I didn't see that one coming. My name is Gino Conti. One morning last summer, I sat on my front veranda in January before it got too hot. It was a serene summer morning, and I enjoyed the tranquility. The last slice of toast from my breakfast was a lovely end to the meal. As I sipped my tea, I gazed at my farm, admiring the progress of this season's sugar cane crop. I was anticipating reading the newspaper leisurely, something I rarely got to do when I was farming. I had retired a few years back. My son Gino Junior now farms my land next to his own, and I get a share of the profit. Although it gets hot and humid here in the summer, it would be another beautiful day. It was a moment that caught me entirely off guard. Out of nowhere, I saw Gino's ute tearing down my driveway. He screeched to a halt, spreading dust and gravel in all directions. He jumped out of his ute and slammed the door, his face a mix of urgency and concern, his eyes searching for mine. He was on my veranda in two strides. He threw his hat in the chair and started pacing the veranda. I could see that he was agitated, so I said "Hi, Gino, what's up?" Gino Junior said, his voice trembling with shock and disbelief as he spoke. "I'll tell you what's up, Dad. I just received a phone call from a woman who thinks she might be your daughter." "What?" That completely blindsided me.  I said to him "I am seventy-two years old. It's a bit late for me to get another daughter suddenly." "I haven't dated since your mother, God rest her soul, died four years ago. I never had an affair; I wouldn't have had the time; I was working all the daylight hours that God sent me." "Who is she? I have only ever dated three women. The last of them was your mother." Gino Junior said "Her name is Jean Jacobs, and she said you knew her mother during the war." Gino said "Well, that narrows it down a little. I dated Suzie Connors briefly during the war, but then I met and married your mother in June 1946. Suzie lived in town, and she was the Librarian. She Married Bob Johnson in 1949 after the war.                                                                        1 I would have known if she were pregnant.

The other girl I dated was Alicia Adams, a land army girl I had worked with during the war.

That ended abruptly when the Government decided to release us internees in 1943. I had no time or way to let her know what had happened. We just got up and ready for work one morning when a truck was waiting to take us back to Cowra. She would have thought that we had been moved onto another farm. We were busy getting the hell out of Cowra before they changed their minds. It took me a month to get back here, walking, working where I could, and hitchhiking while generally heading north." "How old was this woman?" I asked. Gino said "He hadn't seen her, but on the phone, she sounded like she was a few years older than him".

"He wanted to break it to me gently, and he had asked her to ring at 9 am tomorrow to arrange a meeting and to bring all her paperwork and photos." I had to prepare with the anticipation and uncertainty of tomorrow's meeting looming over me. I needed a haircut, a freshly aired suit that didn't smell of mothballs, and a clear mind to face this unexpected turn of events. Gino said, "It's OK, Dad. I will drive you into town to get a haircut today. I will pick you up at 9:15 tomorrow, and we will sort this out. I told her to bring all her paperwork and photos with her. All I need at forty-four is another sister to contend with. I already have two of them." Gino took me to town for a haircut and bought cake and biscuits to entertain her. The further into my day I got, the more nervous I became and the more bad-tempered Gino became. He started muttering that she would want a share of my money. I told him to "Settle down. I haven't even met the woman yet." After an anxious night, Gino rang me just after 9 am and said he would pick me up. I told him I was ready and had my glasses with me. The moment had arrived, and we pulled into Gino's front yard simultaneously. Gino bustled us into his kitchen too quickly for me to notice anything about her. However, I could look at her when we faced each other while Gino boiled the kettle. She seemed so familiar to me.                                                                        2 I could see myself in her eyes, the same eyes all my children had, creating an instant bond between us. At that moment, I knew she was my daughter. When Gino finally sat down and looked at her, I could see that he noticed it as well, and he accepted that he had a sister. All his anger suddenly deflated, which went a long way to calming the atmosphere. Then Jean introduced herself and pulled three photos and letters from her handbag. Jean explained that her mother, who had been Alicia Adams before she married, had recently died. Jean had found these photos and letters amongst her effects. She had only discovered that her dad was not her father, and she thought I was. I gasped when I saw the young photos of my beautiful Alicia and me. I was fixated on them for a minute; then, I handed them over to Gino to see. Jean handed me the letters in the order they had been written for me to read, fifty years too late to have done anything about them. I could hardly read them as tears streamed down my face, and I was busy wiping my eyes and holding Jean's hand. As I read the letters, I was saying "My daughter, My daughter." I had no idea I had left my beautiful Alicia in such a predicament. I loved her; I would have married her if I had known. It was cruel of the Government not to let her know we had been released. I am so sorry that Alicia had to go through all that alone. She sounds terrified in her letters. I said "Alicia was courageous to keep you in that time." With the photo of Alicia and me in my hand, I gazed at my newest daughter. I could see how beautifully Alicia's and my features combined to make this grown woman. After the hundred-and-one questions we had between ourselves, I was getting to know my surprise daughter a little bit. I was sorry that Alicia had died. I loved that woman and deeply regretted being pulled away from her so suddenly. However, we would have been moved to another harvest sooner or later. Internees had no say in the matter. We talked all day until five p.m. when Gino introduced Jean to his family as they came home from school and work. Gino's wife Maria suggested they have a party tomorrow Saturday for Gino's sisters and their families to meet my daughter Jean. When Gino took me home that night, I turned to him and I said "I didn't see that one coming."                                                                                3


Jasmine barely opened the door to the small Italian trattoria and the silver bell mounted on top pealed, announcing her arrival to the handful of tables inside. She slipped through sideways, snagging the hem of her gingham blue dress as the door shut. The waning evening sun and glimmering Manhattan lights blotted out of existence, the black painted windows creating an artificial twilight with an illusion of candles flickering across Venice. The aroma of garlic, oil, and creamy sauces hung thick in the air, the way sea salt clung to her skin the first night of her honeymoon with Bobby. She couldn’t escape the other patron’s dinners, a savory force-feeding of memories from their trysts between Milan and Rome, Bobby’s star on the rise as changing fads relegated her to decoration. The taste of chloroform masked with red sauce. The hostess smiled, a bland professional veneer that masked any scrutiny about whether Jasmine deserved one of the exclusive tables at Il Postino . She reminded herself she ate here before, already passed their test, even if the reservation had belonged to Bobby and not her. Her watering mouth turned to cardboard when she noticed the minimalist eating area, couples paired up at a half-dozen tables next to an empty bar. The open concept guaranteed her date couldn’t be tucked away out of sight. “I’m supposed to meet someone, Christian Jarez.” She took two steps closer to the hostess so no one would overhear her inevitable humiliation. This was a terrible place for a first date, fresh with memories of Bobby, but she couldn’t think of a reason to ask Christian to choose a different restaurant. She couldn’t bring up a past relationship so early in a new one. The hostess’ mouth twisted in concentration as she studied an oversized ledger, an awkward expression that accentuated her beauty that came so naturally with youth. Only a thin podium stood between the two women, nowhere for Jasmine to hide. Jasmine didn’t wait, ready with an excuse to leave, when the bell above the door chimed again. Two sets of footsteps, clipped and assured, echoed amid the hostess’ silence. A sultry woman in a red dress, features dark as night with piercing blue eyes, walked in trailing the hand of her date. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. Bobby didn’t recognize her, his gaze focused solely on the woman in front of him. Jasmine took a step back, desperate for the moment to pass unnoticed. The woman in the red dress sashayed, her full hips swinging in time to Jasmine’s heartbeat. She dropped his hand and left Bobby behind, confidant that all eyes followed her as she walked away. She leaned on the hostess’ podium while the young girl rushed to accommodate their reservation. “Are you Jasmine Varez? I saw your exhibition at the Anastasia last month. You’re an amazing photographer,” Bobby gushed, something in his tone less grave than she remembered.

