m hurt bad. Go check on Jenny!”

I make my way to the door and look out to see if he’s still there, but he’s gone, for now. I lock the door. I search, but can’t find the phone anywhere.

“Mom, where’s your cellphone? I can’t find the house phone.” I hate to bother her, she’s moaning softly, not moving, just laying there, crumpled over pieces of the broken banister. “Upstairs, by the bed, Jimmy. But, check on Jen first, please.” She’s barely whispering. “Hang on, Mom. I’ll check on Jen right now, just hang on!” I’m freaking out inside, but I don’t have anyone to turn to. As quickly as I can, I limp up the stairs.

“Jen, it’s me. It’s Jimmy. Dad’s gone for now. Jen, where are you?” I’m standing in her doorway and I don’t see her anywhere. I move around to the foot of the bed and she’s on the floor behind it. There’s blood on the wall, and she’s moaning, mumbling, “mama, mama.” I gather her into my arms as carefully as I can, but her arm is broken and it falls against the bed post. She screams, and mercifully passes out. Quickly, I bring her downstairs and lay her right beside Mom. My tears are falling, I’m sobbing, and I can barely breathe, but I make my way back upstairs to find Mom’s cellphone. It’s locked…I don’t know the code…Mom’s passed out. There’s an emergency option! But, suddenly someone is banging on the door, cursing and swearing, and I know that Dad came back, and he’s got a key. I hit the emergency button and dial 911. “My name’s Jimmy. I live at 4563 Ash Street. My Mom and sister are hurt. They’re both unconscious and bleeding. Send the cops! Send an ambulance! Hurry! My Dad’s back and I don’t know what he’ll do to them this time. Hurry!” I end the call and creep slowly, cautiously down the stairs. Dad’s standing over Mom and Jen and he’s angry. His face is red and mottled and I can see gobs of spittle spraying from his lips as he yells at Mom, “Where’s dinner, you bitch! Get up and make me some food!” He kicks Jen out of the way and starts to drag Mom into the kitchen. I scream, “Leave her alone you monster! Haven’t you hurt her enough! “ I race down the stairs and start beating on his arm, his back, his head, but he just swats me aside. Im screaming at him to stop, and he’s roaring at me to back the f@$# off and grow up, stop being a baby. Through my tears and throbbing in my head, I stop yelling, remembering the cubbyhole and the “other” door. I race over to the cubbyhole and scream at him, “Come and get me you lazy, drunken a-hole! You’re nothing but a piece of shit. You’re not even a man,” All the abusive words he’s ever used against Mom and Jen and I come pouring out of my mouth at the top of my lungs. I can’t stop yelling them over and over, and he drops Mom to the floor, turns and starts coming after me.

I slide into the cubbyhole and fumble for the catch that opens the “other” door. It pops open as he lunges in, trying to find me. The soft glow dazzles him momentarily and he reaches in through the “other” door and I whisper,

“I wish you were with Grandpa,” And give him a big shove. The door clicks shut. I hear the sirens and crawl over to Mom and Jen.


My mother never spoke to me anymore unless she was telling me how I was a mistake and when she did, I could smell the rancid scent of strong whiskey on her breath and choked on the stench of rotten flowers radiating from the excess of expired perfume. Her blue eyes, now cloudy from years of cigarette smoke and never seeing the light of the sun, would stare at me, full of resentment and loathing. She always told me that if it weren’t for me, she would have been the most famous artist, a painter of unimaginable stature and skill. Instead, she was stripped away from that future, doomed to be a mother.

She used to love me, I think before my father left, another thing she blames me for. She used to sit me on her lap and paint beautiful landscapes of flower fields and bouquets of ultra-realistic flora. Her eyes were a striking blue, the color of the sky on a warm summer’s day, and her face was beautiful and happy. She still sold her paintings and filled galleries back then. I can still remember, although I was only a toddler, her and my father taking me to the openings and seeing all the people in awe at how real the paintings looked and praising her talents. I try not to forget them when she gets into her alcohol and nicotine-withdraw-induced moods.

My father met my mother at one of her gallery openings and soon after, I was born. They didn’t plan for me, and my father asked her not to have me, but my mother couldn’t bear the thought, which she says she now regrets. He learned to love me, or just pretended, but for my mother’s sake, he never hurt me, at least physically. When I turned seven, we learned that I have a rare, but deadly, allergy to pollen. No more flowers, no more walks through the fields of wildflowers and poppies, no more going to flower festivals to gather inspiration. If a speck of pollen got into my system, I would have an almost instantaneous reaction and choke. This was when my mother’s love turned to enmity. Her art, her true passion, blocked by her child. She went into a deep depression, stopped painting with me, stopped painting in general, stopped leaving the house, stopped knowing me. She never smiled and she began to drink. I think my father saw this opportunity and escaped, not being able to take care of the dying flower that my mother was. She never recovered, him leaving being the last petal to fall.

I tried my best to make her happy, maybe bring her back to her normal self. I began to try and copy her style of paintings, of flowers and fields. I could never quite get it right. I filled the house with faux flowers and used floral perfumes, but nothing worked. She never left her studio except to use the toilet and to eat, even then, she’d sometimes not eat for days, full plates of food piling outside her door. She doesn’t paint in her studio, just sits in front of a blank canvas. Her mind probably creating beautiful images of roses, lilacs, and baby’s breath; of lilies, and orchids, and sunflowers. Her hands longing for the feel of the brush beneath her fingers and the scent of oil paints and fresh flowers mixing in a strange duet of smells. All this locked away, deep in the recesses of her minds, covered by the long, thick vines of depression and despair and resentment towards her own flesh and blood.

Even though I could never exactly produce that same level of art my mother could, I am still regarded as one of the best up-and-coming painters in the country. I have my own studio where I have countless books on flowers so that I can best replicate their delicate beauty. My mother doesn’t know about my skills or about my studio, I think she would resent me more if she thought I was becoming what she says I stole from her. I credit my talent to her in all my interviews and I praise her work. When people ask me why she doesn’t release any more pieces, I tell them that just resides in her garden, painting for her own private pleasure. I think that this is only a partial lie. Her mind, to me, is a garden, filled with flowers, and she sits there, in her mind, painting, and reminiscing.

