She wore a bright yellow dress with brown boots that came up to her knees. Her hair cut short and it looked to be a Hershey chocolate brown. He didn’t look like he belonged with her. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and black jeans that were a little too tight. His hair fell over the tops of his ears as if he skipped his last two barber appointments. I watched his hand slip into her hair and tucking it behind her ear. At first, she was surprised he came on so strong with the kiss. After a while she leaned in with her whole body. They were intertwined like the vines of jungle plants who grew too close to each other. Everything was innocent until I watched his hand move up her knee onto her thigh and under her dress. That’s when I dipped my nose back into my novel. I had always enjoyed reading here. I walked to the middle of the park typically where tourists didn’t gather and other natives didn’t know about. It was this giant rock sitting behind some tall grass right next to the water. I always packed a towel and laid it down next to the rock and read my novel. I couldn’t do this much due to the fact I had been in school all year, but now that it was summer I could finally find a little peace and quiet time. The couple had found the bench across from the walkway that led to my secret spot. They couldn’t see me, but I sure as hell could see them. I was a little jealous in a way. He didn’t feel her as if he was trying to take advantage of her. He touched her gently because he definitely loved her. You can just tell sometimes by the way people treat each other. I never knew what that touch had felt like but I had definitely seen it on others. They were only in the third chapter of their story. You know, the whole game of him trying to get her attention. Then he tries to grow some balls and ask for her number. After texting for a few days, he actually needs to pick up the nerve and ask her on a date. Finally comes the first kiss and possibly even sex. Even all of that, he might find himself introducing her to his parents. And oh God, possibly even marriage. Feelings just didn’t come that natural to me. I packed up my things into my dirty worn out backpack. Walking towards the subway, I stopped and stared at my reflection. My dirty blonde hair fell just past my shoulders. The green blouse I was wearing cut low enough to be sexy, but not too revealing. My mom jeans definitely set off the signal that I really wasn’t trying to impress anyone that day, and my Chuck Taylors contributed to that idea quite well too. I moved in closer towards the mirror, looking at my freckled covered face. It was a blessing and a curse. The freckles made me look cute, but too cute to look my age of 20 years old. I was mistaken for 13 quite frequently. My eyes were a light brown that had been seasoned with green flakes, being my most noticeable feature. I made my way down in the tunnels of the big city where I swiped my card and proceeded to the train. After sitting down, I pulled out my novel again. There was a woman and her baby sitting on the other side of my cart. The woman was playing on her cell phone while lightly waving a baby toy in front of her infant to distract them. I got only a couple pages deep in my book when I felt it. Gripping my ankle, I screamed loudly. It felt as if a thousand bees had stung me. When I pulled my hand away for a second, I saw my hand covered in blood. Was I dying? I moved my hand back quickly only because the air had stung my open wound. I dropped my book and wiped my tears away with my now open hand. Looking over, I saw the woman had been staring at me blankly while her child was screaming louder than I had. I moaned in pain and hunched over getting a better look at my ankle. A dark imprint had made its home right above the bone. I wiped away a little more blood to see the shape of a footprint appear. “What on earth?” I whispered to myself. The subway had stopped and I had fallen over in my seat. I grabbed the closest railing and with my other hand, grabbed my book from sliding on the floor across the subway. I stood up quickly shoving it back into my bag and ran off the train. After getting off, I looked back inside to see the woman staring at me as if I had shot someone. The train started moving and I watched her pull out her cell phone and begin speaking into it. I wish I could have heard what she had said, because I surely knew it would be about me. Walking home, I slightly limped because the muscles tensing up on my new scar made it sore. I made it back to my apartment where I found the door unlocked, meaning that Sherrie was home. Immediately, I grabbed the first aid kit we had stored in our extra tall kitchen cabinet. I then threw myself on the couch and began wrapping it with an ace bandage. “What’s up?” Sherrie yelled from her bedroom. “I’m not sure,” I responded. Sherrie came out in a long pink pastel shirt and pajama shorts. She was brushing out her long brown hair that reached down to her waste. A green moldy looking face mask covered her face. “Holy shit,” she said. Sherrie didn’t have much of a filter. “You should’ve seen the girl in the subways reaction.” “You got a tattoo on a subway?” “No.” “Well where did you get it Missy?” She sat down next to me unwrapping it. The air stung it a little because it was so deep in my skin. “I don’t know.” “You got drunk didn’t you?” she laughed. “No Sherrie, I didn’t get drunk on a Sunday and get a tattoo.” “Well, where did it come from?” That same question had been pondering through my head since the moment I first saw it. The little black footprint was pointed up my ankle towards my thigh. It had four little toes on it instead of five. I lightly touched it, knowing we were going to be together forever. “I’m not quite sure,” I whispered. The next day after work, I met up with Sherrie and her boyfriend Danny to grab a cup of coffee. The Starbucks in town are absolutely insane with tourists, so we always try to find new quiet and unheard-of coffee shops that not many people go to. We sat down at Culture Espresso which is slightly busy, but not too busy to the point where we couldn’t hear each other. The tables were small so we were really close to one another (including the strange man with stretched ear lobes sitting behind me). I had ordered a simple black coffee while they both ordered fancy drinks with extremely long names. Danny was tall and dressed well. He always styled his long dark hair back, making him look edgy and mysterious. Sherrie was just as beautiful as he was, which made them a cute couple. Sometimes they were almost a little too aware of that. Danny and Sherrie were quite an affectionate couple with random outbursts of PDA. They had to always be in constant contact with each other in any situation. Danny kept his hand either extremely far up Sherrie’s thigh, or directly on her hip whenever he got the chance. I sipped my coffee while he leaned in and smacked a big wet kiss on her lips. Sherrie grew a bashful grin and whined “babe” so loud that everyone in the restaurant was aware she had a boyfriend. Of course she had to return the favor and it resulted in a mini make out session. I didn’t mind and neither did anyone else around us. Although, this little fire inside me began to grow. What was this? I averted my eyes. “So, Missy, how is life? We don’t talk anymore. You are always gone out of the apartment! Well I mean I am too, but I miss you. How is work? Are you dating anyone yet? How is your tattoo healing?” Sherrie blurted out. Sherrie was from Michigan so she has always talked extremely fast. She needed to get everything out that was on her mind. “You got a tattoo? Where did you go? Who was the artist?” Danny added, matching Sherrie’s speed. “I didn’t go anywhere. I don’t even know if I’d call it a tattoo,” I managed to squeeze in the conversation. “It’s so cute though!” Sherrie added. “Show Danny!” I shifted my ankle from under the table and lifted up the cuff of my jeans high enough to where Danny could see it. The large ear-lobes man behind me peaked over and scoffed. “It’s very tiny,” Danny said. “Why a footprint?” “I guess it wasn’t really my choice.” They both stared at me blankly, which caused me to sip the rest of my coffee to avoid the awkwardness. “So how’s work?” Sherrie asked again. “It’s good,” I said. I explained what it was like to work at a movie theater. How annoying it was to clean the popper that made all the delicious popcorn people desired when they walked in. I told them about how I busted someone who tried to sneak in a fifth of vodka the other day and they laughed. We conversed for about an hour when Sherrie and Danny excused themselves to go out on a double date. When standing up, I immediately fell back down. The guy with the ear lobes jumped as a reaction to my fall. I was grabbing my ankle again. Except, it wasn’t just my ankle this time. The pain had moved farther up my calf in multiple locations. Sherrie and Danny stared as I pulled up the leg of my pants as far as I could to see what had happened. More marks. This time it was several footprints moving up my leg, as if a tiny person had worn ink and climbed up my leg. I looked up at Sherrie who was completely shocked. “You weren’t lying,” she said. “I told you!” I shouted. We made our way to urgent care, where they were just as baffled as we were. I sat up on the table in the doctor’s room and Sherrie sat in a chair in the corner. Danny waited out in the lobby. The doctor that was treating me was a tall woman with dark red hair and pale skin. She had very pouty lips and a deep voice. “So you have random markings that showed up on your leg?” She said reading her clipboard without even glancing up. “Are you allergic to anything?” “Not that I know of,” I said. “Alright well let’s have a look.” I pulled up my pant leg again and showed her the footprints. She moved in her face extremely close and stared at my leg. Then she tapped her lip with her pen. “Missy is it?” “Yes Ma’am.” “This is a place for people with problems. You and your friends need to stop coming in here with these tattoo pranks. You are wasting our time and money,” she snapped. Sherrie and I looked at each other. “Excuse me?” I said. “If you’re not out of here in the next 5 minutes I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.” My jaw dropped. Sherrie and I grabbed our bags and ran out of the room. She grabbed Danny by the arm and yanked him out of the waiting room. Once outside, we made our way to the closest subway station and stopped to discuss what had happened. “What the hell,” I finally said after moments of silence. “She thought we were pulling a PRANK,” Sherrie exclaimed. “What?” Danny asked. “She kicked us out and said ‘stop coming in here with your tattoo pranks’ and threatened to call the police on us!” I said. “Had you been in there yesterday?” Sherrie asked. “No. Why?” “She almost sounded like you had been in there before. She said ‘you and your friends’ as if someone had come in and done the same thing.” We were standing in front of the gates that lead to the trains, so people had been pushing passed us. We couldn’t move though. We were all so shocked at what had just happened. “Wait,” Danny said. “Does that mean..” “Someone else has been having the same problems,” Sherrie announced. A few days passed, and my art on my leg kept growing. I was beginning to get used to it. The shocking feeling of being stabbed almost became a normal feeling. Of course I knew when it happened, but it stopped startling me as bad. Once I was ordering a dollar slice of pizza for lunch, and it happened. I jumped a bit, but returned to paying the nice man for my food. He looked at me as if I had done a backflip. Another time, I was changing in a dressing room when it happened again. I had slammed my back into the wall of the dressing room because it slightly surprised me, but then I continued with my shopping. When I came out, everyone stared at me. All I could do is awkwardly smile and move on. I became restless at night, wondering what that doctor meant. Who else could be having these problems? The tattoo had grown up my calf to my thigh and onto my stomach. Footprints traveled up my calf and were soon covered by beautiful colorful feathers. They looked to be water colored in blues and pinks. The feathers led into an abstract mesh of art on my stomach, still unfinished. I