Swatting at her eyes to hold back the threatening well of tears, Jasmine confronted Bobby. His dark hair no longer had the sprinkle of salt coloring at his temples, fuller and wavier than it had been when he walked out. The corner of his gray eyes, the eyes that had probed her with both desire and scorn in equal measures, were smooth, missing the care lines a decade of marriage had brought. He studied her with interest, but without history. He was young, the man she fell in love with before abandonment twisted their feelings into an aberration. “The Anastasia? I haven’t shown there since before your debut,” the memory washed her away, a temporary respite of happier days, when they were the darlings of art society. A pairing talked about and adored. Bobby blushed, a stainless shade of pink, too innocent for their tortured souls. “I’m flattered if you’ve even heard of me, but I can only aspire to your skill. The Anastasia is above my level.”

A traitorous tear escaped, leaving a wet trail down her cheek. Jasmine ducked her head, too scared to wipe it away and leave a black trail with her makeup as visible proof of how much this hurt.

“I’m sorry, I must have caught you at a bad time. That was inconsiderate of me,” he rifled through his pockets for a moment and pulled out a wallet and handkerchief.

Bobby’s date cleared her throat loudly, impatient to see him talking to another woman. Upset the spotlight diverted from her rightful place, she clenched her jaw and bared her teeth as any predator in the jungle. Bobby produced a business card and handed it to her, along with the handkerchief. She carefully blotted her eyes, mascara and eyeliner bleeding into the crisp white fabric. “If you ever have time to discuss your photographs with a neophyte like myself,” he flashed the vibrant smile that made her fall in love with him, “Please call me.” Without another word, Bobby descended into the cloud of rich dinners, happy couples, and infinite futures, no apology or recompense. Jasmine unfolded the handkerchief, the smeared makeup creating a Rorschach test with an image that perfectly resembled a dove. The same dove Bobbie had framed once they started dating, to commemorate the first time they met in an Italian restaurant, and he gave her a handkerchief to dry her tears. The handkerchief that became part of his first art exhibit, his first big success. The dove on which Bobby soared. She looked between the card and the dove, sudden revelation that she wasn’t remembering the past, but granted a view of the future. Their future, the start of everything they were going to be and eventually destroy. The dove in her hand represented their love, his career, and her demise. Would she trade the means to enjoy a better end? Or would she arrive at the same place again for the experience at one glorious summer in Italy, the center of their shared world? The hostess opened her mouth, probably to apologize that there was no reservation, no record of her post-breakup blind date. Jasmine didn’t wait for the explanation.

The silver bell above the door tinkled again as Jasmine left, a second chance in her hands. History was immutable, the two of them inevitably draw together like fish upstream to a waiting bear. He was the black hole that would consume her. One small difference existed between the future she remembered and this Italian restaurant. The dove in her hand, a change in fortunes. Jasmine had an art exhibit to create and a phone call to make.


Thirty-nine was the first year that age showed up on Ellen’s face. It had visited intermittently, before. After a sleepless night, an evening with an extra glass or two of wine. It showed up after a long day in the sun.  Then it left as subtly as it had appeared. However, thirty-nine was the year that it settled in. It settled in between her eyebrows. It made itself known on her neck. It was fickle and etched on the left side of her mouth while not even visiting the right side. Standing in front of the mirror, Ellen saw that she no longer looked as young as she had once felt.

She cleared her throat. A feeling of foolishness flashed in her stomach. “Hi. My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I’ve…” Her voice faltered. Talking to herself. The mirror. The lines. The bad lighting in the hotel bathroom made her look like a ghoul when she had left the house in the morning feeling quite pretty and fresh. Why didn’t life come with a filter like her cell phone? “Hi. My name is Ellen,” she started again. “I’m a lactation consultant with fifteen years of experience. I… I…” Well, she couldn’t really say that, could she? She’d had fifteen years of thinking about being a lactation consultant but in actuality had spent the last fifteen years lactating herself, or weaning, or waking up in the middle of the night for babies, and now teenagers. Fifteen years of wanting not to work so she could focus on family. Now she was approaching middle age with no experience, no Botox, and the inability to form a professional-sounding introduction.

“Hi. My name is Ellen,” she stated clearly. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years honing my expertise as a mother and lactation consultant. My goal…” Goals, what about goals? She had no goals. After college, before kids, before and after marriage, maybe somewhere in that decade, there had been some goals. Somewhere in the parenting years, she had had goals. No, she thought bitterly, not goals, just daily targets. A whole running list in her head of targets, a target for bedtime, food for the family, what errands to run. Ellen took a deep breath. The small business meet-up was convening in the conference room down the hall. Signing up had seemed to be an opportunity. Now it just felt like pressure. Pressure to sound professional, to fake it until she made it. She had been doing that all these years without even realizing it. Then one day, she woke up and felt the faking, the heaviness of doing the same stress day in and day out with a smile. The burden of motherhood was the only thing she was offered without any strings attached.

“Hi everyone. My name is Ellen, and I am so excited to be here.” Ech. That sounded wretched. Ellen hated unnecessary hyperboles. She hated flowery adjectives and trite, overused expressions. Her brain was overworked and under-stimulated. All that small talk she had to make day after day. She spent her days making small talk with the teenagers in her son’s carpool. Small talk with the grocer. Small talk with the twenty-something with a blue streak in her hair who made her morning coffee. Small talk at the gym. The small talk was exhausting. Keeping herself small was exhausting.  Her therapist had asked her why she kept herself small. Small was safe. Small was manageable. Small was the opposite size of all her big feelings. Big feelings had been the theme of thirty-seven and thirty-eight, which is how she ended up at thirty-nine in front of a hotel bathroom mirror talking to herself so that she could make a small introduction to a medium-sized group of people who had bigger ideas than her. And bigger resumes and bigger opportunities. “What is the story you are telling yourself, Ellen?” She asked herself in a serious voice, a nod to her even-toned therapist with who she had spent years thirty-seven and thirty-eight excavating the past decade with. Another deep breath. She felt tears come to her eyes. “Get a hold of yourself, Ellen. A crummy introduction and streaky mascara, and everyone will see you for the middle-aged mother you are trying not to be.” “Hi! My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I work with mothers of all types of backgrounds. I am fluent in French and…” What a useless fact.  Who in the world would need a French-speaking lactation consultant in Ohio? Who in Ohio even spoke French? French was not a small language. It was not the language of her thirty-nine-year-old face with fickle wrinkles and streaky mascara. It was the language of her fifteen-year-old self who had had not just goals, but more importantly, a vision. The vision certainly hadn’t included this bathroom or the bad lighting.