In my mind, she, herself, is a flower. One who was the most beautiful in the field, that all the people flocked to see. Then one day, a tree’s branch blocked the sunlight and the flower slowly began to die. Slowly losing its radiant colors, shrinking back into the earth. The people stopped coming to look at the flower and moved on, only one remained and tried to bring that flower back to its past brilliance. The person cut down the branch, watered the flower, and tried her best to give the flower life again. But the flower couldn’t become what it once was, and the person tried her best to keep the flower from withering away entirely.

My mother’s words still sting after all these years. She still wears the clothes of the style from back when she was her true self. The distorted 30’s silhouette stands out among the fuller skirts and brighter colors of the late ’50s. I imagine her as she once was before I knew her, a beautiful, intelligent, caring lady whose talent with paints made her bloom. I think that she is still like that in her mind, a flower in full bloom. She lives as if it's her past is the present. Her mind hides her new, changed appearance from herself.

I now sit at my easel, palette in hand, the brush moving in fluid motions across the rough surface. I am painting a rose, withered by age and rough weather. The surrounding bright and sunny, the rose hidden and bent in the shade of a large tree branch, its petals without vibrance. A single beam of sun cuts through the shadow, illuminating a fallen petal. At the bottom of the page, I sign my name in one swift gesture,

Flora.


Round the bowl I plod. The task at hand, dishes. Mood: Big sisters lead lives that suck. Big sisters are assigned tasks that big brothers evade without awareness. Luck finds boys like mold finds bathrooms. Insidiously. Darkness infringes on the daylight used to complete my chore. A scream strikes the air at a pitch that rivals the goddess Mariah Carey herself. The bowl slips into a loud collision with the stainless-steel sink. “What the heck?” I mumble. The soft shudder of our double screen door sounds and a bitter chill foreign to the tropics bleeds inside. “It,” Malakai, my youngest sibling, starts. “It’s coming.” Fear, like light, finds his eyes and focuses his gaze out the window. “What?” I ask, alarmed by his hurried breaths. Malakai is always cucumber and cold carrots, calm. He struggles to form words around the tremble in his lips. “The Chicken tornado.” *** Plump chickens’ cascade through the air. The winged creatures gaze at us with intention. Instinct or conditioning demand my outstretched wet hands take hold of my brother and pull him close. The theatrical winds die down when my hands have dried, and I force my bony body to shield him. The sight that settle around us, save for the chickens themselves and the humidity, is wholly novel. A substance at our feet licks my sandals and pleased with the taste, laps my toes. The sensation is cold and curious. Alive. Malakai and I look up and there is a void more profound than darkness. The black hole of space is a painful attack on our eyes and we each turn to each other, our frightened expressions carrying the horror of the moment further afoot. Millions of Silkies, a breed of chicken nowhere native to our Caribbean home with their densely packed satin fluff feathers, clamor around with gooey interest. A tart smell grows stronger the closer they tiptoe. Each wonted flap elicits a gag from Malakai. “Stop,” I plead. The outcry stirs a commotion and the chickens bark, suspicious sneers on their sharp black and brown beaks. “Monica?” my brother whimpers, his seven-year-old arms wrapped tight around my waist. “I want to go home.” I try to bend down and utter words of assurance like heroes manage with select kids in action movies, but he refuses any effort of amputation. My stomach churns with the strain of his restrictive hold and the phone in my back pocket pops out. “No!” My attempt to catch it before it falls into the midnight liquid is unsuccessful. “I’m so sorry, Monica.” Malakai laments. He pulls away by a hair and we each stare down at the spot it fell. “I didn’t see it -,” Before he can wrap up his apology, my phone breaks through the surface, alight with the yellow outline of a Silky on an otherwise black screen. The image blinks out and the green vertical line of a factory reset appears in the upper left corner. Pick me up, it types. Compelled by a lack of options, I gasp and oblige. Point me at the Leather Clad Leader. I hoist the phone up and it zones in on a brown vested chicken with cream plumage. Bow. “What’s happening?” I ask. You’re following commands from a sentient phone. Now bow. What was meant as a rhetorical question has produced an answer that leaves me even more bewildered, but again, I heed its direction and when I stand, await further guidance. I will act as a translator. Keep my camera pointed at the Leather Clad Leader. They will decide your fate. My throat swallows a proper gulp of air, and my hands shake under the device as if it weighs hundreds of pounds. Sweat falls into my eyes and I can smell the scent of my own fear rivaling that of the environment. My brother breaks down and pinches his nose for relief, a helpless glint in his eyes. Leather Clad Leader extends his wings, and they span on for what looks like an eternity. The screen blares a hyper blown out version of the gesture and Welcome stranger appears in comic sans below it. Underneath that, the phone writes, Greet the leader, don’t be rude. “Please, send us back,” I say, my larynx strained and squeaky. Point my screen towards the Leather Clad Leader. Now. Goddamn idiot -,” Geez, my phone is rude. The chicken leader, wings folded, saunters within reach. His plucky head bobs towards the screen then wobbles side to side in agitation. When he stops, his glossy black orbs fix on me. I fumble the phone back around. The comic sans text is packed in a long paragraph that defies the time it took the silky to convey this message: Yo, yo, yo. We got another woman in the house! So excited to meet a Silk-less girl, you’re my first. But yeah, sure thing. You just have to push the blue button behind me to get home. It’s so ‘boing’! It’ll zip you right out of here. But the boy stays. Girls gotta’ eat! “What the fuck?” I say, perturbed. “I’m telling grandma,” Malakai wails. I glare at him but given his tear-streaked face and the message read, I let it go. He is just a kid. The few habits he has are hard to overcome. I turn my attention back to the Silky leader and regret my sexist assumption that the top dog – pardon the phrase - of chickens would be male. Conditioning, am I right? A square of space appears as the silky leader steps aside. I catch the vibrant glimmer of the blue button. It buzzes with energy, pulsating in deaf echoes that visibly frolic on the surface of the liquid floor. It strikes me that we should dash to it just as a tiny beep escapes my phone. So, are you going to answer? “Give me a break. She’s asking me to sacrifice my brother. I am responsible for him. My grandmother would kill me if something were to happen.” Ah, yes. I have heard her sonic rumbles. All the same, you must still address Leather Clad Leader. “ Leather Clad Leader, I appreciate your welcome. But I need to get home. I have dishes to do. My grandmother isn’t a very patient person and she asked that I care for my brother. I’m afraid I need to press that button to send us both home.” I turn the phone around to face the silky and watch as she shakes her head in a dismissive wiggle. She lifts her eyes to meet mine then stares at the screen. After a series of flaps and a caw that rings on and on and on for ages, it is my turn to read. No . Malakai tightens his hold. The pressure is familiar and unpleasant. Grandma has always said “it is your job to look after your siblings,” as if the eldest, Gabe, has a duty only to himself. I am the one expected to clean up, to rally us together, to be the glue. It’s always me and it is the opposite of fair. “Is there really no other way? How could you eat a little boy?” Beak pointed at the phone, the silky cackles an unmistakable laugh. She “body-rolls” her head and neck then gives me a pointed look. I pour over the message. Obviously, we are not going to do that. You silly goose, so I really do mean silly. Air escapes me, a gust I was unaware rested in my chest, eager for release. “Thank God. Then what do you want to do with him?” Leather Clad Leader chews on the phone case a moment, backs up, waggles her tail feathers, and bumps back into place. She snaps her head at an angle, as though to say, go ahead. I take up the phone then slam it to my chest. “Malakai, you’re squeezing the life out of me. Please let me breathe a bit. Here, hold my arm so I can read, okay? Please.” I am unable to catch my breath and with the new freedom, I bumble from one soaked foot to the other, back, and forth. My hand with a mind of its own pushes the phone’s ungodly screen under my nose. I was being sarcastic, can’t you tell? Of course we are going to eat him, duh. Don’t act pretentious. Y’all fry us with grease hotter than the sun over there. That’s why we're here, in the magnetic waters of Every Mother. Here, even your sandals can have their voice awakened. All life exists here, animated even when inanimate. Vocal even when voiceless, like your phone. It tells us about all, and in order to sustain that knowledge, Every Mother needs us to feast on the blood of men - and I do mean men - to replenish all-knowing magnetism. Men, even as babies, do the same to us gal pals all over space and time. Figuratively and literally. Just desserts, I say. I close my eyes and take in the truth of those words and think back to when my father abandoned all four of us with our grandmother. My sister and I have been nannies ever since. And what of my brothers? Running amuck. Life at their leisure. “Okay.” Malakai screams. He understood more than I suspected. “What? Monica, no!” I break away and run at the blue button. Once pressed – Leather Clad Leader did not oversell it, and it was deliciously boingy – it envelops me in a whirlwind of silence. A minute later, I think I hear the vicious bleat of a million silkies. I abandon the thought like I abandoned my brother and look down. I find myself elbow deep in dishwater. “Big sister luck has its limits.”