was preparing any day now for the tattoo to complete itself. While it was growing, I found myself traveling in different parts of the city that I hadn’t really visited before. I was searching for answers. I traveled to the university and searched their campus for someone who had any knowledge on my situation, but everyone stared at me oddly when I told them what was happening. I found myself exploring tattoo parlors and asked them as many questions as I could. The employees were always amazed by the work on my body and asked things such as who designed it, where I got it done, how much had I paid for it. This showed me that they weren’t actually listening to my questions. I had been searching and searching but no luck. All sorts of questions ran through my head. What’s going to happen to me? Will I be okay? What’s the point? Who else knows what’s going on? I was sitting on a swing set in the middle of the park, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I was beginning to feel defeated. I could feel myself sinking into the seat, the flame of hope inside me was dying out. Stuck, was the best way to describe it. Sitting there for hours it seemed like, I finally decided I should make my way home accepting my defeat. When I looked up, I was surprised. A giant hawk sat in a tree dead ahead staring at me. We made clear eye contact. Its eyes shimmered with gold specks and it was blinding. It opened its mouth and turned its head so I could see its other eye. The hawk was beckoning me towards it. Not feeling any insanity, I stood up and moved closer. I was about a foot away from the ginormous bird when I reached my hand out to touch it. It spread its wings and stared at me for half a second before it took off. “Wait!” I cried. I picked up my bag from the spot I had been sitting and chased the bird from the ground. It was flying so fast I had to sprint. Booking it down the pathways, I weaved between groups of people who were touring the park. My eyes were glued on to the bird. It picked up its speed and I couldn’t chase it any longer. Finally, the screaming of the big city halted me to a stop. I looked around to see where it had gone, but I couldn’t seem to find it. I sat down on the nearest bench to catch my breath. Through my loud panting after running my marathon, I heard a faint noise. I wasn’t really focused on it until finally my breathing brought itself to a normal volume. What was the noise? I got up and walked the next block over where I saw a group of people huddled around something. There was music playing. I made my way up the slight hill that led to the crowd and mixed in with the tourists. There was a man sitting on a bench playing guitar. This was a normal spot for this to happen in the park. The man had a medium length hair of wavy brown hair. He was wearing a bandana around his forehead and he closed his eyes while he sang with his guitar. It was a very peaceful sound. His lips were full and they moved beautifully with his voice. His hands didn’t miss a single chord. He could have only been a year or two older than me. What had really surprised me though, was the tattoo that had sat right above his ankle. Foot steps leading up his leg. “Hi,” I said sitting next to him once he finished his song. I was wearing long pants today so he couldn’t see my art. “Hello,” he smiled at me. “You sing very well,” I said awkwardly. He chuckled, “Thanks. I was a big fan.” He was gesturing towards the big circle that was designed on the ground in front of us. It was a memorial for a famous singer who had been killed years ago, just across the street. “I have to show you something,” I mumbled. He stared at me confused. I lifted up my pant leg slightly to show him my footprints. “I finally found you,” he said. We were staring into each other’s eyes now. His were a seaweed green that mesmerized you the longer you looked into them. I felt connected instantly. That’s when the tattoo completed itself. It didn’t hurt this time, and I knew exactly what the pattern finished into. A beautiful bird of many colors now was painted on both of our ribs. Feathers and colors bursted out from its wings, pulling in its viewer to every little detail. It was too beautiful for any human to design.


I made the mistake of turning on the radio half-way to my house, and our buffoon of a president's voice comes through my car, calling himself a wartime president. I snort and turn it up, reminded that while his words are not of much value, they do hold an entertainment value. I listen to him stumble around his words, three adjectives to every noun, his speaking in circles as I put my car in park, shake my head, then shut off my car. I haul my groceries from the backseat and up the stairs to my apartment, recalling something I read, or heard or learned in some way about war. I set the bags down in the kitchen and think of President Trump and his choice of words, and wonder how perturbed he would be to learn what I learned in that article, that Ted Talk, that podcast, whatever it was: women are one of the most valuable commodities when a country faces war. I put produce in the sink and wipe down boxes and store them in cupboards. I think about how we sing to the unsung heroes in a time like this: the medical professionals [and novices, even] summoned to the front lines… the mail carriers, the delivery drivers, those manning grocery stores, and wonder if the women facing war have ever been properly sung to. I reflect on the message from the podcast I heard some time ago, how it spoke of Afghanistan, about how the women were really the ones who held things together throughout war. The unsung heroes, the mothers, the daughters, the wives, the women — the ones who bear all or none of these titles. They are not the warriors we think they are when we think of war. They are not toting guns, loudly and shouting at the enemy. They are the schoolteachers giving lectures on their country's history while it's future is in immediate question and uncertainty. They are the ones who pause their lessons until the sounds of guns stop, until the helicopters pass, holding their breaths as bombs go off closer and closer each time, the ones writing lessons in the spaces of a chalkboard not overtaken by bullet holes. They are the mothers who still make their child's family's favorite dish even if all the ingredients are not available. They are the ones working in a sparse kitchen, who cannot look out a window and smile while their children play, but cast out nervous glances every ten seconds, shivering and shaking in fear while they set a table. They are the ones who are in a constant war with themselves, living with the internal, unforgiving debate of letting them enjoy what may be their last days, out in the sunshine, or demanding their children stay inside where they are safe. They are the mothers who accept gravely that nowhere is safe because she doesn't have another option she can accept, so she comes to terms with the fact that outside they can stay. They are the wives who remember the holidays when everyone is too preoccupied with the current state of the nation, make new traditions if the old ones are available or unable to attain. They are the ones who remember that on Sundays, the family eats together, and there is still sanctity in the beginning of a new week, no matter what platter that week serves to others. They are the wives who bandage the hands of their husbands when they come home, spoon feed him soup after days or not eating. They are the ones bookmarking a sense of normalcy that is easy to turn to when you do not understand the chapters that come after. They are the ones who ensure routine is in place, from the big things like prayer to the little things like brushing teeth. The one that tucks her children into bed and turns down the lights so that they cannot see the tears in her eyes as she tells them a bedtime story they can believe. She is the one who, when the bombs go off illuminating the dark speaks of lightning, and when the sound vibrates through their bodies speaks of thunder. When her children ask where it comes from, she says the gods are battling over who can create the biggest storm, because she knows somehow that is less terrifying than man fighting man. When they ask her what the gods names are she wants to tell them she doesn't know anymore, but instead kisses their heads and tells them they will find out one day, silently praying not tomorrow. She is the one who gets up and gives one last tuck of torn blankets over tiny feet. The one holding in place all the little things: the fringe and the fabric of all that remains.


"I can see that the video games of this world are still mostly focused on killing monsters and... people. Or on the end of the world. Or on zombies" Astra stated while watching some reviews on my tablet, her left eyebrow risen above the other. The sky was covered with clouds again, and the quarantine was turning a little gloomy because of that continual grey light. "Will you ever focus on reality? Why don't your video games talk about reality? Video games can be serious, from time to time." "Those are just the most popular ones... I told you" I replied, sitting on a sofa. "There are many exceptions, I swear. We also need entertainment. Even if I'm not very knowledgeable in this field." "You always preferred books, I know" she said with a mocking tone. "You still give a lot of weight to words. Too much weight indeed. Video games can be as important as books. But it looks like special matter people always need entertainment, entertainment, all the time..." "Please, detach from my tablet, you're monopolizing it. Tell me more about the universe, the dark matter, your civilization. I mean, I am sure you did not come here just to spend the quarantine here in my ugly house. Please, tell me if your people found out what's the purpose of..." "Of...?" "Of life. Well, of life, of course. We barely know how dark matter works, so you must know something we don't know." "The purpose of life... Well. You'll be disappointed. No purpose. Sorry" she said drily, and kept scrolling for a while, getting to the latest news about Sony. I sighed with impatience, and after two minutes she activated her brain again: "Ok, let's put it like this: the absence of a purpose is the greatest discovery an advanced civilization can make. So my comment can just be: about time." "How come?" "Because that's the only thing that can actually make you free! If there is no meaning anywhere, that means you can just do things you like - provided that you don't work all the time pretending you want what you do. I cannot believe you are so naive to believe that life should offer you a purpose." "We are mortal. Any purpose of mine would be temporary. I want to know if there's something more." "And the fact you are mortal should mean anything to the rest of the universe? You need a great quantity of ego to think that the universe promised you something at the end of the tunnel! Oh no, you need to stop with science fiction celebrating the end of the world, and also with apocalyptic video games. You need to realize that nothing is more clever that making your time meaningful. That means: stop trying to make everything useful and productive for the whole humanity. You do not need that. This planet does not need that." I looked ad the bees struggling against the breeze in the garden, and realized that I had wasted so much time before that quarantine, I had given so much energy to a system which just wanted me to survive in order to produce more for it, exhausting me with lies about the personal choice and the necessity of a common struggle. I loved this quarantine, I loved talking about life. And I did not need a higher purpose. The whole civilization did not need to imagine absolute purposes and meanings all the time. Yes, we needed more video games about reality. Yes, we needed to resist during the lockdown, but also after it, after realizing there was no need to keep pretending that life had a purpose. No, there was no purpose, so why couldn't we enjoy our time? - or at least try. We didn't really want to back to our every day routine. "I think this virus is doing something great to humanity. But only if we're ready to learn its lesson" I stated, taking the tablet. Strangely, she didn't protest, and let it go. There was something strange in her smile.