There was no way to do this, the transition to middle-age and working, as opposed to middle-age and bored, as gracefully as she would like. She was simply too rusty to be graceful. Too resentful to be graceful. French women were never rusty or resentful. She should have moved to France. Where was she in this mess of feelings and thoughts? Perhaps, it would be better to wing it. Whatever came out of her mouth would be better than this rehearsed monologue. Sixty seconds to introduce herself. Sixty seconds to sell herself, promote herself. Sixty seconds to sum up her skills and get noticed. At thirty-nine, it was all she was being offered. Her teenagers hardly gave her sixty seconds. Her husband only gave her sixty seconds.

At least this sixty seconds was new and fresh. It wasn’t part of the routine on repeat in her life. It wasn’t part of the emotional monologue in her head that she couldn’t escape even with over one hundred sessions of therapy. It was sixty seconds to do something different. Sixty seconds to be someone different. Not someone who resented all that she had settled for. Sixty seconds to flash a smile, make some not-so-meaningful eye contact, and sound more energetic than she felt.

“Hi, my name is Ellen,” she said more to herself than her imaginary audience. She cocked her head to one side. Even with thirty-nine years settled upon her face, she knew her best angle. She raised her eyebrows, threw on a smile, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Sixty seconds to fake it as a professional certainly felt like a better form of faking than all the other faking she was used to doing.  Thirty-nine and stepping out of her comfort zone, Ellen exited the bathroom and went to talk to someone other than herself.


As soon as Melany stepped into the restaurant, her heart pounded. She felt the burn of people’s hostile, disgusted stares. She didn’t belong there. It was a beautiful restaurant, with beautiful people, beautiful candlesticks, and beautiful tablecloths you shouldn’t drop wine on.            The hostess greeted them behind her desk. There was that glass candy bowl with fun little white mints with colored lines. Melany stopped herself from taking one. A green one and a red one. Maybe they had the ones with blue lines too. So rare. She definitely had to take one of those. But people were watching. She could anticipate the look the hostess would give her, the comments people would make from their table. She has to stuff her face, can’t even wait for the meal .            Melany followed her parents who followed the hostess. She looked down, the atom-shaped medal bouncing on her fat chest, careful not to knock over something with her fat thighs or her fat arms or her fat ass, carrying the large wooden fountain with uneven angles, unsmoothed curves, a dolphin that looked more like a kidney with eyes, and little panels posing as flower petals at the top. She had cut herself so much while making it that she had to add two layers of blue amd green paint to cover the bloodstains.            At the table, she set the fountain on the empty chair next to her, and sat facing her mother.            “Why did we have to bring it in?” she said. “People are looking at me weird.”            “Because I don’t want people to break the car window thinking it’s a nuclear missile they could sell to Russia,” her father said.            Melany glanced around. No one was looking. They were probably too busy thinking horrible things about her.            “Can you order for me?” Melany told her mom.            “No. You’ll have to do it by yourself at some point.”            The waiter arrived like a lightning bolt through Melany’s head. With his square goatee, his black and red suit, his tie, his tall, in shape frame. All of that at once.            He put the bread basket in the center of the table and filled their glasses with water. He talked to her parents, they talked to him, but Melany didn’t hear a thing. Then he turned to her, his kissable lips moved up and down, and she realized abruptly that she wasn’t invisible.            “Huh?” she said.            “What’s the story with that?” he said, pointing at the fountain.            Melany cleared her throat.            “It’s a fountain that runs on solar power.” She had to justify herself. “For a science fair. At school.”            “That’s cool.”            That’s cool. He said it was cool. Was that a compliment?            “Thanks,” Melany mumbled.            He left the table, left her in shock. Next time, she’d look him in the eyes.            “A toast to our little genius,” her father said, raising his glass.            Melany glanced back—the waiter wasn’t looking—and went for the bread.            When she had won first place, she had forgotten to smile. When they gave her the medal, she was looking at a boy who wasn’t looking at her. When they took the picture, the boy was talking to some pretty girl who made a cheerleader skirt with napkins.            It wasn’t like it was all that mattered, but kinda. You could be broke, sick, have a job you hate, but if someone loves you, you’re fine. The Beatles said it.            There was a tradition in their family of women making the first move. Her grandmother loved the man who lived across the street. At night, she’d sneak in his place to leave little paper doves by his window until his brother tackled her to the floor, and as he was about to punch the lights out of her, the lights turned on, and confused grandpa, in his pajamas, said “Abby?” They spent the rest of their lives together. Her mother threw herself down the stairs so she could break her leg and spend time with a charming physiotherapist, Melany’s father.            Would she fail at being the successor in this chain of determined women? Would romance die with her, alone in a dark apartment, of a cholesterol-induced heart attack, surrounded by cats?            The waiter came back and Melany pulled her shirt down, tried to straighten up.            He took their orders.            “Blablaboo babadadou kranitchidu,” Melany babbled.            The waiter nodded and wrote it down elegantly, charmingly, sexily. He smiled at her. Her blood froze.            Was he flirting? Couldn’t be. She was fat. But maybe he liked that. Somehow. Why would he bring more bread? Why fatten his future wife if he wasn’t into thickness?            It wasn’t like looks were all that mattered, but kinda. You could have the personality of Mother Teresa dipped in honey, no one would know if they didn’t even look at you, let alone talk to you.            “Melany?” her mother said.            “Huh?”            “I said what’s next for you? Did you decide what you wanted to do for college?”            “Sure.”            Her gaze drifted to the waiter filling people’s glasses with his pitcher. Such a strong, helpful man. She downed her glass of water, and pushed it to the side of the table, in a very visible spot.            “Melany?” her mother said.            “College doesn’t matter mom,” Melany said. “The Beatles.”            Her parents looked at each other.            When the heavenly waiter came back with the plates, poured the wine, and filled the water glasses, Melany didn’t look up. She wanted to compliment him on his great job, but it would have sounded dumb.            She downed the water in one big gulp. Her mom and dad made small conversation, rambled about aunt Susan’s mischievous Labrador, talked about politics and renovations and whether they should have a pool or a garden.            The waiter appeared in the corner of Melany’s eye. She jumped, brought a hand to her mouth, threw the half bread back in the basket, and hid the pasta under the salad. Chew faster, chew faster.