I laid there, in that cold white room, on that stiff bed that made my back ache more than usual. I remember the uncomfortable silence, just the beeping of my heart rate monitor, and my own ragged breathing. The bright lights flickered like in a horror film. My suit and tie were hung up somewhere in the facility, but I didn’t know where. I was a slave to the revealing backless gown they had given me, the official uniform of vulnerability. Most men my age had no problem at all walking around a gym locker room on full display, but I never felt that sense of confidence. Perhaps when I was a younger man I would have thought the attire to be liberating, but as I laid there in that bed, plastic crinkling, and sticking to my back, I didn’t feel young, I wasn’t invincible, I was a dying old man, a soon-to-be corpse. Doctors and nurses had come and gone throughout the day, prepping me physically, and mentally for my procedure, but I hadn’t seen them for an hour. I’m not sure if I was lonely, or bored, or both, but there’s just something about being alone, with nothing but the voice in my head that drives me crazy. I craved conversation like the box of cigars that waited for me on my desk back in my home office. I was used to the whole boring, uncomfortable routine, it wasn’t the first time I’d undergone the procedure, and it wouldn’t be the last. I consider myself a man of humility, but I’m also honest, and it would be a lie to say that I’m not well off financially. I was born into wealth, and as I began to work, it only continued to grow. So when the news of a life changing medical breakthrough was released to the public, back when I was in my early fifties, I was one of the first in line. I never even looked at the price tag, the way I saw it my life was invaluable. I never bothered to find out the exact price. All I know is that every time my accountant wrote the check her hand shook, turning her pristine handwriting into chicken scratch, it must have been a lot. Back in the early days there wasn’t so much waiting around. I think they called it the BMS stage, blood, marrow, and sperm, all the things that make you, you. All the things they needed to make you live forever, that was their pitch anyway. The door to the room beeped, hissed, and disappeared into the floor, as my doctor walked in. He swiped, and tapped on the tablet in his hands for a few moments before acknowledging me. “Your brain scans indicate optimal cognitive activity. Your blood work, heart rate, oxygen are about where we expected them to be, and your check cleared so I think we’re ready to go.” He said, smiling at the last bit. I chuckled, he told the same joke every time I came in, but it never failed to make me laugh, and ease some of the tension. “Should we bring him in now?” He asked hesitantly as if he expected me to decline. I nodded confidently, though this part of the procedure always put my stomach in knots, I was half nervous, and half terrified at what was about to happen. Dr.Graham tapped on his tablet again, and a dim green light began to flash above the doorway. Two nurses wheeled in a table similar to mine, a young man laid in it, bound to it by leather straps. Escorting them was a security guard who looked like he might fist fight bears in his spare time. “Alright then.” Dr.Graham said. “We’ll let the two of you get acquainted.” I tried not to make eye contact with the boy they’d rolled in, not that it would have necessarily been possible at that moment given the way our tables were positioned. “Can’t we just skip this part doc?” I pleaded. “Like I told you last time John, and the time before, and the time before that, it’s procedure. Felix..” He said, motioning to the guard. “Will be right outside the door if you need him, we’ll be back in twenty minutes to begin.” He said as the room cleared out, leaving only me and the young man. I always felt guilty at that stage, I thought that I felt trapped in the uncomfortable room, but I paid to be there, the young man really was trapped. I barely glanced in his direction, but I knew exactly what he looked like, it was what they always looked like. The only difference between them was that the thick blonde hair was always cut to conform to the style of the time, this one had a hightop fade. I could tell by his breathing that he was awake, but his eyes were shut tight. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were green like mine. His body was covered by the same backless gown, but I knew he was as slender and toned as I had been at his exact age.