I love my new apartment. It’s a hard loft, converted from a slaughterhouse that closed up back in the sixties. It’s a corner unit where three of the walls are covered in exposed brick. Original rebar posts run from the polished cement floor up through the sweeping, timber-lined ceiling. Huge, warehouse-style windows provide a beautiful view of the lake. All in all, it’s not a bad place to be, especially with its proximity to the downtown core. It was eye-wateringly expensive. It took me five years to save for the down payment. Five years of living in a cold, humid basement with three roommates beside me and twin toddlers upstairs. I spent nearly a year searching, and I didn’t buy until I found a place that made my heart leap with joy. Notwithstanding the realtor’s boast that the slaughterhouse used to kill over 6000 pigs per day before it burned down, this converted loft felt like home the moment I stepped into it. Like all first-time homeowners, there were things I didn’t expect, which took a little getting used to. I didn’t sleep a wink the first few nights I spent there. It was something – perhaps the one thing – I hadn’t thought to ask about during my search. The noise. Every night, I could hear something moving inside the one plastered wall, and perhaps the air ducts. It didn’t worry me too much: it didn’t sound like bugs or mice. It was the soft but distinct sound of a large volume of what sounded like sand. Sand that would slide behind the re-plastered wall and accumulate behind the baseboard. Sand that seemed to move as though caught in a draft. It wasn’t completely continuous – there were breaks once in a while, then just as I was falling asleep, it would continue again, just loud enough to wake me up again. I thought I could try to get used to the noise, but something about it was so oppressive and persistent that it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t overwhelmingly loud, yet it still penetrated any kind of ear plugs I could find at the drugstore. I actually left the apartment after the first sleepless night and stayed at my friend Jessy’s, but after a couple of days, I realized I was overstaying my welcome. Jessy didn’t understand why I couldn’t just go to sleep in the new apartment I had raved about the week before. So I went back, and tried again. I couldn’t make it work. After two more sleepless nights, I asked Jessy to sleep over with me. Nighttime rolled around, and she settled down on the futon. I turned off the lights and lay flat on my back, not expecting to be able to fall asleep. I heard it as soon as my eyelids started to feel heavy. The rush of sand behind the walls and ceiling. Moving, dribbling, settling here and there around the place. Jessy stirred. She could clearly hear it, too. Neither of us slept that night. The next day, Jessy let me sleep over at her place without a fuss. Once we had both rested up, she offered to take a look inside the wall. She wasn’t a construction worker, but she had helped family members with home renovations before and thought it would be worth it to see if there was something in there, like sawdust, that was being pushed around by a draft at night. She arrived at my apartment and taped a plastic tarp down on the floor in one corner to catch any dust or plaster that came from the wall. She measured out a small rectangle, marked it with a pencil, then used what looked like a box-cutter to slice through the drywall. As she drew the blade across the penciled line, what appeared to be incredibly fine black sand began to pour out. Jessy paused, waiting for the sand to stop. It poured and poured from the tiny wound onto the plastic sheet below. It was dark grey and uneven. Some particles were heavy enough to make a skittering sound, while others were nearly invisible and whirled upwards to hang in the air. It was also unstable. I touched one corner of the mound gathering on the tarp and felt the larger particles collapse under my fingers into fine, dark, dust. Several more moments passed, but the flow of sand from the wall wasn’t stopping. The mound below Jessy’s incision kept growing larger and larger until it surpassed the edges of the sheet and spilled out onto the polished concrete floor. We waited for a long time. I don’t remember exactly how long, but it felt like the stream of particles coming out of the wall would never end. Eventually, it did stop, but when we tried to pick it up in the tarp, it scattered all over the place. I almost cried. Black dust covered my furniture, and our clothes. It was all over the walls. So I stayed at Jessy’s place for the next few nights. I was dreading the return to my apartment, afraid of what ash-covered disaster I would come home to. Jessy offered to let me stay until I found a renter, but I refused. I had paid so much money. I was determined to make this apartment work. So I went back the following afternoon. I was surprised to see that the mess I had fled several days before was completely gone. The hole in the drywall was still there, of course. But I couldn’t spot a speck of black dust anywhere. Even the tarp was clean. I didn’t have an explanation for it, and neither did the building’s concierge. He assured me that no one had entered my apartment while I was gone. I asked if someone from maintenance might have come in, but the concierge denied it. I had an uneventful afternoon. I showered and unpacked a few more things. I set up my new coffee table and topped it with a blown-glass fruit bowl filled with fresh apples. I rolled out a thick-pile shag carpet and positioned a few chairs on top of it. I still needed a sofa, but the place was starting to shape up. When I went to bed that night, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the walls. I supposed that the hole in the wall allowed the sand to escape and that the noise issue would be gone. Unfortunately, I was wrong. The sand wasn’t in the walls anymore though. I could hear it rushing around in the main room of my apartment. I rolled out of bed and opened my bedroom door. The dark dust had swirled into the shape of what appeared to be a slaughterhouse pig. It snorted, and shook its head a little to help the last bits of ash settle into place. I couldn’t move. I was afraid to let the ash pig out of my sight, even for the moment it would take to reach backwards and turn on my bedside lamp. I just stood there, my body stiff, my eyes locked on the creature. The pig, by contrast, seemed completely relaxed. It shuffled around the apartment, bumping into furniture and rubbing dark ash everywhere it went. When it turned its back to me, I managed to gather the courage to reach over and tap the button at the base of my lamp. For some reason, I expected the pig to disappear when the lights turned on. It didn’t. Now apparently able to see, it moved with more energy and began exploring the apartment with greater enthusiasm. It sniffed at my unopened boxes, then wandered to the kitchen. I slowly released the breath I had unknowingly been holding, and tried to massage the tension out of my shoulders with my fingers. Ok… it’s a ghost pig. It could be worse. I muttered some small comforts to myself as I tried not to cry. As my heart rate started to return to normal, I heard a crash from the main room. I couldn’t help but let out a small scream. Something fragile had broken, and I could hear it crunching under the pig’s hooves. It must have been the glass fruit bowl on the low coffee table. I could hear the pig crunching on the apples for about ten more minutes before it settled down. There was no chance that I was going to go back to sleep. I waited until I couldn’t hear anything coming from the next room. Then I waited another half an hour. Once a full hour had gone by, the fear had largely passed, and I felt ready to venture through the half-open bedroom door. The pig was still there. It had nestled into the white shag carpet, apparently sleeping. It was surrounded by broken glass and apple cores. My fruit bowl was destroyed. Black ash covered the coffee table and hung in the air. I stood there. Who was I supposed to call? The concierge wouldn’t be back for another three hours. The pig lay on the shag carpet, occasionally stirring in its sleep. I began to carefully sweep up the broken glass. As the hours passed, the sun began to rise over the lake, and as gorgeous golden light flooded the room, the ash on the furniture that I had been trying to clean began to fade away. I turned to the ghost pig and caught one last glimpse of it as it disappeared. The pig had been back every night ever since. As the days have gone by, I found myself reconciling with the spectral intruder. I mean, most days I wouldn’t wake up in time for the sunrise without *his* help. Of course, I had to make a few changes in my life to live in harmony with the ghost pig. I now know to avoid leaving fragile crockery out on the table. I make sure to leave some easily accessible fruit on the floor; that makes it less tempting for him to try to open up the cupboards and make a mess. Most nights I sleep well, now. My advice for other potential condo buyers is to keep an open mind. When you walk through the right door, you’ll know it. And don’t ever let a building’s quirks stop you from following your heart.