“Everything alright here?” the waiter said. He said it to her. He looked straight at her.            She nodded, mouth full of bread. The temperature rose in her cheeks. He poured water with the grace of an angel. Before Melany’s mouth was free to say thank you, he was gone.            She downed the water. Her bladder was filling up. She watched him walk away, stop at tables with better-looking women, smiling women, confident women, on-top-of-the-world women.            “Are you dehydrated?” her mother asked.            Melany turned to her father.            “What do you find in her?” she said, pointing to her mother.            “That’s not… nice,” her mom said.            “It’s not insulting,” Melany said. “It’s investigating.”            “Well,” her father said, unsure how to go about it. “She’s beautiful. She’s fun. She’s nice.”            “Give me some substance, dad. You just described a cat.”            “She… She knows what she wants. She’s loving and smart. What exactly do you want me to say?”            “How did you know she was all that? Mom, how did you let him know you were all that?”            Her mother took a sip of wine.            “Huh… I was just… myself. And I guess we connected.”            “Careful, there’s modesty falling out your mouth.”            “Do you have someone in mind, Melany?”            “No.”            “Sounds like you do.”            “You got something on you.”            Melany reached across the table to wipe sauce on her mother’s shirt and knocked over the glass of wine in the process.            “What’s going on with you?” her mom said.            And then came the waiter, like a fireman through fire, to clean up the mess. Melany’s red face reflected in the wine glass.            “Sorry,” she said.            “Hey, no problem,” the waiter said. “You just added some excitement in my day. I feel like in a Bruce Willis movie.”            Melany laughed, a weird and too loud laugh, the shriek of a fat pterodactyl. It squeezed her bladder. As time passed, as their plates emptied, as she looked at her empty glass of water wondering when he’d come back, the pressure was getting unbearable. But she couldn’t go to the restroom. What if she missed him? What if he wanted to talk to her again?            But at some point, she had to go.           She hurried to the bathroom, ignoring people’s stares, and relieved her bladder. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could flush away all the things that accumulated inside you over the years? The shame, the self-loathing, the regrets. There was no mechanism to evacuate the toxic waste produced in our brains.            If she didn’t ask him out, she’d regret it for the rest of her life. If there was even the shadow of a chance he liked her, she had to do something. Honor the succession of proactive women in the family. Make a move. He couldn’t do it, he was at work. But she could. She would.            She grimaced in the mirror. In what universe was it possible that a waiter would like something like this? Her hair was kinda nice. Kinda. That was something.            Back at the table, she realized, in horror, that she had missed him. Her mother was putting the credit card back in her wallet. The bill lay face down on the table. Her father was getting ready to put on his coat.            Melany looked at the tip they had left.            “Really mom? Fifteen dollars? What does a man have to do to be respected in this world?”            She dug in her pocket, pulled out her worn-out purple wallet, and took the five-dollar bill she was saving to buy batteries for the card-shuffling robot she was building. She placed it on the bill next to the little mint candies. The blue ones.            “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.            “Again?” her mom said.            “Wait for me in the car.”            Melany looked back at her parents putting their coats on and heading for the door. Her dad had the fountain in his hands. The waiter was leaning on the bar, chatting with the barmaid. The hot, thin barmaid.            Melany stopped, then pushed forward again. One step at a time. He would admire her courage, her knowing what she wanted, like her dad found in her mom. The pressure in her chest grew as she approached the bar. She passed a hand through her hair, straightened her back.            She put a hand on the bar. They didn’t notice her.            “What was that… thing about?” the barmaid said. “Who brings a machine to a restaurant?”            “Probably a butter fountain,” the waiter said.            They both laughed. Then turned toward her. Gave another suppressed little laugh.            Melany was frozen there, at the end of the bar.            “Did you enjoy your meal?” the waiter said.            Melany unstuck herself from the counter and dragged her feet away. Truth kills. It was just a façade, a routine trick to charm customers. For her, it was hope shattering. A slap back to reality. A memory that would burn her for years to come. Tears tried to slip out, but she held them back.            He was too good for her. Her fat self. He was good-looking, he was charming, he was… kind of shitty. Fake. Mean. What would she do with a guy like that?            Melany stood in the middle of the restaurant. People were turning their heads. The waiter and barmaid were probably looking too. Let them look.            Let them laugh. Let’s see if his cute barmaid could build a solar-powered fountain.            On her way out, Melany grabbed a handful of mints in the glass bowl, and shoved them in her mouth one after the other. She turned to the waiter, opened her mouth wide, revealing the chewing candies. Then walked out with a mouthful of love.


Life at that moment seemed to stop. How could she do such a thing? Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought my sister was capable of hurting me in such a way. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. I walked into the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my sister. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it held all the necessitates. There is a bedroom for each of us, a bathroom, kitchen, and small living room just big enough for a couch and t.v. Our parents were never around much growing up, so my sister and I looked out for each other. We are very close, and I’d like there are no secrets between us, but I know that’s not true because I keep one big secret from her. Our parents died shortly after I turned eighteen, so I got a job, rented this apartment, and Sue came to live with me. We’ve been on our own ever since. Life’s been rough. We almost got evicted a few months ago, but I came up with the money just in time. A few weeks ago, our grocery bill had to stay under twenty dollars. That was a tough week. I had to change things. I had to make things better, not just for her, but for myself too. I got a new job last week with twice the pay of my last one. I decided not to tell Sue. I don’t want her to worry. My job is a little dangerous, and she has enough stress just trying to finish her last year of high school and applying for scholarships. I get paid every two days instead of once a week. It’s the best job ever! I don’t even work regular work hours, so I can be home to help Sue around the house and stuff more. She seems to like that I’m around more, and I enjoy spending time with her again, like when we were kids. We started planning family nights. Her idea, not mine, but it’s kind of nice. Mondays are game night, and Thursdays are dinner together night. I always make sure I’m home on those nights. There’s a boy at school Sue likes, and she wants to bring him over for our dinner night on Thursday so we can meet. I’m a little nervous cause I’m not really sure what Sue expects from me. I’m just her brother, not her dad. Would it be awkward if I grilled the guy for information to make sure he’s a good guy? I guess I’ll just wait and see what happens that night. Sue likes him, so I have to believe he's at least decent. I have a feeling, no matter who she brings home, I’ll never think they are good enough for my little sister. The boss gave me a big job to do tonight. He says I’m ready for the big leagues, whatever that means. I’ll be working late, and Sue looked disappointed when I told her it would be after midnight when I got home. I don’t think she likes being alone in the house after dark. I guess if I were a girl, I’d get scared of being alone too. I told her not to worry and to call me if she needed anything. I handed her a piece of paper with my cell phone number on it. “When did you get a cell phone?” She looked at the paper in her hand then back up at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “My boss gave it to me. He said he needed to be able to get ahold of me at all times.” We said our goodbyes, and I headed out the door. Twenty minutes later, I walked up to the back door of a run down apartment complex. Jimmy, the boss's right-hand man, let me in. A big shipment of goods was coming in tonight, and I was going with them to pick it up. Normally I was just a runner, and the idea of working my up higher in the business was exciting, and a little scary. The plan was laid out, and we hopped into the truck and took off down the road. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. These guys used a lot of abandoned places. It was strange because I knew they had enough money to buy or rent a place, but instead, they chose to use places no one wanted anymore. We pulled inside the warehouse and waited. Moments later, another van pulled in behind us. Jimmy got out and walked to the back of our van, and I followed his lead. I had no idea what I was doing. I leaned against the back doors of the van so the other guys would think this was no big deal to me. But my insides were churning with each second that passed. Jimmy was fidgeting, and I knew something wasn’t right. I stood straight up and looked at him. His attention was on the van in front of us, and the men inside. “Get back in the van, now!” The urgency in his voice had me running for the front passenger side door, but before I could even reach the handle, men stormed the building. They came from everywhere, the front door, the back door, the office off to the left, and the white van parked behind ours. They barked out orders and pointed guns. I froze with my heart pounding away inside my chest so hard I thought it would burst. “Get down on the ground. Hands where I can see them.” The tall man pointed his gun at me while he yelled orders. I wasn’t the smartest person, but I wasn’t stupid enough to ignore someone with a gun pointed at me. I lay down on the cold cement floor and held my arms out to the side. Seconds later, a knee jabbed into my back, and my hands were cuffed behind me. The tall man pulled me to my feet. With his hand firmly on my elbow, we walked out the front door. My eyes went wide when I saw my sister standing there. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at me. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let you keep doing this. I couldn’t let you keep heading down this path.” I stared open mouth at her. How could she betray me like this? I was doing this for her. I turned my head to avoid her penetrating gaze. Even though she was the one who betrayed me, I was the one who felt ashamed of my actions as the police officer helped me into the back of his squad car.