I rarely talked to them, which missed the point of the exercise entirely. I hated that those twenty minutes were a requirement. The idea was to make you look at yourself in the mirror so to speak, to make you feel the gravity of the decision you were making, it never changed my mind, I don’t know why they thought it would, as I said before my life is invaluable to me. Aside from the fact that I was biologically forty some years older than the twenty year old boy, we were identical. Our jawlines, our crooked teeth, the tiny black mole under our left eye, everything was the same. The similarities were as shallow as the size of our feet, and as deep as our blood type, A-negative. Even our IQs were the same, the doctors never ran those tests, but after the interactions I’ve had with the young men over the years, I could tell they weren’t just playing with a full deck, they had nothing but face cards. That fact did bother me sometimes, but I couldn’t think about that, I had responsibilities, people who depended on me, an empire to manage. Was it selfish of me?.. The decisions I’ve made? The answer to that is a plain and simple, yes, but you didn’t reach the level I was at by being kind and selfless, to succeed in my business meant making the tough calls. I listened to the antique clock on the wall tick down the minutes. I hadn’t heard it before, but my unease put me on the edge of my seat, and awakened my senses to my surroundings. The plastic covering of my table squeaked as I squirmed uncomfortably, wishing the twenty minutes to end, I just wanted to get it over with. The boy let out a sigh of frustration, it startled me like a jump scare, and he could tell, he scoffed. My heart was pounding, why was I so afraid of a boy strapped to a table? Even then, after all the procedures I’d gone through with, I still didn’t understand it. Then, with five minutes left of our time, he broke his silence like I knew he would, they all did eventually, like a criminal being interrogated by a mute detective. “I’m real you know..” He said quietly, in a defeated tone of voice. “You know this is wrong..” He said, this time almost whispering. I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t know what to say, I never did. The past few times I’d gone to that place over the decades I said nothing, I let them do the talking, say their piece, exhaust their efforts. “It ain’t right..” His voice cracked like he might have been on the verge of tears. “It isn’t fucking right!” He screamed at me. Felix peeked his head in the door to assess the situation, I gave him a hand gesture that told him everything was okay, and he left us to our remaining minutes together. “They try to keep it from us, the truth, but I catch bits and pieces, I learn, I think, I feel.. What the hell makes you different from me? Because you’re the first?! And I’m what? The third? The eighth? The twentieth?! So what?! I AM you motherfucker! We all were! And you steal our fucking lives!” His words almost saddened me, but it was the same speech the others had given throughout the years more or less, and I had become numb to the whole thing. “We aren’t technology.. we aren’t shells.. and I am not your fucking property!” He coughed violently, his voice was beginning to go hoarse from the screaming. I knew in a couple minutes it would be over with, so I didn’t bother interrupting him. “I! KNOW! YOU! I! KNOW! YOU!” He screamed, banging his head against his padded table. That was the point of safely securing them, just a little bit of brain damage and the whole process would have been a wash. He began to laugh and cry simultaneously like a maniac, though he didn’t shed any tears, it was involuntary, like he was a man possessed. Then he went silent for just a few seconds, enough time for me to hear the ticking of the clock again, I glanced up at it, only a minute left of his temper tantrum. “They’re wrong.. everything they tell you.. everything they tell the world about this place is fucking bullshit..” He said, again defeated. “But you know that don’t you?.. You’re a smart guy.. You can see through their lies.. So why do you choose to buy into their bullshit?..” He asked, but I had no reply, I just stayed quiet. “Answer me motherfucker! You’re gonna put me down and you don’t even have the decency to talk to me?! I wanna know why! Why do you buy into the bullshit?! Why do you listen to them?!” He screamed, then something in me just snapped.. “SO I CAN FUCKING SLEEP AT NIGHT!” I screamed at him.

Then I started my own coughing fit, it was like his, only dialed up to eleven, my lungs were shot, every time I turned sixty four it was the same, like clockwork, it was the whole point of the procedure. He laughed at me, clearly finding some satisfaction in my suffering. “I guess it could be worse..” He said “I could have grown up to be a heartless piece of shit..” As his tirade ended, and my coughing ceased, the door opened, and the doctor came back into the room wheeling in a large machine. “Are you all ready to begin Mr.Franklin?” Without hesitation, without even glancing in my clone’s direction, I answered him. “I’m ready.”

“Fuck you! FUCK YOU ALL!” The young me wailed, trying to squirm out of his constraints. The security guard held him down, and the nurses injected a sedative into his arm, then he went quiet. They rolled us onto our stomachs, and pricked a small square device into our spines, at the base of our necks. Then they gave me a sedative of my own. When I woke up I felt lighter.. stronger.. younger.. I looked at my hands, no wrinkles, no veins, just knuckle hair. Then I looked to the table beside me, the elderly body of John Franklin was already bagged up, ready to be shipped to the morgue. I jumped up from the table, rushed over to the mirror, and admired the doctor’s handywork. I smiled as I ran my hands through my thick blonde high top fade, turned to the doctor, and said: “Whelp doc.. seeya again in forty years.”


 I knew the sound vibrating from your throat would pour like sand down mine. I knew my stomach would squeeze hunger when you closed the curtains on the day. I knew the walls would shriek when I saw you staring into your palm. I knew Henry would never fix it. The TV was on, and Barney was singing. The moan was back, and you stared deep into it. It was pressed in the middle of your palm, a red dot punched into skin by the tip of the knife you use to carve turkey on Christmas day. You were master of the blade and you stopped before the weight of it gave more than required. You needed one drop, one circle. Your skin split perfectly. It always did. One scarlet pearl. I watched you watch it. Your black eyes fixated and unflinching, an eerie sight to the unaccustomed but, it was the sound your stomach made that would crawl into the skin. I heard it gnaw on your bones. I watched you gag on your soul. It moaned. I had heard this sound often but not consistently. Sweat pilled under my armpits and I pulled Henry tight as I lay on the sofa under my Batman blanket. I close my eyes on the sound sitting at the kitchen table. Every fiber holding my blood in, is taut, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I forget to breathe. I’m an antenna, a radio wave, I’m dialed in waiting for the static to clear. The air is heavy and the dunes boom. Grandmother says there are stories in our bones, and that our skin is red because that was the color of the sand we grew out of. Mountains are our beginning, coyotes laugh and the stars are our ancestors. She says Indian boys are sons of thunder. She named you Asiniy Wache Iskwewis,