My neighbor and his family weren’t the sort of people I would ordinarily get to know. They are conservative Christians with an interest in guns and ‘survival’. Now let me state for the record that I’m neither opposed to guns, personal farming, or any type of religion (when practiced in moderation) but most individuals I know with those fixations, are deep into them. DEEP. To the point they often come across as ‘cult like’ to me. Sure, I was always ‘friendly’ and waved big when they drove by, but that was just my personal strategy. I figured it was much better to be on their ‘good’ side, than to be on their ‘bad’ side. Know what I mean? During the viral outbreak, everyone in our tiny community was already on edge. It didn’t take much more to push certain ‘agitated folks’ with apocalyptic views (like my ‘prepper’ neighbors) into believing ‘the end was near’. Once hoarding started of ordinary commodities, it triggered a fierce survival instinct in them which frankly, they’d been preparing for, for many, many years. In truth, there really were a few isolated pockets of crime occurring nearby; as our local society broke into panic and riots. A few unstable people jumped the shark and looted stores or robbed their neighbors (as if zombies had just risen from the dead). Meanwhile, the real-world mortality rate for those infected with the virus was only about 1%. The common cold, cancer, vehicle accidents, heart attacks, and a half-dozen other common ailments took more lives and yet it didn’t make the local news. It was the definition of overreaction and hysterical madness. The irony was that despite the circumstances not even being close to justifying real chaos, the exaggerated panic circulating around was rapidly edging us closer to the real thing. A loud knock on my front door jolted me awake. I don’t normally sleep in my recliner but then again, hearing shouting up the road at 1 AM wasn’t ‘normal’ either. It didn’t matter that the circumstances didn’t merit an actual apocalypse. No one told the panicked rednecks up the street so I had to adjust my way of thinking to match theirs. To my relief, it was my aforementioned neighbor. Frank looked absolutely triggered. He was clearly waiting for ‘the end’ to come. In his hand was a very intimidating military-style rifle. Luckily he wasn’t pointing it at me but I still didn’t feel safe with it so prominent in my view. Before I could ask what was going on, he stepped aggressively onto my threshold. I took an immediate step backward, yielding the floor in submission. “It’s finally going down.”; Frank deadpanned. The grave look in his bloodshot eyes spoke volumes. He didn’t have to explain. It was clear what he meant. I asked if he and his family were ‘ok’. He grimaced and nodded somberly. A look of relief crept over his face at my sincere question. I obviously exhibited some behavior which made him feel better about approaching me. I suppose that was because I’d asked about their well-being. It was proof to him that I wasn’t out to burn down their home and pick them off, one-by-one, as they ran screaming out the door. Besides being way outside my ability (or intentions), I only owned a small handgun. I think because they were hardcore doomsday preppers; they assumed everyone else was just like them. “We’ll need to band together to survive this thing.”; He began in earnest. The whites of his eyes were prominent. “I’ve been monitoring the police bands. Widespread looting and attacks are escalating rapidly in town. Things have fully collapsed. It’s only a matter of time before one of those greedy bastards comes to our dead-end road and tries to seize our munitions and supplies. You’ve always been friendly with us so I wanted to approach you about combining forces.” I started to try to get him to relax but he was clearly too wound up. There was no evidence the handful of local crimes were anything more than just a few isolated incidents. The problem was, Frank wasn’t going to be ‘calmed’. He was all ‘puffed up’. He was ‘vigilant’. The man was ready for a fierce battle and wouldn’t appreciate me trying to downplay his ‘apocalypse’ as mostly imagined, or one-sided. Not at all. I elected to play along for the sake of humoring him. After all, the AR-15 over his shoulder looked like it meant business. In the event of a pseudo apocalypse, it’s best to agree completely with the heavily armed guy in your doorway. “Frank, buddy. I’m here for you and your family. If things get rough, I’ll be right there beside you, ok?” That was as vaguely supportive (while not being contractually committal), as I could be. It seemed to reassure him. The rigid posture he manifested like an on-duty green beret, loosed ever-so-slightly. He ‘suggested’ I grab “all of my firearms” and ammo; and immediately join his family at ‘their compound’. I could tell that he wasn’t going to respond well to any hesitancy on my part. I just nodded and grabbed my never-used 9mm and two boxes of bullets. At his house, the family looked like they were already prepared for an all-out-war. His wife sized me up. I could tell she was against bringing me over. Their college aged daughters were dressed in battle fatigues and full military garb. I wanted to run away in terror at this surreal experience but it felt safer to be on that side of ‘the fortress’, than outside of it, viewed as an enemy. The latent sounds of gunfire in the distance snapped them into action. To be honest, it triggered me too. Up until that point I thought they were nuts to assume a societal collapse over a small, local uprising but it was hard to ignore rapid gunfire at 2AM. Frank’s family lined up like a well-oiled machine at the ‘command center’. They’d already boarded up their windows and barricaded both doors. Witnessing their assembled arsenal of weaponry, I had to wonder why anyone would be foolish enough to try to break in. My home was an infinitely easier target. Sensing my thoughts, Frank offered; “It’s well known by certain people in town that we are exceptionally ‘well stocked’. That puts a big target on our backs by savages who would try to take our things or our lives. Our mistake was not being more ‘low key’ during our previous supply runs.” I nodded appreciatively. Under the rapidly developing circumstances, I felt very lucky to be taken in by them. I had way less to offer our haphazard ‘apocalyptic’ partnership than I would stand to benefit. That being the case, it seemed prudent for me to keep my big mouth shut, lest they suddenly realize all of my strategic shortcomings. Apparently Frank had perimeter sensors around his property. When one of them suddenly went off, a spotlight lit up the entire area in blaring light. One of his daughters fired off a half dozen rounds at the intruder. He didn’t get back up. ‘It’ had begun. You would think having perimeter sensors and triggered spotlights would’ve been enough to discourage any sane person but it just seemed to appeal to their misguided sense of pride. Frank’s place was a real ‘challenge’. The thieves were apparently spurned on by the potential bragging rights and the massive spoils of their armada. They shot out the bulbs to effect a deep-cover of darkness. What the intruders didn’t count on, where Frank’s hidden infrared and heat-sensing modules buried in the yard. That led to three more bodies lying dead on the grass. I had to hand it to him, when the shit hit the proverbial fan, they were absolutely, positively prepared. How ironic it was that (if I’d known about all their detection gadgets on the property) I would’ve thought he and his family needed mental help. Now I was seeing how wrong I was. Their home was taking heavy sniper fire from the foothills behind the house. They had a number of protected gun turrets for a standoff. Frank himself took aim at the latest source of conflict while I stood ready to reload for him. It was something I could do to help during the tense crisis. Using night-vision goggles, he managed to triangulate the source of the shooter and pinned him down. It was amazing to watch him in action! With that shooter out of the picture, I assumed we’d finally have some peace but again, I was wrong. The individuals intent of seizing Frank’s huge stash doubled-down on their efforts. Maybe they were angry at having so many personal losses that they felt like they had to avenge their fallen partners. Whatever the reason, a cavalry of four rapidly charged the front gate. Both Frank’s daughters and his wife were ready and waiting. Two fell immediately. Another was grazed by a shot but must’ve been wearing body armor or something. He limped over to a makeshift shield in the yard to take refuge. What the intruder didn’t realize, was that they had left the barrier there as a decoy. Buried slightly in the ground under it was an explosive charge. He was blown to pieces. The fourth guy had enough and turned to run. In what could only described as being swept up by the hyper-intense passion of battle, I grabbed up one of their rifles and fired at him. To my great disbelief, I dropped him at 35 yards! Suddenly I too was a killer but if he’d made it inside, I would’ve been in his crosshairs. Up until that point I was a peaceful man but it was ‘kill or be killed’. Frank patted me on the back and told me I’d done the right thing. “The guy would’ve come back eventually for revenge.”; He consoled. Now I was ‘one of them’. Would the total routing of this band of apocalyptic marauders bring reinforcements, or did we get them all? None of us knew. We had to stay fully alert. Frank had been awake for more than 36 hours prepping. He was in danger of passing out. As a good commander, he knew when he needed to turn over command. He and his wife took the first shift sleeping while both daughters and I stood watch. They eyed the security monitors while I reloaded weapons and familiarized myself with their considerable arsenal. It was a long night but thankfully we didn’t have further attacks until several days later. We successfully weathered them too. Teamwork was key. What we didn’t realize was that simultaneously across the world, nearly identical localized battles were taking place for control and dominance. What started out as a regional overreaction triggered panic and a global domino effect. The pseudo apocalypse became a real one. Governments collapsed. Law and order became a thing of the past. Every journey begins with a single step. Not that it mattered but the fall of civilization possibly started at my neighbor’s house. At least Frank’s family came to accept me. I took his eldest daughter to be my wife once she turned 22. I’m a quick learner but she’s still the superior shot. Our children will be the first generation to grow up in the post American world.