Hugo- Day one, the hottest day in July. The kind of hot that makes the neighbors forgo underwear and plant themselves in front of oscillating fans. Feet planted in small kiddie pools filled with tepid tap water, topped off with bagged ice from the corner market. The breeze from the fan casting across the iced pools does nothing to diminish the warmth from their radiating bodies. Instead it pushes the sweat further across their faces and thighs until they are all shiny with sweat. It’s nearly impossible to forget day one. You try, yet day one is the day you’ll scramble for breath. You’ll put on the bravest of faces to give your daughter Thea oxygen as you hold the side of her head to your chest. She will appreciate the firm pressure you apply to her quivering body. The grief inundating from her youthful frame, forcing you back- one, two, three, steps until you both collapse onto the couch. Sweat and tears, they’re all the same. How can a girl live without her mother? How will I breathe without her modeling what a strong exhale looks like?

It will be all she can say. You wonder in your emotional greed, Where does she keep all of the passwords? Thea’s birth certificate? Is she allergic to anything? Raeann- Their day one is polar opposite of your day one. The body that carried you through life for the past four decades decided the narrative of living a nice long life is a lie. To find out that you’re going to die is far less painful than hearing that you are dead. The dead don’t hear pain. The dead don’t feel it either.

It’s terminal, you have weeks at best Raeann. I’m so sorry.

You are sent home with instructions of getting your affairs in order. Pamphlets titled, “How to tell your loved ones that you are dying,” as if there is a simple bullet point plan to button up all of your affairs before you go.

Step 1 , I’m dying. But I left a few lasagnas in the freezer for busy nights.

Hugo- Planning a funeral is foreboding. The weatherman says to expect more heat hazes. You don’t know exactly what that is, but you’ve already spent hours on the internet searching for a cure. What's another few minutes?

Heat haze: also called heat shimmer, refers to the inferior mirage observed when viewing objects through a mass of heated air. Relief floods your body, panic eases up. This isn’t the end, it’s all a mirage. It has to be.

Raeann- Everything after the first day is now called the in between, and that’s just how you’ve come to accept it. Call your mother more, but not so much that she suspects that there is something to be worried about. Mothers know.

Revel in the fact that the word hug happens to be the first three letters of your husband's name, as he is the best hugger you’ve ever met. Hugging him a little bit longer feels like a possible cure for the incurable. Forget the pamphlets, your family deserves a better send off than that. The blogs online say to leave a video diary for your daughter because she might forget the way the dimples tucked into your cheeks are deep enough to hold a cat's eye marble in each of them. Don’t let her forget. The idea of a camera taping your face not looking like your face is unsettling. It is then you decide on cassettes, they’re the happy medium. Even if cassette tapes are “so out of style,” they might be even more treasured due to the rarity of them. Nothing screams a mothers legacy like antiquated methods of communication. Might as well break out the typewriter and ribbon of ink.

Hugo- In-laws, they’re a mixed bag. Naturally they have known your beloved Raeann for the longest. They created her so there is ownership there. Let them visit and call and video chat. It’s all that they will get of her. You’ll be left with the daughter you share, and the smell of her lilac shampoo on the bed linens you agreed to buy at the big box store. The in-laws won’t get to smell her again, but you will, at least a little longer before the next load goes in the wash. Raeann- To make a mixed tape you have to consider two things: Who you’re making the tape for and the occasion. Remind yourself that this isn’t a John Hughes movie, and Thea won’t be walking away with the love of her life but rather losing you. Of course there are times when you hear a little melody on the radio and think to yourself, Thea would love this song . Then, add bits of wisdom and sayings to the playlists, for days when she needs advice but you aren’t there to give it. A mother knows exactly what kind of music will make her daughters eyes sparkle, even if it is followed by a tiny eye roll. It’s some kind of magic to possess this kind of knowing about a teenager even if she is your child. You wonder if anyone else will ever know your daughter this way. Hugo- She told you that there’d be tapes. That you’d have to give them to Thea, maybe one morning as you sip your coffee black and dark roasted the way that you like it.

It’s important Hugo, it’s all I have left to give her. Well, and you of course.

Those dimples, you won’t be able to say no to her and so you agree with a gentle head nod and deep hug.

Through sickness and health was the vow? What about death and grief, what’s the vow look like after that? More haziness. Raeann- Your last day comes twenty-nine days after your first. Cliche, that’s what the last thirty days will be. Like a film reel, memories click and spin for one last viewing in your mind's eye. Not in black and white, but in vibrant colors of finger painted construction paper and alabaster hydrangeas in wedding centerpieces.

Wait until Thea nods off in the corner chair of your room, wrapped in the blanket you both sewed together out of your old shirts. Absorb the tiny bit of warmth from Hugo’s hand wrapped around the frail fingers on yours. These hands spent many hours laced together over the years and now his hands will spend hours pressing play for Thea. It’s time for your strong exhale. Hugo- Pull the old cassette player down from the attic, blow off the decades of dust.

Imagine the look on your daughter’s face when the carefully curated tapes are placed in her young hands with three freckles alongside the edge of her knuckles. The freckles lightly kiss her milky skin, and you breathe out a little in relief knowing that they look ordinary. She won’t want the tapes. Her eyes might brim with orbs of salted water. A sense of begging will slip past her lips, Please daddy I’m not ready yet .

You stare at the dimples she inherited from her mother, pressing your warm thumb into one of them as you hold gently to her chin. Picturing the future, you wonder who will take her wedding dress shopping, and who will take her phone calls if she loses a baby.

It will be you of course. Press play.