Mountain Woman . You name me Isaiah and you called me your Thunder Being. You are an eagle and I am your bolt. You knew in the womb I had good bones because I made my presence known. Grandmother says Salish art requires perfect circles. Grandfather practiced chiseling circles in cedar in the basement. Grandmother used coffee cans to paint perfect circles on canvas. You said when you closed your eyes you dreamed about spinning wheels. You said it is an unstoppable force that will ruin you. Grandmother said you have spent your life crawling out of a circle. I sat with my crayons, and I drew circles in black and purple and green. I drew them small and tall. They were not perfect enough. I heard you moan. I closed my eyes. My stomach grew heavy, it always did when I swallowed the sand. I left my spot on the couch. I left Henry staring at the TV with eyes as black as yours. His long ears wilted. His grey fur snarled in love. He watched nothing silently. I remember the day you gave him to me. The Christmas you missed. The Christmas I ate ham instead of turkey and adult voices whispered adult things while I colored course paper with red crayons and searched for you at night. You visited my dreams. You were falling, I screamed until the clouds caught you. They said you were getting help. You came for me when they turned off the Christmas Lights. I gave you pictures I colored. They gave you little pink pills. You gave me Henry. You kept saying sorry, I never knew why.  Henry stared at Barney. You stared into your palm. Neither of you blinked. I went to you and hugged you the way I hugged Henry, long and hard and with all my might. I want to squeeze that sound out of you so we can go play in the park. Dark never played. Dark was alone. Dark ate cardboard corn flakes from a cardboard box. Dark swallowed water to fill the hunger the cornflakes left. You didn’t see me. You didn’t feel me. You were too busy breathing. It came out in puffs. It smelled like cotton candy and I wondered how something so bad smelled so good and I wanted to crawl up closer too you but your eyes screamed at me to stay away. I shivered. It was summer. It was hot. And the drapes were closed because the light scratched your skin and the sound of the birds burned your ears. I whispered your name. Sometimes that worked. If I was quiet. If I touched you very softly sometimes you would stop moaning and move your black eyes from your palm to my face. My fingertips touched your lips. Tears squeezed out of the corner of your eyes and the sand in my belly grew. I go back to the sofa and grab Henry and press him to your chest. You respond. I see the corner of your mouth move from nothing to something. Your right hand holds Henry. Your fingers rub one ear. My fingers rub the other. Behind us Barney sings of how much we love each other. I want to watch him dance. Yesterday you danced with me. You twirled me in your skirts and the colors danced me in your hair. Bangles in gold married your wrists and chimed, and your green feather earrings brushed my skin. You painted your lips red and your nails pink. You giggled out your cotton candy and tickled me till I needed to pee. The birds laughed at us from the tree outside. We watched them dart under rays of sunshine and we ate apple pie fresh from the oven. You put ice cream on mine. I ate until I couldn’t eat any more and then You and me and Henry laid on the sofa, you were humming my eyelids closed and running your fingertips through my hair. I fell asleep full. I dream I am coloring clouds in a red circle. Your moan wakes me, and I wonder what I have done…


Rupert looked through the file in his hands before getting out of his car.

New ID, check.

Real estate listing, check.

Keys for a 2008 Honda Accord, check.

Directions for everything his client has to do for the next eight months while she waits for trial, check. Rupert opened his car door and stepped out onto the drizzle glazed street and headed toward the cozy diner.

Mable’s was his favorite place to conduct this type of business.

He even had his own booth in the back where he had a good view of the door.

Plus, Mable had the best apple pie.

Her coffee was mediocre because she made it so hot that it tasted burnt, but the pie made up for it. The bell over the door tinkled as he entered, and Mable herself nodded at him from behind the yellow Formica counter where she was clearing some dishes from the last customers.

Rupert nodded back and held up his finger to show he wanted his usual order.

He then proceeded to his favorite red vinyl booth and settled in to wait. His client should be there in fifteen minutes.

Rupert himself always arrived fifteen minutes early so that he could settle in and be prepared for whatever may happen.

In the eight years he had been doing this, he thought he had run into all of the possible situations.

A guy who decided to run, a woman who wanted to bring her boyfriend, a guy who was followed and got stuck in a standoff.

Rupert was prepared. Mable brought his pie, coffee, and a small bowl filled with an assortment of creamers.

“How are you doing today, sweetie?” she asked genially. “Oh, same old, same old.

You know how it goes.”

Rupert grabbed a sugar packet to dump in his coffee, and Mable returned to her work. Rupert glanced at his watch, and the hand ticked closer to twelve.

He generously added hazelnut creamer to his coffee and stirred before sipping.

The sweetness almost overrode the burnt flavor… almost.

He was preparing for his first bite of pie when his client entered. Rupert stood as the blond swiveled her head searching the room for him.

She saw him and nodded with a frown.

As she approached, he took in her hair tied back in a ponytail and her relaxed attire of a baggy red t-shirt synched at the bottom to accentuate her curves and black yoga pants. “Please take a seat,” he invited, motioning to the bench seat across from his. “So how is this going to go?” she asked, setting her designer handbag on the seat before sliding in after it.

She was straight to the point, which Rupert hadn’t expected. His client was an Instagram model with thousands of followers who had gotten entangled in some nasty mob business.

Who would have thought that notorious mobster Big Nose Tony would have a thing for Instagram? “You’re going to send out one last pic to throw them off your scent.

It has to be something completely unrelated to where you’re going or what you’re doing.” “How am I supposed to do that?

You wouldn’t tell me where I’m going.” “Pick something from your collection that includes a beach,” Rupert said simply.

He looked over to Mable and caught her eye.

She was there in two seconds to take the young woman’s order. “Just a water,” the blond said. When Mable left, Rupert slid the folder over the table.

“Your new name is Ingrid Moore.

You’re from Iowa but are moving to Michigan.

This is your new ID,” he said pointing to the ID with a less than flattering picture of his client, “and this is your apartment.”

He pointed to the listing. “It’s only one bedroom and doesn’t mention a dishwasher,” she noted. “Right.

It’s basic and unnoticeable like you are going to be for the next eight months.” “How am I going to keep up with my Instagram?” she asked.

“Part of my routine is my cooking pictures.” “That brings me to the next thing.

Let me see your phone.”

Rupert held out his hand. The blond now known as Ingrid reached into her bag and pulled out an iPhone in a sparkly purple case and posted one last pic to Instagram.

Rupert took the phone from her and handed her a gray, utilitarian flip phone. “This is your phone now.

Only I have the number, and my number is programmed.

You are to call no one.

You understand?” “How would I call anyone?

You have my phone with all of my contacts.” “There will be absolutely no social media.

No Tweets.

No pictures on your Instagram.

Not even a Facebook message to your grandma for her birthday.”

He was stern.

He had had clients break this rule before.