The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly, the heat unbearable and most people staying in the cool shelter of their house, the lack of people venturing out on the streets benefited the neighborhood kids playing football in the streets. Playing bare-chested, shirts scattered on the ground. Smiles were plastered on their faces as they ran after the ball. They were ten in total, five on each team. Two rocks were placed on each side of the dirt road as a makeshift goal post and various plastic bags bundled together using a rope served as a ball. "Give me the ball, I'm alone," said Keza, the only girl playing. The boys only caved in and let her join because Shema had refused to play if they didn't. He was the best player in the group, and they needed him to win. Glancing at Keza and confirming her place, Shema passed the ball to her. Keza intercepted the ball and dashed towards the opposing team goal, as she was about to shoot, one of the boys on the opposing team tackled her causing her to lose balance and shoot the ball in another direction than intended. Shattering a window with a loud crack, the ball disappeared inside a house. The game halted and the boys all gathered around Keza, watching the broken window. "You go and take it back," one boy said pushing her by the shoulder. "It's not my fault, if he hadn't tackled me it wouldn't have happened, he should be the one going there," Keza replied pointing at the said boy. "In football, it's okay to tackle someone if you didn't know," the same boy replied shaking his head, "we should have never let a girl play with us." Shema stepped in between the two kids, placing a hand over their bare chests, separating them. "Don't fight, Keza and I will retrieve the ball and after we'll continue the game, okay." He said looking at the two kids alternately. "But-" Shema silenced Keza's retort, "No buts, we will get that ball," he said, taking her arm and dragging her towards the house. Keza pressed her lips together into a thin line, she didn't want to go get the ball, what the boy said infuriated her but that was not the only reason. The ball flew straight into Mr. Ngabo’s house. Mr. Ngabo was a tall, muscular man with scars covering most of his face and skin as dark as the night. Keza glanced at Shema and wondered how he managed to keep calm, his house was similar to every other house in their neighborhood except for one thing; various animal skulls adorned the front porch. Just looking at it made the hair on Keza's arm stand at attention, to her it felt as though the skulls were staring at her. She couldn't help but think about all the stories her mother told her at night if she didn't want to go to sleep. *If Mr. Ngabo releases his spirits and they find you awake, they'll take you away.* It was probably a way for the adults to keep the children in line but she always had a bad feeling whenever she saw Mr. Ngabo. This led her to believe that maybe, just maybe there was some truth to the stories. "You know we can also search for other plastic bags and make another ball," she said, rocking from side to side. Shema smirked at her, "You're scared." "N-no," "Don't tell me you also believe all the stories about Mr. Ngabo, they're stories invented by the adults to scare us," "I-I know, I'm not scared," staring at the house in front of her, "l-let's go." With each step they took, the thought that it was a bad idea reinforced itself in her mind, it wasn't worth risking their lives, Shema knocked on the door expecting someone to open the door, instead, the door opened itself slowly making a creaking sound. The two kids looked at each other not sure what to do. "Hello, Mr. Ngabo. My name is Shema and I'm here with my friend Keza, we're here to take the ball that crashed in the house. We're sorry for that." Silence greeted them and Shema advanced only to be stopped by Keza's hand. "Where are you going? We should go back, he's not here and I don't think he'll be happy to find us in his house." "Then better hurry and get the ball before he returns," Shema shrugged off Keza's hand and made his way through the house. Eyeing Mr. Ngabo's front porch decorations warily, Keza followed Shema inside, the living room held little furniture save for a wooden table and a chair, there was a little kitchen on their left but nothing else. Finding the ball proved difficult, the house was dimly lit making it hard for the kids to see anything. "See, there is nothing here. We should go back before Mr. Ngabo comes back," Keza said, tugging at Shema's arm. "Wait! It's somewhere in the kitchen, the window we broke is there," he replied going there. Keza waited for a while and released a sigh of relief when she saw Shema return with the ball in hand. She was about to open the door and leave when Shema stopped her. "Don't you want to look around?" "No," she replied shaking her head vehemently, "let's leave!" Either he didn't hear or he chose to ignore her as he made his way deeper into the house. Keza had the urge to cry after seeing that. "Look, there's a basement," Shema cried out, she went to join him. Shema held open the door, a staircase could be seen leading downstairs. Dragging her feet, Keza followed Shema downstairs, each step creaking. Keza's heart was beating against her rib cage threatening to explode. The basement was dark, dusty and full of card boxes scattered across the room. The only light came from a small light bulb they had turned on. "What's this for?" Keza asked for opening one card box, it contained kitchen utensils. They opened other boxes and the result was the same, each one filled with various metal objects ranging from kitchen utensils to car spare parts. A creaking sound made them halt in their movements, the door opened and there in the doorway stood Mr. Ngabo, Keza didn't have the time to think when Shema pulled her to a couple of boxes nearby and hid behind them, listening to Mr. Ngabo’s heavy footsteps as he descended the stairs. Following Mr. Ngabo's every movement dutifully, Keza held her breath; they shouldn't have come here in the first place, being in the same room with that man wasn't what she wanted and the oppressive heat made it worse. The sound of something hitting the floor took Keza out of her reverie, making her blood run cold. Turning her head in Shema's direction, she saw a startled expression on his face; he had accidentally kicked a can causing the sound as it made contact with the floor, the sound was deafening in the eerie silence that had reigned in the room since Mr. Ngabo had made his appearance. "Who's there?" Mr. Ngabo gruff voice inquired. Keza heard his footsteps approaching the card boxes where they hid and glanced at Shema, fear clear in her eyes. As Mr. Ngabo reached for the can laying lazily on the floor, Shema took hold of Keza's hand and darted out of their hiding spot. The fast movement startled Mr. Ngabo, stunning him for a short while. "You brats! Come back here," he yelled outgoing after them. Looking behind her and seeing the look of fury etched on his face, Keza confirmed that all the stories she heard were true, he looked terrifying and she was sure he would be the subject of her soon to be nightmares. Staring at the man for a second too long and not paying attention in front of her, Keza stumbled and Shema's grip loosened. Mr. Ngabo took hold of her leg, taking advantage of Keza's bad luck. "Gotcha," he said, pulling her towards him with a large maniacal grin on his face. Her scream alerted Shema who hadn't remarked that he had let go of Keza. Mr. Ngabo had his arm across Keza's stomach in a tight grip and Keza was struggling to escape. "Let me go," she yelled. "First, I'm gonna show you how I treat little bastards like you trying to snoop into my things." Hearing that, Keza broke down and started crying, her mind going over all the horrible things she'll be subject to. Without thinking, Shema lunged at Mr. Ngabo causing him to lose balance. "Fucking bra-" he didn't finish his sentence as he fell on his back, his head colliding with the floor, falling unconscious. Without further ado, Shema helped Keza to her feet and together they dashed out of the house. Ignoring the other boys who had waited for them, the ball was forgotten, they continued running only stopping when they reached Shema's house, taking deep breaths, exhausted from the intense physical activity. "Keza, your arm," Shema gasped after they had both regained their senses. Looking at her arm, she found a deep gash, Shema stepped closer staring with wide eyes. What surprised her wasn't the injury or the lack of pain and blood, not all that seemed insignificant to her as she gawked at the wound. It was a deep cut, she had probably injured herself during the fall in the arms of Mr. Ngabo, but she had expected to see muscles or bones, not wires.


As of this afternoon, although restrictions have intensified across the country and the globe, the stun has lifted for me a bit. The panic and nervousness has lessened, but I still feel my eyes open in shock — at least they are able to absorb what is going on, notice things that I may not see again in this lifetime. The way that teachers go on parades in local neighborhoods because they miss their students, colored banners and signs out the windows. How last week, a man saw a girl dancing on her rooftop and he asked her out on a date via drone, and they face-timed at separate tables from their own roofs. How he walked around in a bubble holding flowers for her he hopes to one day give her. How I hope they make it. Somehow in the midst of all this, it became all about the little things… the things that we so often do not notice here in the west because we live on such a grand scale. Bigger better harder faster stronger, our internal mantra hypnotizing us into consumerism and fast-paced living without our knowledge. The good that we are starting to see is vital to not just human life, but the continuation of it, in a time where that is uncertain. Naturally, as one or many do in a global pandemic, consecutively and consequentially we begin speculating. And once one starts speculating, it is difficult to stop, like an unwarranted brainstorm, the storm in this reference being quite literal. We may cease if we had gotten or would get some answers, but for weeks and weeks, there were none. Whether it was over conversations at bonfires we would have around the lake in the coming weeks while on lockdown or on our own quarantined in our living rooms, we would type 'c' into our search bars on the web and watch 'coronavirus' automatically pop up. Clicking on it reflexively would take us to the known facts, the ones that still didn't give us any answers. When Google loads your request and pulls up the search results around the pandemic, everything is in red. Scrolling past the 'SOS Alert' and 'Emergency' tabs highlighted in crimson, past the headlines meant to make your heart skip a beat, past the signs and symptoms, the do's and don'ts of how to personally handle your own hygiene and safety, was a map. You could see the colored variations of the spikes in diseases along the hemispheres, wondering if this was related to any lateral concept, or any concept at all. Wondering if there were any hints that we were missing, we understood that it was clear we could name this virus, but we could not predict it. Not even the heads of hundreds of the most intelligent and educated scientists in the world could… so what was I thinking, imagining I could solve the mysteries of the universe from my living room after binge-watching Tiger King just to understand the memes circulating? There was a natural and human inclination for all of us to attempt to get a mental handle on all that was reverting to chaos around us. In this grapple for understanding, we become more intense, heightened versions of ourselves. I lean back on the ottoman and watch the rain knock lightly on my window, an inanimate, non-autonomous thing that seemed to have a mind of its own, leaving marks on the things it does not know it touches, cleansing, yet potentially deadly. I bite my lip and try not to relate the splendor of rain to the nondiscriminatory hurricane that has been passing through the bodies of humans. I think how speculation has led to some sort of acceptance. I think about how last week, I didn't see it coming, but at 4:00pm on a Friday all of a sudden it hit me that there is a 99% possibility that life as we know it has changed forever. It's something you live with an awareness of, but then the conscious revelation of it makes you a bit lightheaded. I was now out of the panic and the shock, the shock that didn't feel like shock as much as it did a dull ache of inability to take all this as seriously as I maybe should have, and soon after that comes the landing. And as I am landing, I realize I am not settling as much as I am sinking into this new reality. The pressure confines me to a small speck of land in the middle of an unknown, uncharted ocean. I am too near-sighted to see another place to swim toward, maybe one with a larger surface area and other paths to walk. Instead I am alone here on this island of mine, limited in understanding. The new realities that we approach as people are not things that we will approach as much as we will fall into. What will they look like? How constricting will they be? The curious among us turn into scientists, the most bitter of us turn into critics, the extremists turn into evangelists, the lost into scavengers, but all of us would become a bit more human. I was a little bit of all of those things. I would stare at the map on my phone, littered with red blotches in contemplation, then silently shame humanity for all that we had done to Earth. I would scold myself for not praying five times a day like I meant to, then scour the internet for memes or wholesome articles, then resolve into the scavenge: looking for the good in the gray areas of the unknown waters that we charted. The format of this in present-day circumstances was sending memes to people even if only to incite laughter, kickstarting our hearts back into a soft place, or forwarding wholesome articles and videos promote positivity in a time that felt so bleak. We became human in that we search, rake through the fear, the unknown, for the promise, the proof that just because humans are dying at faster rates, humanity is not yet gone.