One warm September afternoon, I gathered the courage to introduce myself. I scurried down the tall Oak, out of the woods, into your big backyard. I stood on my hind legs in the middle of the lawn and looked up at you. You stood alone on the deck, admiring the late summer scenery and said, “Hi, sweetheart! I’m Julie, the new tenant.” I thought you were pretty but wondered why your belly was so round. If you were forty, I’d wonder if you were having a boy or a girl. But at fifty, I wondered if you were having too much chocolate cheesecake. After dusk, I’d snoop through the trash to find out. A few days later, you began tossing peanuts throughout the perimeter of your backyard. I appreciated that they were unsalted and realized that you were thoughtful and kind. You didn’t refer to me as a pesky rodent, like the other neighbors did. I began to realize that you were special. And so, our courtship began. All was well until recently, when you carried a big, brown FAO Schwartz teddy bear into the house. Why cuddle a stinky bear that’s probably stuffed with dirty brown wet leaves and sports a tawdry gold bowtie, when you’ve got a handsome gymnast who flies through the Oaks, runs up to 20 miles per hour and performs incredible acrobatic stunts? Plus, my dapper gray and white suit is sporty and fashionable year-round. That's why my species has millions of followers on YouTube, which I see you watching all the time. I doubt you know that I peer through all the windows in your house, sometimes from far up in the Oaks and sometimes much closer. That’s how I know all about the tenants. The last tenant went missing, and you occupy her room. Have you noticed the wooden brown bat standing in the corner next to your bedroom door? Ever wonder what she used it for? I can tell you one thing. Although a sprightly seventy-two, she certainly wasn’t a baseball player. But I’m not saying she’s buried in your backyard or the attic (because I’ve been digging around both places). I’m just saying that I overheard the retired busy body with the binoculars across the street tell another neighbor that the last tenant in the house you occupy is missing. The missing tenant was a retired lady who allegedly didn’t get along well with the sixty-something guy living in your basement. I can understand why. The guy in your basement does more laundry than a murder suspect, and I can smell bleach way out into the woods. You never venture downstairs to do laundry or to chit chat with him. Who could blame you? What do you and Fred have in common? He works in a pharmacy, and you've taken aspirin. And the Peruvian guy who occupies the room next to yours on the main floor? He’s loud and rude, yelling into his cell phone all the time. I overhear too many of his conversations. Sure, he’s evading taxes in two countries. But he won’t harm you.  At least not physically. He may drive you crazy though. Don’t get me started on your next-door neighbors. They have more overnight guests than a brothel. What’s up with the massive trampoline that occupies their back yard? Are they planning to host a travelling circus? Why do all the neighbors park their cars on their front lawns, when they all have perfectly good driveways? This is not the wild west. You don't need to tether your car to your porch like a horse. Who knows what's up with these peeps. Perhaps they’re waiting for spaceships to land in their driveways and whisk them away to a suburban utopia. Your 2009 Corolla is your baby. You clean and shine it regularly and even gifted it with new plastic wheel covers. I confess that I am a bit jealous. The retired lady across the street drives a 2022 Corolla, but you don’t seem to notice her. She notices you though. In fact, she often watches you when you venture outside. At least she can’t see you through the closed blinds in your bedroom in front of the house, which faces her kitchen. And you can't see her. There’s not much to watch. It's not like she's Julia Child and Bobby Flay's love child, crafting a divine dish that's going to make you salivate and fly to the moon. She can barely make toast. And she's not missing anything either. It’s not like you’re spending late nights painting the next Mona Lisa or composing a symphony. I wish you’d stop watching so many horror movies. One night, you're going to scare yourself to death. Sure, there is a phrogger living in your attic. It’s December and it’s getting cold. My drey nest full of wet leaves is no longer habitable. Today I seized an opportunity to train you. While you were warming up your Corolla this morning, I scurried up the lonely, barren Oak on your front lawn and waved my thick gray tail at you. You spotted me right away, waved back, and did exactly what I’d hoped. You retrieved a big bag of unsalted peanuts from your trunk and deposited half of it under the Oak. Good girl. Because although I can find food buried beneath a foot of snow, I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off during the cold winter months if I don't have to. The nosy neighbor across the street was watching you with her binoculars. At least now she knows that you do not keep the last tenant in your trunk. Perhaps she keeps the last tenant in her trunk? The Christmas holidays are upon us. I can tell by the carnival of lights and obnoxious Santa Claus displays festooned throughout the neighborhood. Someone stuck a plastic Santa on their roof with a bunch of plastic reindeer. It’s a safety hazard for squirrels, and probably a scene from one of your favorite horror movies. The macabre display of superficial holiday cheer is blocking the chimney and access to the attic. Call 911. Our relationship is back on track. We’re living together. Although not a traditional pair, we understand and support each other better than most couples. I’m looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas together. I trust that you’ll bring me festive boxes filled with walnuts, pecans, macadamias and almonds. You like nuts, I like nuts and our neighbors are all, without a doubt, assorted nuts. Authors note: January 21 st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day in the United States.