Sometimes people were so addicted that they couldn’t resist the siren’s call of spying on an old flame or connecting with family. Ingrid pouted.

“This is going to kill my brand.

I am going to lose so many followers.

You just don’t understand.” “Don’t worry.

In eight months, you’ll stage a comeback and explain that you had something huge that kept you from your fans like a Buddhist yoga retreat that has made you a more aware influencer.

You will post about the plight of the Tibetans, and everything will be all better.”

Rupert neglected to mention that many people that go into Witness Protection need to stay there beyond the trial to prevent retribution for their testimonies. “The keys there are for your new apartment and a gray Accord you’ll find parked out front.

Your car will be towed to a safe place for storage.

In the Accord, you will find a box of supplies: some clothes, some food to get you started, and a box of brown hair dye.” Ingrid lifted the tip of her ponytail.

“I haven’t had brown hair since I was fourteen.” “Well, Ingrid, you have brown hair now, and you are expected to maintain it through the trial.

It is part of your disguise.

You are too recognizable as you are.

How many followers do you have?” “Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty-five as of this morning,” she answered without missing a beat.

“What am I supposed to do for the next eight months if I can’t post?” “Watch some TV, read a book, practice some new recipes,” Rupert suggested.

“Just stay incognito.” She rolled her eyes.

“Maybe I’ll start writing a book,” she said.

“No one would believe all this anyway.” “As long as the jury believes it,” he said and took the last bite of his pie.

“No getting in touch with agents to discuss book deals until this is all over.

Your mantra for the next eight months is ‘I am incognito.’” She stared at him. “Repeat after me,” he said.

“I am incognito.” “I am incognito,” she said mockingly. “Say it again like your life depends on it, which it kind of does.” “I am incognito,” she said with less attitude. “Good.

Now, I have one last thing for you.”

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a prepaid debit card wrapped in a piece of paper.

“This has some funds loaded to it and a website login for the local grocery delivery service where you will be staying.

Use it.

Have your groceries delivered as much as possible to avoid time in public.

Tip fifteen percent.

Don’t be stingy, and don’t be too generous to call attention to yourself.

You have a budget, so don’t be too extravagant.

None of those caviar omelets you like to fix.” “You’ve seen my work,” Ingrid observed with a smile. “I do my research,” Rupert replied.

“I also included a copy of Harry Potter in your supplies since you said it was one of your favorite book series. “Your GPS is programmed to take you to your new home with a few pre-approved rest-stops along the way.

Don’t wander off the path.

Give me a call if you have any questions or run into any issues. She looked down at the table as if pondering how she had gotten here or what she was going to do now, and then she looked up.

“Is this really it?” “This is it for now.

I’ll be in touch to check in on you when you arrive and when we get closer to the trial date.

Remember your mantra,” he said, standing from his seat. “I am incognito,” she said with feeling this time and shook his hand. He watched her head out the door with a tinkle of the bell, and he placed a ten-dollar bill on the table for Mable.

He’d be back next week with his next client.

He really needed to hit the gym to make up for all of this pie.


NOTE: Please read my other stories, due to the entry fee I don't normally actually submit my stories. Therefore they don't get to many other people, I really enjoy writing and am looking for ways to get better. Most of my stories are just over 1,000 words so they don't take very long to read. :) Happy Reading! There she was, writing in her diary like she always did. I wonder if she’s ever mentioned me in it, not like I’ve ever done anything too memorable. We’d been living together for three years, it was both our senior year of college and we knew absolutely nothing about each other.

She was pretty, I knew that much. I knew that her friends were really bubbly. Her friends always greeted me if I was in the apartment when they came in but most of the time I wasn’t. I did know that she was one of the Daydreamers. Nobody ever came out and said that the kids in the night classes were the Night Owls, or that the kids who did day classes were the Daydreamers. It just kind of happened, and then the college started using the words and now they’re official.

I was a Night Owl, I’m sure that’s much of a surprise. We mainly only saw each other while the sun was rising or setting. Sometimes we’d give a little, “Hey.” to each other but that was it. There were a few interesting moments, like how we remember each other’s names. I walked into the cafe, there were so many people in there. Nobody had told me what she looked like at all, I couldn’t remember what her name was at all. I knew it was a weird name that started with E? “One large iced caramel apple cider for Eunoia?” The barista called out. Well, that was perfect timing. The girl, Eunoia, walked up and smiled as she grabbed the cup from the barista. I ordered a large iced caramel apple cider as well, because I’d never had it, and sat down across from Eunoia. “Are you the Daydreamer I’m here to meet?” I asked with a laugh. She smiled after she took a drink, “Nice to meet you, what’s your name again? I’m Eunoia if you couldn’t remember.” “My name’s-” The barista called out, “One large iced caramel apple cider for Twyla?” I stood up, “Jeez, they’re weird on the timing here.” I walked over to the barista just as Eunoia had, I smiled as I grabbed the drink from the barista’s hand and thanked her. I then walked back over to the table that Eunoia was at. “So your name’s Twyla?” Eunoia asked. “Yeah.” She smiled, “How could I forget a name like that?” I looked up to her, “Look who’s talking.” I really thought we were going to be close friends, I even kind of got excited. After we were at that cafe she asked me if I wanted to see the apartment and I said yes. She showed it to me and I instantly fell in love with it. She said she really just wanted a roommate that wasn’t creepy and wouldn’t be bothersome. And I told her I was looking for the same thing. She handed me the keys and I was set. I soon moved in and we didn’t talk other than “Hey”s for a while. Until that one morning, early in the third quarter of our freshman year. It had been a long day, I was tired and I flunked on a quiz that should’ve been extremely easy. I just wanted to get into the apartment, open the door to my bedroom, flop on the bed, scream into the pillow, and then freaking fall asleep.

I stood at the door of the apartment as I searched in my coat pocket for my keys. The door slammed open and Eunoia’s boyfriend went out holding a box filled with clothes, he looked perfectly calm but with a slight crazed look in his eye, “Sup Twyla.” I could hear Eunoia crying in the apartment. I walked in, perfect timing. Eunoia was about to throw a lamp at the door and I quickly got out of the way before she chucked it, hitting the door and glass going everywhere.