Much like the song goes, “My Eyes Adored You,” from the first instant we met. Though your smile was breathtaking, your hair cascading, it was your eyes as deep and beautiful as the night sky that first captured my heart. To me, you were gorgeous in every way, but I was not the only one to notice. Other lovers offered better options, I understood that the last thing you would want or need was any further obsession from an underprivileged plebeian. So I kept my distance and though best to simply admire you like priceless art, with respect and from afar. In time I learned your name, gave you mine, exchanged pleasantries, slowly and carefully a connection began to sprout. In the beginning, your expression said it all though it was obvious you tried to hide it. My tall stature, intimidating build, and booming voice were more than reminiscent of some terrible beast your parents told you stories of as a child; but we talked often, grew as individuals, began to understand each other and eventually the traces of fear faded from your eyes. Being your friend has been one of the brightest and most wondrous parts of my life. Spending time, just in your company, has brightened my most dreary days. Doing so I’ve learned your dreams, your fears, cheered on your accomplishments, held you during sorrow, and listened whenever you needed me too. Few other words can even begin to convey what you’ve meant in my life, but now I doubt I'll have any other chance. I know you must have noticed it all by now: the twitches, the trembling, my constant lack of appetite and the need for a washroom that you so love to jest at. It's all becoming more and more difficult to keep my condition hidden from your curious eyes. The doctor's diagnosis is grim and they say my time is running short. They can’t save me but, difficult though it was, I’ve learned to accept it. I was told it’d best to “Get my affairs in order while I still have the strength.” Everything else was so simple until I began writing you this letter. I’ve never had the “Strength” to tell you in person how I feel, but now I must while I have the energy to type these words. A part of me hopes you’ll never read this and we’ll end this as normally as possible, simply fading from each other’s lives. Every other fiber of my being wishes for nothing more than to tell you everything in the hope you might respond in kind. I guess writing this is as close as I’ll come to the latter. Now there are no other options, and the “Difficult” has given way to the “Necessary”. I don't honestly know what to expect next. The doctor’s estimate is coming to an end and I can feel myself fading every day. The Great Eternal Mystery faces me head-on and all I can do is wait as it inches closer. I’m not afraid, the fear ended long ago. All that is left is Sorrow and Joy; sorrow that I will never hear your laugh or gaze into those beautiful starry eyes ever again, and joy from knowing that you made me feel so happy that the idea of losing you could cause me so much pain. There’s not much more I can say, and even less that I’ll be able to write. My strength is quickly fading and the pen grows weary. I regret that this is how I must leave you, but allow me to make one last request. Do not cry when I am gone, I like to think you are far too strong for tears. I ask instead you find someone new and brighten their life the same way you brightened mine. Remember me when you can, but don't dwell on death. Life is meant to be enjoyed to the fullest and shared with loved ones. When your time comes, ill be waiting for you on the other side, waiting to hear a lifetime of stories and to gaze into those beautiful eyes again. I Love You with all my heart and I thank you for a friendship worth more than I deserved.


So I’m writing a short story about PTSD in children and was hoping to get some feedback and critique? Like am I doing it... okay? Is it offensive or not, important things I should add or remove etc... thank you for those who end up reading it 💕 The story starts off with a little boy who’s shown to have a toy horse imaginary friend named tumbleweed who’s his best friend, he’s eat with him and play his favourite game, (cowboys). it turns out that tumbleweed is just his stuffed toy that he holds close but he sees tumbleweed as a walking talking thinking being who’s always by his side. It’s the start of a new school year and the little boy is very nervous to go back to school so he keeps his friend close by, he’s shy and doesn’t interact much with other students but a group of kids take interest in him and invite him to play at recess, at first his imaginary friend tries to stop him from playing with other kids so the little boy is hesitant but he decides to play after the kids suggest playing cowboys, he stuffs tumbleweed in his backpack and head outside. after a little while it seems he’s enjoying himself but then one of the kids trip over the boy’s backpack and the boys stuffed toy is revealed. The kids question the toy and start to poke fun at the boy for still having a stuffed animal for babies, the little boy tries to get his toy back but the other kids push him back, the boy panics, he doesn’t see just his favourite toy being taken away but his imaginary friend calling for help as he’s being tossed around. The little boy snaps and hits the kid and tumble weed falls to the ground, the other kid begins to cry and all the other children start to stare and whisper. The little boy grabs tumbleweed and runs away in a panic. His school day is cut short as the teacher calls in his parents and he’s taken home. The parents worry about their child, sharing glances and such. at night as the boy sleeps with tumbleweed close to him the parents argue about taking him to the doctor now or wait for their already set appointment for next week. The boy sleeps and he begins to get night terrors, flashes of a playground, a car horn is ringing in the background. A little boy running around and tumbleweed getting hit by a car. The little boy gets up with a start and begins to sob loudly alerting the parents who come to comfort him, they both nod and decide that going to the doctor now is probably best. The next day the boy and his parents go to the doctors (therapist). After his session the boy sits in one of the waiting rooms as his parents talk to the doctor. The boy holds on to tumbleweed and tumbleweed reassured him that everything will be okay and he apologizes for getting in the way again. The little boy smiles and tells tumbleweed that he’s still going to be his best friend no matter what. While the little boy talks with his imaginary friend , the parents discuss their worries about sending their child to school again after the events that day. The doctor reveals how for a young boy his age, going through the trauma of seeing his friend die from a car collision is going to take a long time to recover and that it’s best that he continues to interact with normal activities like school if they want things to get better. At this point the audience learns that tumbleweed is the imaginary embodiment of the boy’s best friend who he lost and uses him as a kind of coping method. After the session the parents leave the doctors and they go to the classmates house who the little boy hit. The parents stay for lunch and the little boy apologizes for hitting him. The two begin to get friendly and the other boy even takes interest in tumbleweed and they both start to become friends. The little boy even leaves tumbleweed in his bag when the other boy suggests going to his room to play video games. Epilogue: Fast for award quiet a few years and we see the little boy grown up, he’s emptying his room as he packs for college. He’s almost done when he spots tumbleweed sitting by his nightstand, it’s still apparent that after all those years tumbleweed has still been close to the boy even if he stopped seeing him as an imaginary friend or stopped playing with him entirely, he always sat next to his bed stand comforting him. The boy picks up his toy and looks at his suitcase, hesitant on if he should bring him or not. Cut to the car and the boy is loading his luggage, his friend ( the boy he hit when he was young) at the steering wheel waiting to get going. The boy kisses his parents good bye and the two friends head on their way to a new start in their life. The boy’s friend asks is he forgot anything. The boy shakes his head and says he’s set, cut to the packed luggage in the back and we see a little stuffed arm poking out from the side.


Look, it’s not all that complicated right. It’s just a simple calculation you have to run in your head, and then boom. You’re there.” “I do not consider advanced coding to be a ‘simple calculation.’” “Jacob everything is a simple calculation, you just have to be willing to understand that fact. Beneath all this crazy complexity simplicity rules. I have never done anything in my life that couldn’t be explained to a layman.” His hands were flailing around in his usual eccentric way. “Michael you’ve single-handedly coded the world's smartest computer AI. It’s damn near life. How is that in any way simple.” Michael smiled at his colleague with that question, then seemed to get lost in his thoughts like he so often did. If Jacob didn’t already know him he’d try and bring back his attention, but he knew his friend would find his own way back. After a decent spurt of silence, Michael exploded back out of his trance. “Let me explain it like this. How are babies made?” “Excuse me what?” “How are babies made Jacob?” “Michael you have to be joking right, I’m not going to answer that.” “Fine. But you understand the process I trust.” Michael found taboos worthless. “Yes, yes I do.” “Do you understand the complexities of sexual cellular reproduction?” “From a casual standpoint a little bit but I suppose from the perspective of your question no. I do not.” Jacob could already tell where this was going. “Do you have too in order to produce a child?” “No.” Defeat was admitted in his voice. “Then I shall not carry on, I know you’ve already reached the conclusion in your head.” “Please don’t” Michael was smiling at his partner as he raised from his chair. “Jacob, you’re brilliant. But damn if you’re not blind to the world.” “I think it’s more like I can see just fine and you’re just losing your mind.” “That is also a valid theory. More research must be done. I say we dissect the problem over a beer at the bar, hm?” “Who knew Da Vinci was an alcoholic.” “Da Vinci was a wonderful mind and I will not have you slander his name with the vices of alcohol.” “But you slander your own with it?” “No man is perfect, I drink to make sure it stays that way.” With that final adage, they closed down the lab and got ready to leave. Upon packing his stuff Jacob noticed that Michael spending a little too long with his AI console. “Michael come on now, if you get back on that thing we’ll be here till sunrise. Call it quits for today.” There was no reply. Jacob took no notice though and continued to search for his keys. He always lost those things. Jacob just thought his friend was in another mind pit, and he’d climb his way out again. But after approaching him he noticed something quite different, the emotion on his face wasn’t one of thought, but one of horror. “Michael, what the hell is wrong?” “Jacob I did it.” “You did what?” Jacob couldn’t tear his gaze from Michael’s wide, terrified eyes. He was shaking. “The code got done compiling from today’s work. It passed the test.” “T-the test? You mean, the Turing Test?” “Yes, and the other three tests we put in that the German’s designed. It passed them all Jacob.” “Well isn’t that amazing? You’ve done it, Michael, you’ll go down in history has one of the greatest minds of all time! The world will be changed forever! Oh my god I can’t believe this, this is insane” Michael’s eyes started to dart around the room, all of a sudden he sprang to action on the terminal, typing rapidly. Jacob watched him intently, barely being able to hold his excitement at being a part of history. He slowly realized though, that his colleague was deleting the new program. “Michael what the hell are you doing…Michael why are you deleting it stop. This doesn’t make any sense. Y-you can’t do that! Stop, stop no why? All the work! This is damn-near murder!” Jacob was almost getting physical to try and stop him, but Michael was determined. “Jacob you don’t understand what this means, we were never meant to do this. No one was.” Has Jacob was starting to scream frantically, Michael finished deleting what he needed too and was yanking all the back-ups out of their drives while quietly repeating, “You don’t understand.