They called him John, because he didn’t have a name. He’d been pulled from the Dusek estate during the raid, where he’d almost been shot because he refused to identify himself. Only later did they find out it was because he didn’t speak. Still, Ana finds there are plenty of other ways to learn about John and his past. On the drive to the ward, Ana sneaks several glances at him in the rearview, watching as he stares out the windows, wide-eyed, like he’s never seen the city before. When they arrive, he’s shaking so badly that Ana has to call for help getting him out of the car. It’s then that she learns John reacts poorly to being touched, no matter how many times the attendant explains in a soft voice what she’s going to do and that it won’t hurt. He shuts down completely, eyes unblinking as he gazes out at nothing. Somehow, Ana finds that more unsettling than the shaking. That night, Ana goes over his medical records again, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands to ward off the chill from what she finds. The hospital had declared him a non-threat, submitting meekly to even the most invasive of procedures. That, combined with confessions from members of the Dusek family, had ensured his freedom...such as it was. Ana thinks of the tired lines that formed around John’s eyes as she brought him to his room at the ward. She swallows down another gulp of hot chocolate. When she gets to the section describing the injuries he’d presented with upon admittance, her hands become unsteady and she’s forced to set aside her mug. After seven years of working at the ward, she’s not squeamish. But the implications still make her shiver. The last part she reads before falling into a troubled sleep suggests that John’s vocal chords, tongue, and Broca's area in the brain are all undamaged. The next day, Ana asks John if he has ever spoken aloud or learned sign language. His face twists, equal parts annoyed and ashamed. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Can you write?” she asks softly. He gives his head a minute shake, the clearest response she’s ever seen from him. “Can you read?” Another shake. Ana pauses, considering. “Would you like to learn?” John’s gaze flicks up to hers, briefly, grey eyes wide. When he looks away again, he’s slightly flushed, as though he’s done something he’s not supposed to. “Give me a day to gather some materials, and I’ll start teaching you,” Ana says with a smile. John doesn’t smile back, but his confused expression is better than what he’s worn previously. Ana hopes it’s an indicator of progress. She comes back the next day with paper, pens, and a workbook. She sits with John and goes over the sound of each letter. He never repeats after her, but she catches him silently mouthing along. He doesn’t let her guide his hand while attempting to draw each character, but he does trace over the letters she writes with careful, almost reverent lines. Ana only wishes he was making such progress in other areas. It takes a week before he’ll eat around other people. The one time the staff brought him to the dining room, he almost hurt himself in his scramble to flee from the small group of people around the table - no more than nine, but clearly too many for John. It takes an hour and a half for Ana to calm him. In addition to being skittish of crowds, John doesn’t seem too sure about going outside, either. Ana can’t help but think of his behavior as catlike in the way he lingers on the threshold of the door to the garden, clearly entranced but unwilling to take the last step out from under the ceiling. So she waits with the door held open, letting him watch the fountain and flowers and insects and trees from the safety of the ward’s shadows. Three weeks after John’s arrival at the ward, Ana nearly jumps in surprise when she pushes the door to the garden open and John walks out after her. He stands for a moment in a patch of sunlight, face tilted up at the sky. Then he gives her a questioning look that Ana has come to understand means, “What now?” “Let’s take a little walk,” she says. “Do you want me to tell you about some of the flowers?” John nods, as he usually does when Ana offers to teach him something. So she guides him through the garden, pointing out her favorites and telling him what they mean in the language of flowers. When they come to a stand of milkweed, Ana spots a chewed-on leaf and beckons John closer. “That’s a monarch caterpillar,” she says, indicating the tiny green-and-black worm as it nibbles on the edge of its leaf. “When it’s ready, it’ll form a chrysalis and turn into a monarch butterfly.” John looks delighted at the notion. His eyebrows come up as if saying, “Go on.” “Then the butterfly breaks free of the chrysalis and lets its wings fill out in the sun,” Ana says. “Once it’s strong enough, it’ll fly away. I think monarchs have quite a long migration before coming home and laying new eggs.” John nods once. He looks back at the caterpillar, thoughtful. “We could make a little enclosure and bring him inside,” Ana suggests. “He’d be safer with - “ She doesn’t finish the sentence, because John’s face moves from calm to panicked to angry within a breath. He glares at Ana, hands fisted and trembling. “We’d release him once he emerged from the chrysalis,” she hurries to add. John makes a short, slashing gesture. Ana blinks. She’s never seen him so adamant about anything. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll leave him be.” John nods again, this time firm, as if saying, “Good.” Ana tells the other staff to avoid disturbing the caterpillar. After his first excursion outside, John can’t seem to get enough of the garden. He returns every day to check on the caterpillar, but spends most of his time walking or sitting to watch the fountain. Ana holds their lessons outside when the weather is nice. John is a quick study, and soon he’s passing Ana notes with simple phrases. The first one he gives her just says thank you. The next one, a few days later, says water paint. After a quick round of 20 Questions, Ana figures out what he means. She brings him a set of watercolors and other supplies, and then sits back and watches as John experiments. His motions, while hesitant at first, are purposeful, like a musician tuning their instrument. Watching him work, Ana is struck with the thought that either John has done this before, or he’s a very, very fast learner. The first thing he paints once he seems sure of himself is the caterpillar on its leaf. Ana smiles at the illustration as it dries, and catches John smiling, too. Painting becomes part of the routine. At first, John paints the things around him. His room. The dining hall. And many, many pictures of the garden. Ana brings him sticky tack so he can hang them on his walls. Then, one day Ana finds him with his head in his hands, a page of darkness on the desk in front of him. He ignores her questions about it. And as the days go by, Ana sees more paintings like it. Dark things, done in greys and blacks. A figure curled up in an empty room. The shadow of a fist against the wall. Sometimes red creeps into the monochrome pictures. John doesn’t hang these next to the others, but nor does he destroy or discard them. He lets them dry, then shuts them carefully away in the desk. When asked, he writes out, I know where they are now. Ana doesn’t understand, not fully, but it seems like a healthy coping mechanism. Some days, he’ll take out the stack of paintings from the desk and flip through them, one by one, as if reading a solemn story. This is usually followed by a trip to the garden to see how the caterpillar is doing. It’s growing fast, and there eventually comes a day when John tugs excitedly at Ana’s sleeve and shows her the chrysalis hanging from the leaf. It’s light green with a golden seam near the top. It’s all John paints for two days. They’re walking in the garden a week later when Ana sees John go tense next to her. She follows his gaze to the stand of milkweed, where another resident is crouched down. When the man straightens, he’s holding something up to inspect it. Ana realizes a split second after John does, and she’s too slow to stop him when he lunges forward. His face is set in a silent snarl as he grabs the other resident’s wrist. Ana has never seen such harsh, rigid lines in his posture. “John!” she cries, suddenly frightened of what he might do. When he glances back at her, the other resident jerks free with a curse. He shoves John away and retreats inside, leaving a handful of bitter words in his wake. John ignores the comments, already crouched down to recover the dropped chrysalis. He lifts it gently, so gently, all anger gone. His eyes come up to meet Ana’s, pleading. “Bring it inside,” she says. “We’ll see what we can do.” Ana keeps an eye on him as they return to the ward. His movements are slow and slight, his feet barely lifting from the ground as he walks. At first she thinks he’s just trying to protect the chrysalis, but then she catches a glimpse of his face. It’s blank. Completely empty as he shuffles down the hall, shoulders hunched. “Are you somewhere else right now?” Ana asks him gently. John doesn’t seem to hear at first, but then he starts slightly, as though surprised she’s talking to him. He shakes his head vehemently. They take the chrysalis to the crafts room, where Ana helps John apply a tiny dab of glue and attach a string to the little black stem of the chrysalis. Then, they bring it back outside where John ties it securely to a low-hanging branch of juniper and Ana affixes a tiny sign reading DON’T TOUCH. “There,” she says as she straightens. “It’ll be safer now.” John nods, but his expression is distant again. His eyes are glazed and absent. It takes Ana another two hours to get him to look her in the eyes, at which point she sees those tiny, tired lines again. The next day, John spends hours working on a new painting. He locks it in the desk drawer almost before it’s finished drying, but Ana still has plenty of time to stare at what he’s created. On the paper, an indistinct figure hides their face with hands and arms mottled with bruises. Around one wrist is a paper bracelet like the ones the residents wear, but this one simply reads DON’T TOUCH. The paintings over the following days grow darker. Sometimes they are stained with tear-splashes. Sometimes John doesn’t finish them, instead viciously brushing a dark wash over the whole thing. Sometimes he takes out all of the paintings in the desk drawer and sifts through them, expression unreadable. Ana becomes unsure if the paintings are still helping John or if they’re perpetuating a cycle of rumination. John shrugs off her questions. A week passes. The chrysalis outside shows no sign of change, while by Ana’s count, it should have darkened by now. She elects not to tell John. And then one day, she walks in to find John painting a monarch butterfly that sheds light on its dark surroundings. “What brought this on?” she asks, pleasantly surprised. John looks up, eyes dancing. “ Dream, ” he finger-spells. “ Garden now? ” When Ana brings him outside, he makes a beeline for the hanging chrysalis. Ana’s mouth drops open when she sees the darkened exterior and the faint impression of a monarch’s wings within. “How?” she asks John. “How did you know?” “ Dream, ” he spells again with a shrug. Ana decides not to question it. On the day the butterfly emerges, she and John spend most of their time in the garden. John frets a bit - about the weather, Ana thinks - but the overcast sky clears up nicely for the big event. They watch in breathless anticipation as the butterfly wriggles free and begins to sun itself, fanning crumpled wings. Slowly, they begin to fill out, and the butterfly starts wandering from the chrysalis to the juniper branch. “Would you like to hold it?” Ana asks John. He tears his awed eyes from the butterfly long enough to spell out, “ Safe? ” “As long as you don’t touch the wings,” Ana assures him. Cautiously, John places a finger in the butterfly’s path. It readily climbs aboard and flicks its proboscis against his skin. Ana watches the astounded grin come over John’s face with an ache in her heart. The butterfly twitches its wings. In a flutter of motion, it makes the short leap from John’s hand to his nose. His head jerks back in surprise, but he seems to recover quickly. And then he starts to laugh. Softly. Carefully. In bits and pieces, as though he’s afraid of startling his passenger. Ana covers her mouth as she stares in delight. It’s the first voiced sound she’s heard from him. The butterfly jumps again, drifting down to the path. It spends a few seconds fanning its wings, then flutters over to a cluster of red flowers for a long drink. From there, it darts up, hovers for a moment, then flits away up and out of the garden. John watches it go, and while Ana expects to see some sadness in his expression, there’s nothing but joy and a fierce, desperate pride. Ana lets the moment linger, her heart full of light at the scene. At last, she lets out a breath. “Wasn’t that something?” John doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on where the butterfly disappeared. His expression is softer now, pensive. Ana worries he might be headed back into his head. She gently prompts him. “John?” And he says, “Call me Ciel.”