She looked at me, her mascara running and her face red. She looked so scared and sorry, “Oh my god I almost killed you.” she almost whispered, though it was loud enough I could hear her across the room “Don’t worry about me, are you okay?” “Yeah, sorry to bother you. You’re probably really tired.” Before I could say anything, she went upstairs. I felt so bad for her then, I didn’t care that she had almost thrown a glass lamp at me. God, I of all people knew what it was like to be betrayed by someone that you loved. That was what I had figured happened there. I never saw her boyfriend in the apartment again so I assumed that they broke up. I always found it extremely weird that he seemed so calm as he must’ve done something to drive her to want to kill him, what a sociopath. I will never forget Christman sophomore year, god that was hilarious. Eunoia didn’t have any family to go home to and my flight got canceled so we decided we’d have Christmas together in the apartment. Then we went out of town to a beautiful tree farm. “They have fake trees.” Eunoia said, passing some slow SUV on the road. “It’s so stupid that we aren’t allowed to have real trees in the apartment though, like how evil do you have to be to set restrictions on Christmas?” I complained. My family has always done a real tree. One time when we didn’t like any at the tree farm we went to, we cut down the one in the backyard and brought it inside. “Well we need a tree, if you really want to decorate a real tree so badly you can help me decorate the ones around campus. I do it every year with that high school near the campus.” “Maybe I will.” I crossed my arms. A bit up the road, there was a big wooden cabin with multiple floors. There were Christmas lights strung everywhere. There was a vast amount of real trees behind the cabin, along with a few other things I couldn’t really make out. “There it is.” Eunoia sighed. She pulled in and once she found a nice little place to park, pretty close to the cabin, we started walking up. Once we walked into the cabin, I realized how beautiful the place was. There were apple cider dispensers, you could buy coffee, there was a gift shop. There was a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow that pointed upstairs that said, Fake Trees . There were people all over, excited and happy. There were kids running all over the place, some with pretzels in their hands, some playing tag, all bundled up in coats and sweats.

Not like the kids were the only ones bundled up though, many adults were talking with many layers over their skin. It was a viciously cold night tonight, still so many people came to this tree farm and I could understand why. I had never seen a place where so many people were so happy, it felt like it had to have been the most wholesome moment in my life. Before I could realize that Eunoia had left me, she was back with two cups of apple cider in her hands, “Here you go.” she smiled. I took it and took a sip, “Oh my god.” I muttered, while drinking some more. “What?” Eunoia laughed. “I swear to god this is the best apple cider that I’ve had in my life.” She laughed and grabbed my hand to pull me through the crowd. As we were walking upstairs she asked me, “What kind of fake tree do you want?” I snorted, “Oh I don’t know, I’d like a green one with branches.” How many different kinds of trees could there be? I thought to myself. I immediately regretted that thought because right when we reached the next floor I could tell why she was asking. There were small trees, tall trees, white trees, pink trees, blue trees, green trees with fake snow and holly on them, aluminum trees, red trees, and the list went on and on. “ Now, do you get what I mean?” “Uh, yeah.” We ended up taking home a fake green evergreen tree with fake snow and holly on it. It was one of the best Christmases of my entire life. Every single time something happened between Eunoia and I, I thought we might become close but it never seemed to happen. We always just went back to our “Hey”s. Still, I’ll always remember that as the best Christmas of my life. And still, we will both think we were best friends when we’re older. The Night Owl and the Daydreamer: a beautiful mix, though one that could never truly dissolve.


As if running a gauntlet, a night train speeds on gravity tracks between crumbling high-rises. Flame scarred brick apartment buildings stand like forgotten tombstones. Rubble spills onto wet black streets, a dream-like sheen. Graffiti streaks by spelling out bloated warnings, the train moving too fast to decipher the message. With rhythmic shudders, the train slows and enters a tunnel beneath the Hudson. Soon, a landing platform appears in stark white lights. The train breaks to a stop, the Grand Central Complex. A young man and woman de-board along with a throng of hundreds of rush hour commuters. The men wear well-kept leather brown shoes, slick blue suits, hold leather briefcases; the women are in gray pinstripe or simple black Armani, many carry Louis Vuitton handbags. Joining everyone else at the entrance to a low ceiling corridor of white marble, the couple cues up on a moving walkway. As they’re pulled forward, the walls diffuse into scenes of hologram projections: water falls behind white teethed tour guides hawking the excitement of Machu Picchu tours in lush rainforests; Danube river cruise with proud castles floats by; lithe teenagers hawk Ozempic, Semaglutide, delivery guaranteed. Behind everyone, the walls change back once the motion passes. No one talks. As they exit the marble corridor, a cathedral-like space opens up and the throng of commuters raise their eyes to a monolithic dome. A god-like fresco covers the ceiling of a grand hall. At the top, scaffolded men lie prone, painting a religious scene emulated on Leonardo da Vinci. *** Earlier that day, a boy with the tired eyes of an old man, a pain beyond reach in deep pools of dull brown, lays out his tools in the dimness of a shed set apart from a ramshackle house. Black tarpaper, a crumbling walkway, where his mom and little sister live. Their dad? Long gone, he died in the resistance. The boy’s workbench displays his supplies, the tools of his trade: pliers in a variety of sizes, a soldering gun, duct tape, a doorbell mechanism, a half-empty gallon can of solvent, an empty nearby. The boy’s hands shake as he mixes solvent into a putty-like texture similar to modeling clay. He, while packing c4 into twenty canvas eight-inch tubes, sweats, an icy trickle down his spine, burns his eyes. He does not blink. When he presses on the pliable brown and white clay-like material, pushing the explosive into the bags with his thumbs, the plastic feels moist, smells like black engine oil, cool on his fingers in the moist heat. To keep the grease out of his long red hair, he pushes his bangs away with the back of his hand. His eyes concentrate, he thinks of a clockmaker. Wasn’t it his great grandfather who was a clockmaker? No, his grandfather’s brother. But they’re all dead so he can’t ask. There’s no one to ask. After tying the twenty tubes together with flexible wire, he lifts the cylinders around his waist, adjusting them much like a vest. As if modeling for a fresh shirt to start school, he examines the assembly in front of a mirror placed against a plank wall. But he doesn’t have the right shirt, or a school. He would have to do something or security might question him, he thinks, hell, not the right shirt . After taking off the vest, he places it in the bottom cabinet underneath the workbench. Calling from the kitchen, his mom insists. “Frederick, it’s dinner!” She knows it’s best not to come to his shed. He’d made that clear. The family of three, himself at fifteen, his mother, and his younger sister, join together every night for whatever food they have. His mother will soon leave for her second job. She says she’s lucky to have it. Bears fascinate his little sister. “When the cubs split from the mom, the momma bear will protect the little bears,” she says. “You better not get in the way. You’ll get ate.” Her head barely clears the table as she’s small, even for her age, six.