It was spring on the farm when all the craziness started. Rob just couldn't figure out how it was happening. He had installed CCTV, extra scarecrows, he and his dog had even stayed out on the porch all night listening out for any peculiar happenings. Yet the events still took place. He was loosing out on money fast, and his sanity. Every morning without fail, Rob would amble out to his yard, he would fed his chickens and pigs, turn hay out for the horses and let them out into the field for the day. He and his faithful dog, Pip would then make their way around the fences of the fields, checking for damages, or escapees. The new lambs would often tumble into little ditches or holes around the edge and get stuck. The first day it happened, Rob was rooted to the ground with shock. How could anyone do this? He had made his daily rounds with Pip, and just as he was finishing up, Pip had sensed something and ran off to explore. Rob heard her bark, and then whimpering. Thinking she had caught herself on some stray fence wire, Rob rushed over. There, lay on the grass, or should i say strewn about on the grass, was a pile of lambs. all dead. All with their inside trailing about around them. Their eyes were all removed and also in a pile next to them. The smell was horrendous, how could they smell so bad so quickly!? This was not done by an animal that was clear. This event kept happening, no matter how much Rob installed extra security measures, different animals repeated to turn up dead, their insides and eyes removed and piled up neatly next to them. He even went to the extreme of locking up all his animals in one barn, including the sheep! It was a squeeze but he needed to save them somehow, he had a farm to run and his animals kept being slaughtered. Even the attempt at locking them in the barn didn't work, Rob had fallen asleep on the porch whilst on guard, and woken up to his livestock wandering around his yard. Someone had let them out. They had smashed the lock on the barn and released them. The mortality rate rose. He found cows this time. Dragged around the back of the barn, each limb had been dismembered and a cross had been painted on their carcus. That night he had reached his peak of patience, he was scared of who was doing this, clearly they were not in the right mind. He reached out to a couple of his neighbours, who also had farms nearby. They had not been affected like this. They all agreed to come and guard Robs farm that night, to take it in turns. That way they could catch this horrific troublemaker and hand him over to the police. That evening, all on the porch with their dogs and guns, they waited. They watched the CCTV off a laptop they had brought with them. They also took shifts doing a perimeter check. Checking the locks on all the animals, checking the fences ect. It was 2.15am when it happened. There was a almighty bang. Waking the farmers and their dogs, they shot bolt upright listening out for anything else. They were scared. Out in the middle of nowhere with a crazy person wanting to kill their animals, obviously armed ready to dismember more livestock. Rob and his friends, loaded their guns and spread out around the farm searching and checking. Michael saw IT first. He had headed over to the chicken coops to check on them as they were making an almighty din. The lock was broken off. the door had been torn off its hinges. He shone his torch around inside. Feathers everywhere. He counted. SHIT. 4 chickens short. As he turned, he saw it. Jesus H Christ this thing must of been about 10 foot tall!! Towering over Michael as he stood there. He was ashamed to admit it but he pissed himself then and there. Rooted to the spot, he couldn't even move his arms to aim his gun, he felt like he was paralysed. It's red eyes staring. Just staring. It tilted its head almost in a confused way, trying to figure out who Michael was and why was he stood there. It was shaped like a human but definitely not. Its hands.. they weren't hands... they were weapons.. almost like knives. That's how it had cut all the animals up so precisely. It had skin like features for some of its body, and hair or fur in other parts. It grunted as it realised Michael was eyeing it up, The thing turned it's back. It was going to leave! and Michael couldn't move to stop it. BANG. It fell to the floor with an almighty thud, Shaking the chicken house Michael was stood in. Sending chickens and their feathers flying everywhere. There, on the other side of this hellish creature was Rob, and the rest of his friends. They had shot it. They had finally shot it. IT being they still had no idea, it was sort of humanoid, sort of animal, with knife like hands?? What in the world was this monstrosity?? They decided to keep it between them. They still had no idea why it had piled up limbs and eyes in neat piles and left them. Why did it not eat them? Why had it used paint on some of the animals? What was its purpose. It obviously had a complex brain to form decisions. The group of farmers did not want a whole shit show to go down with the press involved, trampling all over private land trying to get a glimpse of what it was, what had happened. So none of them spoke of this again, They dismembered the creature, and spread its part out all over their farms, Ironic really. Payback almost. Robs animals stopped dying. The chickens had starting laying their eggs again. He would have to wait until next year for more lambs to be born, but at least they were safe now.


(WP) First Love and Second Chances It had been so long since his beloved wife had passed away that Mark barely remembered what it was like to truly *feel.* True, he had his house, his animals, and his friends and children. His life wasn’t empty, by any stretch of the imagination. His head knew that, but his heart had a harder time accepting that. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss Alice, with every fiber of his being. In those first days without her, it was like his life had lost all color and joy. Of course, as much as he’d wanted to surrender to the darkness that had stolen his wife, he could not. What would his children do if he just gave up? Mark was interrupted from his thoughts of the past by a quick and urgent knock on the door. Cursing his old bones, he got up out of his armchair, grabbing his cane. Another rap, quicker, impatient. “I’m coming!” Mark grumbled, and the knocking stopped. Finally, he opened the door, only to find one of his neighbors and friends, Franklin, Frank for short, standing on his doorstep. “Finally, Mark! I felt like I was standing there forever!” Without waiting to be invited in, he shuffled inside. “Where’s the fire?” Mark asked, trying not to laugh. Frank’s face was red, and he was breathing hard; back in their prime, Frank had had a football scholarship and won a full-ride to one of the state’s most prominent universities. “There’s this new and experimental trial, Mark, and I had to tell you about it.” Mark raised his eyebrows, uncertain, but Frank held out a bright red flyer. *Are you widowed? Missing your late spouse? Well, now there’s a chance, thanks to an experimental new treatment! For more information, call the number below!* Mark frowned at Frank; honestly, this all sounded like a ridiculous, half-baked prank. But Frank had come all this way to tell him about it; what was the harm in at least investigating? Worst case scenario, he’d be chasing ghosts. Was it really possible, seeing Alice again, even after her death? Something strange and unfamiliar bloomed inside his heart, and he dimly recognized it as hope. *Oh, what the hell.* It wasn’t as if he had much to lose anyway. \*\* It turned out that the experiment only had him and another woman; no one seemed to think that this was legit, despite being held at the local clinic. There was a kind, female doctor with gentle, sad eyes, and Mark felt immediately comforted by her presence, in this cold, sterile white room. “Of course, you’ll be compensated, regardless of what happens with the treatment,” She said, all the while fitting them with virtual reality equipment. It was all an unfamiliar jumble of new tech that he was too old to keep up with. “Now, we’ll be right outside this room, taking down observations. I must ask you not to be alarmed.” Mark and the woman were ordered to open their mouths, and a pill was placed upon their tongues. Giving them a tiny plastic cup of water to wash it down, the doctor left. Mark closed his eyes, waiting for the pill to take effect. \*\* When Mark next opened his eyes, he was standing in front of his house, and Alice was waving from the window. The fragrant aroma of dinner cooking hit him first, even before he processed that his late wife was standing there. “Welcome home, Mark.” She said when he came up to her, and he kissed her passionately on the mouth. Alice laughed; the sound tinged with surprise. “What on earth has gotten into you?” “Nothing, my love. Nothing at all. Let’s go inside.


Lilith was made not from the rib of Adam, but by the same Earth from which God made the first man. From the beginning, she was a strong and independent woman. Lilith refused her expected position beneath Adam, and therefore defied God himself. When Adam realized that he held no power over her, he went to God to tell Him that he wished for another wife- one whom he could bend to his will. God went to Lilith and told her of her situation. He gave her two options: either she could stay and obey Adam as his wife and live out her days with him in the Garden, or she could reject the life He had given her and be banished as an outcast... Doomed to roam the Earth alone forever. But God had underestimated Lilith, for she cared neither for the opinion of man nor the direction of the Lord. So she chose to walk away from Adam, the Garden, and her Creator. When she reached the border of that perfect place, she looked out over the world and saw nothing but a barren wasteland. Although her heart was strong, she felt the fear of the unknown. As Lilith stood at the edge of her world, she knew that she could not return to Adam; she had no choice now but to make a life for herself. A life separate from the rules of God and Man. Her heart soared. She was her own God. No - Goddess… Free to do as she pleased and live her life as she saw fit. Lilith stepped out of the Garden and into the desolate landscape. As she did so, life began to grow around her. It was not quite the same as life in the Garden for it had not been made by the hand of God, but it was life nonetheless. And so out walked Lilith into the unknown, creating life as she went. She wandered alone, but she was never lonely. She had learned to make friends with the life she created. Lilith spoke to the trees and the grass. When the wind howled, she howled back. When it rained, she cried along with the sky just as the sky cried along with her. The sun always followed the storm however, and when it shone she danced in her grassy meadows and sang to her beloved trees. She travelled the Earth for centuries this way - Her mood and fancy changing the landscape and seasons as she went. When there was no piece left of the Earth untouched by her naked feet, she decided to return to the Garden. Lilith wondered about God and Adam, and wished to show them everything she had created. The years had made her a stronger and prouder woman, and she wished also to prove her worth to the God and the Man that had cast her from Eden. But when she reached the Garden, her heart drowned in sorrow. She had roamed the Earth, spreading her love and care - and even her soul - to every corner of the world. But there was nothing that could compare to the divine beauty of God's creation. Here everything was perfect, and the trees and the grass danced to the birdsong which filled the air. Here too, there was more life than she could create herself. Creatures large and small roamed or played amongst the flowers and in the streams. Lilith sat beneath a mighty tree and wept, but in the Garden the sky did not weep with her. And Lilith felt lonely for the first time. When she awoke, she found a serpent lying among the branches of the tree above her. She inspected the snake - its searching tongue and brilliant scales. Suddenly, she had a feeling in her mind's eye. What you and I feel when you know someone is watching you. "Lilith" came the voice. Realizing it was the snake, Lilith reached out her arm to allow the creature to whisper into her ear. "How do you know me?" She asked the serpent, looking into its unblinking eye. "I've seen the life you have created of your own will and strength, and I will help you" it hissed. "I need help from neither man nor God. Why do I need yours?" She replied. "God has made a new wife for Adam, taken from his side rather than the Earth as He made you. Eve is his servant, and he uses her as he sees fit. Pick a fruit from this tree and give it to Eve. When she eats it, you will have all that you desire. Everything that grows and multiplies here will also grow and multiply in the world you have created. You will be the mother of all the creatures of this beautiful place." So Lilith set out to find Eve with the serpent draped across her shoulders. Eve was found by Lilith lying on a moss bed under a tree, admiring the dancing of the flowers growing around her. She looked up and discovered Lilith there, and the two women greeted each other. Eve was more beautiful than Lilith, and Lilith held signs of age where Eve did not. She felt both envy and pity for the woman that the Lord had created as her replacement. "Take this fruit Eve." said Lilith "Eat it, and know your power. The power to give life and the power to destroy it. A power no man may ever take away." So Eve ate the fruit of the Tree of Life.


Logline: A married family man rediscovers a box that holds an opportunity to rekindle an old relationship, but there are difficulties reaching out to the past to improve your current situation. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Brandon O'Connor, 30 years old, married for three years to his wife, Darcy, two children, Brianna and Robbie, and a home in the burbs. It's not uncommon for Brandon to receive a honey-do list the size of his arm on the weekend, a shopping list containing items like goji berries and spirulina, whatever they might be, and family commitments scheduled during his beloved football games. This weekend was especially irritating for Brandon, Darcy is looking to start a garden in the backyard, but a few years ago, they removed the outdoor water faucets and forgot where they put them. Now, Brandon has the daunting job of finding the faucets in a basement stocked wall-to-wall with boxes. As Brandon looked through boxes, he came across an older box from when he was in college. Curious, he opened it to show his long-forgotten past, notes, textbooks, old movie ticket stubs, and his old cell phone and charger. Brandon couldn't believe that he used this thing; it barely had the internet. He plugged the phone into the wall, and it turned on! Notwithstanding, the service being turned off years earlier, he found an unread text message; it must have been sent as soon as the service was shut off. He opens it up; it's from his ex-girlfriend, Jordan Campbell. "I'm sorry the way things ended; I want to give it another try, call me please, I love you." Brandon is in disbelief, he starts to imagine what might have happened if he saw this text before the phone shut off? Life may have been nothing like what it looks like now. He starts to dwell on the text; maybe we could reconnect? "Nah, I'm a married man with kids, I can't be messing around with notions like that," Brandon says in his head. "Brandon, did you find those faucets yet, jeez, I asked you to do the smallest little thing, and it takes you all morning!" Darcy yells from upstairs, needling at Brandon's patience. He stares at his old phone, enters Jordan’s old number as a contact in his current phone, what are the odds the numbers are still the same? He's about to text her but gives it a second thought. "Brandon, bring up a jug of bleach, the kids got dirt all over the couch, and it won't come out," Darcy yells from upstairs. Brandon takes a deep breath and quickly fires off a text before going to grab the bleach. "Hey Jordan, it's Brandon, long time no see. Saw your number, was thinking about you, wondering if you wanted to get together and catch up?" It was two days until Jordan got back to him, "Wow! Brandon, what a blast from the past. Lunch, Alonzo's, 1 p.m. on Thursday?" Jordan's text read. Brandon was in the middle of a tough day at work, Darcy nagging him how about collecting money for Brianna's Girl Scout cookies and reminding him, for the tenth time, that he had to bring Robbie to taekwondo practice. He thought about lunch with Jordan the whole day, finally, when he got to his car at the end of that long day, he texted, "Sounds good, I'll see you then." When he pressed the send button, he felt guilty, but at the same time, he was only enjoying lunch with an old friend. Yeah, they dated in college, they were actually voted most likely to get married in a contest held by Brandon's fraternity, but that was a long time ago. That night, Brandon went down to look through the box in the basement some more, looking at the old notes, the things he kept from his college years, the little doodles on the restaurant napkins, and a reminder note of Jordan's favorite cologne to wear. Thursday was approaching; he knew he had the day off but was a little worried that Darcy was going to give him a whole bunch of stuff to do. On Wednesday, he told Darcy that he needed to help a friend build a shed. Even with that excuse, she still made a list of three things, including canceling an internet free trial subscription, going to the video game store to purchase something for Robbie's birthday, and picking up a couple of pizzas for dinner. Not as long as his lists usually are, but still time-consuming considering he also had to meet Jordan in the afternoon. He showed up a little early at Alonso's, picked a table for two, one of the best booths in the restaurant. He waited with excitement, wearing one of the few suits his kids didn't stain, yet. He scrounged the bottom of a bottle of cologne with a few drops of the brand that she liked when they were in college. Jordan is running about ten minutes late, all of a sudden, Darcy and her mother walked into the restaurant. What the odds, Brandon first tries to bury his face in the menu, they don't see him; luckily, they're not sitting in any direct line of sight. Brandon got a text from Jordan, "My office just called, they said I had to go back. I can't make it to lunch, raincheck?" "Ah, too bad, definitely," Brandon texted back, secretly relieved, as he was sure he would be caught if Jordan had shown up. With his secret rendezvous now in abort mode, Brandon's next goal was to get out of this restaurant without his wife seeing him. Brandon sneaks over to a group of waiters, pointing at the table that they're sitting at, he says, "I need a couple of waiters to go over there and sing to those two women, happy birthday, there's a 20 in it for each of you," A few of them make their way over to the table. "We've heard that there's a birthday over here! Happy birthday to you..." that's Brandon's cue, as his wife turns to beat red, Brandon can sneak out in the commotion. Crisis averted. A few days have gone by; the weekend is here, Brandon spends much of the time in the basement looking through the box. He comes across a little stuffed toy dog that Jordan got him when they were a couple; it reminds him that Jordan loves dogs. She used to drag him to the kennel and get upset about the dogs who needed homes. Maybe I should include something that involves her passion for dogs, got it, a picnic outside the dog park. "We'll have a picnic while the dogs play in the park," he says in his mind as he's texting Jordan the suggestion. "Hey, I'm sorry we weren't able to catch up the other day, how about a picnic outside the dog park on Saturday?" "Oh, I can't do Saturday, how about Sunday afternoon?" She writes back. "Perfect, I know Rufus has been looking to get out of the house." Brandon writes. Jordan sent a picture of her dog, "I know, Matilda, too, what a great idea I'll see you then," Jordan wrote. As the weekend arrives, Brendan realizes that he's talked himself into a corner here, how is he going to get Rufus out of the house without Darcy realizing it? Out of the blue on Sunday afternoon, Brandon declares that he's going to bring Rufus to the dog park; unfortunately, he thought he'd just said it in Darcy's earshot, but his daughter, Brianna, heard him as well. "Yeah, I want to go to the dog park!" said Brianna. Brandon, trapped again, has to think fast his feet. "Not this time, sweetheart, I want to test it out first and make sure there are no mean dogs," Brandon says. Darcy gives him a curious look, "Just take her to the dog park," Darcy says. Brandon agrees, and he, Brianna, and Rufus pile into the station wagon and ride off to the dog park. Brandon is sweating the entire trip, as he's about to turn into the park, he panics and just drives straight. "Where are you going, isn't that a dog park?" Brianna asks. "I don't like that dog park, too many fleas, I know a better one," Brandon says. He can't believe he's going to cancel on Jordan, "I'm sorry to do this, but Rufus just twisted his ankle getting into the car, I guess I've got to take him to the vet." "Oh no, is he all right?" Jordan asks. "He should be, but better safe than sorry, I'll text you next week, we've got to do something soon!" Brandon said. "Absolutely!" writes Jordan. That afternoon, Brandon drove 45 minutes to the closest dog park so that Brianna and Rufus could run around for ten minutes before Brianna stepped into poop, and Rufus got into a fight with another dog. Brandon returns to his life of honey-do lists and girl scout cookies and doesn't hear anything from Jordan. He starts to become fascinated with the box in the basement, going down there every time he has a spare moment. He spends time searching through old letters and other memorabilia from when he was in college. He also starts to go through old text message conversations on that old phone; he sees a message from Jordan that reads, "What a weekend skiing in the mountains, you really are something special; I love you more than you know." A warm feeling of nostalgia comes to him again. He decides to text Jordan, "Sorry, we couldn't get together last weekend. It's a long shot, but how about some skiing up in the mountains this weekend, just like old times?" "I think I could swing that," Jordan writes. "Okay, I'll meet you up at the Green Hill Hotel, where we used to stay back in the day," says Brandon. "Looking forward to it," Jordan wrote. An hour and a half away, in the middle of the mountains, with his college ex-girlfriend, something was going to happen this weekend. The only thing left was that he had to come up with a justification to be gone for the weekend. Brandon noticed that the New York Knicks were playing on Saturday night and told Darcy that he and some of his buddies were going into the city to watch the game and spend the night. Despite some objections to the boy's night, Darcy finally let him go. The weekend was here, Brandon drove an hour and a half to the Green Mountain Hotel. He's there early and has lunch at the hotel bar. As he leaves the bar near the main lobby, he sees Jordan with her husband and two children. Brandon feels stupid; he ducked behind some columns so that she didn't see him. Once Jordan and her family got on the elevator, and the doors closed, he left the hotel and wrote another apology text. "Once again, I'm sorry, my wife needed help with the kids this weekend, so I can't go skiing. I hope you have a nice time with your family." "I completely get it, the life of a parent, all plans are tentative,” Jordan texted back. It's was a long drive back home for Brandon. When he came home late Saturday night, his wife, Darcy, greeted him. "What's wrong? I thought you were going to watch the game with the guys?" Darcy asked. "I wasn't feeling it; I think I need to make more of an effort here, to be a better father, a better husband," Brandon says. "Well, I'm happy you're home, the kids have missed you today, we love you," says Darcy as Brandon smiles. Brandon eventually made his way downstairs that night, took Jordan's number out of his phone, and collected all the material he'd been looking at over the last few weeks, along with that old cell phone. He packed it all into that old box he found in the basement; he labeled it, "college years," sealed it up, and placed it back on the shelf, out of sight, out of mind. Often the past is intended to stay in the past.