“What happens when the mother bear gets attacked?” he asks. My god, where does she come up with bears? “The momma bear saves the cubs, silly. The cubs can’t save the family.” “What about when the cub gets big enough?” His mother interrupts. “Enough about bears.” As his mother leaves for work, he tells her he will be working late downtown. “Working?” she says. “You don’t work, if you did, what for?” Later, he packs the c4 explosives into a backpack and meets Michael at the street. Michael’s got soldier eyes, a professional, and he’s steady like he’s been here before. He holds his face close to Frederick’s ear and whispers, “You’re doing the right thing.” Frederick turns back for one last look, and like a lost kitten, his sister is on the front stoop with her bare knees drawn up under a pink and blue thin dress. “You take care of your mom, Ellie.” “What do you mean?” she asks. “Life will be a whole lot better, and soon. I promise you girl.” *** In the bright Grand Central Station the young couple wait for a table at Maxines. The woman takes time to admire the tiled expanse which spreads out around the two of them. “Grand Central. I barely remember the old one,” she says. They soon have a lavish dining table, linen, a single purple orchid, English bone china with a gold rim. Hundreds of voices echo evenly around them, hollow acoustics, the air settling safely. The woman has in front of her what looks like a filleted fish with the bones removed. She doesn’t eat. “How is your food,” asks the man. “You should have something. Can I get you something else? You’ll feel better.” “Nice of you to say.” “I want you to stay strong. It’s your health I’m thinking about. The fish is bad, do you think?” “The fish is fine. I just don’t want it.” She plays with her food and the man eats. The woman is staring at the far wall. “There used to be a café down at that end. Do you remember? Strange how I miss New York. There is no other city quite like it.” She folds her white linen napkin just so in her lap. He reaches out and gently covers the woman’s hand with his own. “We don’t have long. Please have something.” She picks at her fish with a heavy silver fork. “This fish does look excellent. The shape they form them is ideal, don’t you think? They make these things perfect now.” She pushes her plate away. He sets his wineglass down, a red Bordeaux. “I would love to get you something else. What would you like? I’ll have them fix you a new fish.” “It’s not the fixing I have a problem with. It’s way beyond just fixing, isn’t it?” For the first time, she looks at her husband. “I used to come here with my grandmother. She’d take me on the train and I remember how tight she held my hand. She had arthritis and she walked with a cane. But she still wore these red high heels. There’s no way she was giving up the heels. Her eyes were blue, she’d describe them as a lapis blue, and she said the color came from Norway, the Vikings. The Vikings. Can you believe it? Anyway, she told me the story of how her great-grandparents came over on the boat to Ellis Island—but they must have lived much later—so it was generations before. As I washed her hair, she’d tell the story over and over.” After leaning in front of her, the man quickly begins to cut the fish into bite-size pieces. “The Phillips had a boy just two weeks ago, you know. They say he’s going to be a music prodigy. A prodigy like Mozart. Anyway, I’ve known George since Oxford. You may remember I’ve talked about him, but I didn’t know he was a pianist. I found out one day when he needed help to move his piano. It was a beast of a thing to move. But he insisted we move it to clear the view to the Hudson and he didn’t play much anymore. He said he just wasn’t wired for it, you know?” The woman laughs. “Maybe I will have another fish. The kitchen probably has a whole goddamn freezer of fish.” “This might surprise you, but I just want you to be happy. It’s a painless procedure. You’ll see.” “And you don’t think I’m happy now?” “Of course you are. We both are. It’s just that we can be more happy.” “And you think this will make us more happy?” The man looks at his watch. “We don’t have time for this. If we miss our slot we may not get another.” “Our slot, of course, but—” “When you think about it, there’s no choice.” “I’m sure you’re right, but I can’t help thinking my grandmother used to say she loved her husband because he was sensitive about his being short. ‘Napoleon was short, dammit,’ he’d say. Then he’d growl, ‘See? So there,’ like he’d won the argument. She laughed about his having these two-inch lifts in his shoes that hurt his feet like hell. Her words, like hell. He refused to say anything, she said, but she knew he could barely stand it, and he always wore the lifts and he worked his tail off and he was vulnerable and that’s why she loved him.” *** Frederick waits in the cold storage room of the kitchen. His friend Michael holds both palms of his hands in front of him. You need to hide, the hands say. I’ll tell you when we’re ready. So he hides, scrunched down behind stacked pallets of single ribeye steaks, each portion in vacuum pack. The labels say, ‘food product’. He puts his fisted hands, trembling, against the bottom of his chin, closes his eyes, tight. When Michael tells him the time is now he straps on the c4 vest and puts on the white apron he’s been given. *** The man takes out his credit card and puts it on the table. “When this is over you’ll see this is for us. I don’t blame you for being nervous.” With her fingers, the woman examines the frayed edge of her linen napkin. “You’re just nervous,” he says. She doesn’t take her eyes off the napkin as she feels the loose threads. “There’s no great story about how fish get their eye color is there? It’s just color.” The couple sits for a long time and neither speaks. Finally, the man says, “We can’t just go home, even if we wanted to, can we?” The woman tosses her linen napkin on the table, it falls crumpling to the floor. She quickly rises out of her chair and she is beautiful with a mole on her cheek. “Let’s go or we’ll miss the train.” “Excuse me. We’ll take the check,” the man calls to the waiter. “We’ll have to make a run for it.” When they near the marble tunnel exit the man stops, and she turns back. “You said run. So run.” Standing tall on the tile floor, her husband says, “Maybe we can go home.” With her face breaking soft, the woman flicks her eyes back to the restaurant. He smiles. “Sure, let’s get a bottle, you and I.” Back at the restaurant, they see their table is not yet cleared, they sit down together. Pulling her close with his hand on the back of her neck, the man kisses his wife. “Waiter? We decided to stay.” As the waiter approaches he’s different, red hair, very young, and his white apron falls from around his waist. He’s sweating. The waiter grabs the apron with his left hand to pull it back up. The man sees an array of brown and white canvass tubes surrounding the waiter’s torso, tied down with straps, red and blue wires. In the waiter’s hand is a button that makes the man think of a white knobbed doorbell. For an instant, the man questions himself why the server has a doorbell.