It had been 15 years since the beginning of the climate apocalypse. Today, there are few human beings living on planet Earth. The world had changed drastically over the 15 years. It hadn’t changed technologically, and instead, it’s now almost uninhabitable. The increase in temperature, the rise of sea levels, and the damage in the ozone layer was all but small parts of this change. It all started with global warming. People knew about it. But it was left unattended for far too long. Politicians denied global warming, saying we won’t have to worry about it for many years to come. But they were wrong. Storms worsened over time. Floods became the new normal. The evidence against their statements was overwhelming. But they continued to deny, and people believed them. It was only when cities started to fall under oceans when people started to take action. But by then, it was the point of no return. Cities continued to flood and many people were forced to relocate inland. The first of the deaths were simply caused by the heat. Everyone was used to living in a colder climate. Everyone was just trying to do their normal routine. However, it was hard to maintain cool. Hyperthermia cases became common. The price of air conditioning skyrocketed. Only the rich could afford one now. Riots occurred every day, just to find any air conditioning. Factories shut down as the heat damaged machinery and buildings. Water supplies started to dry up. But now, something about the air was different. It had the smell of rotten eggs. Soon, hydrogen sulfide gas filled the atmosphere. The increase in temperature caused gas-producing bacteria to thrive. The toxicity of hydrogen sulfide increased with temperature. It was only a matter of time before plant and animal life would go extinct. Nothing could stop the production of hydrogen sulfide gas. No existing technology can lower temperatures back down. Humans who could survive the heat now had to survive the deadly gas. A damaged ozone layer became a part of everybody’s lives. It had happened before in the past – from the 1930s to 1960s – but back then, humans took action. This time, nothing can slow the damage of the ozone layer. The hydrogen sulfide gas produced by the bacteria has taken its toll. UV radiation had killed many humans and animals over the years. But nobody could hide from it. As the floods continued, many scientific instruments were destroyed. Soon, scientists couldn’t collect data and the warnings stopped coming. But these weren’t the only consequences. Starvation became common even in the most unlikely places. As crops flooded and animals died, sources of food became rare. Canned food could last for a few weeks, but everything was limited. Soon, people ate animals we normally wouldn’t consider eating. Some even turned to cannibalism. In the United States alone, millions starved. But nothing could be done. Fish were almost extinct from the acidification of oceans. The UV light, higher temperatures, and hydrogen sulfide gas made growing crops near impossible. Without crops, animals starved. Without the crops or animals, so did humans. However, starvation would’ve been the least of the worries of many. Diseases were being transmitted like wildfire. Dormant diseases in permafrost were released during global warming. Diseases like Ebola spread and infected entire continents. Many medicines required to fight them were lost from the rise of sea levels. Doctors tried to help their patients, but the heat and gas proved too much. Many lives were lost to these diseases.

Humans are not extinct, however. Those who are still alive are living in bunkers. The bunkers that were made were one of the most secure areas on Earth. The environment outside would not affect those living inside. Air filtration systems filter out hydrogen sulfide gas. Indoor farms feed fish which feeds humans. They can survive even in this climate apocalypse. However, many weren’t as lucky. Only the rich who could afford a spot in these bunkers live in them. Everybody else died from the heat, or starvation, or diseases. But one place is not a place for the rich. It’s a place for research. This bunker specializes in research. They have all the things a bunker would normally have: their stereotypical thick walls, self-sustaining food supplies, and water filtration systems. But they also have scientific equipment for all fields. They are researching ways to fix the ozone layer and decrease the temperature. It will take time, but it’s progress. They will eventually develop technologies to solve this climate apocalypse. Maybe new machines to kill diseases or scaled up ozone generators to repair the ozone layer. But, not all of these bunkers were for survival. Several contain missiles and nuclear warheads, as well as other weaponry. The lower food production and damaged economies will cause global conflict. These bunkers won’t be used for survival. Rather, they will be used to attack other survivors. Unfortunately, nothing will prevent war from happening. The world has already been damaged. All of this could’ve been prevented if humans acted. If humanity acted 15 years ago, none of this would’ve happened now. Humanity would’ve been able to develop new technologies to slow or even prevent such a climate apocalypse from occurring. Alas, humanity did not act. Billions died. Only handfuls of humans can survive by living in bunkers, protecting them from UV light, intense heat, and toxic gas. But others will want to fight. They will blame others for this problem. They will launch nuclear weapons and missiles, furthering damage on Earth. All of this resulted from one simple mistake: not acting as the problem arose.

All hope is not lost, however. Humans do prevail in the most hostile environments, even these. They build bunkers with self-sustaining food supplies and water filtration systems. They build luxurious rooms and swimming pools. Humanity can adapt to these environments. Humanity will find ways to solve this climate apocalypse. The world will definitely be a different place after the climate apocalypse, but life will continue.


I have known Noah for a long time. Since we were kids he already have that "I'm-An-Introvert-So-Scram!" waving flag on his head. We actaully met on a scarlet sunset by the swing. I was reading a book I found in the playground earlier when he suddenly approached me saying that he wanted the book back. I didn't gave it to him because I haven't finished reading it. He snickered at me and it turned to bickering, then into a soil fight that resulted of a wailing Noah, who looks like an idiot losing to a girl. I gave the book to him and he started to calm down, he hugged the book and left. I stood by the swing for another minute when Noah came back running towards me and gave me the book telling that I should read it. Which I quickly accepted and it turns out Noah would be the greatest impact who made me who I am today. "You know you really did outdone yourself this time." He exclaimed with an out going smug face look, "But Becky, why do you write too many mystery novels, can you do something soft or romantic, you are a girl for the angel's sake, be soft." He added as he comb my hair using his scarred hands. Noah's been doing archery and been overpracticing himself and it worries me. "Don't you think you're over offering your self to me. Use the damn comb. Don't hurt yourself." I told him but I got kisses on my neck as a reply. I gasped as he continued to drop kisses to my shoulders and whispered "Yes my sweet writer, my sweet sweet Rebecca." When we grow up, girls flocked around Noah but he stick with me , which I find irritating. I got bullied because of him and even made as an out cast by the whole class. They actually told me how I was a bitch for seducing him and leading Noah to the bad path. Those we're the bad things and there were actually no good things about backstabbing. "Rebecca, I'm sorry if I put you through this. I promised I won't let anyone hurt you again." He cried at the hospital. In his perspective I look helpless with a dextrose. Though I laughed it out when I remembered that I was pushed and fell from the stairs. He taught that I broke my wrist and stormed out of the room. He went back to the school and gave a piece of his mind at the broadcasting room. Everyone heard it and everyone knows who was it. After that, it became quiet. I am still treated as an outcast but atleast no one dares to hurt me or bully me, just the momentary gossips ans jeering. But it was quiet and I love it. Noah did outdone himself on protecting me and I felt lucky for having him. Though I don't know if Noah worries about me or he worries about how I can't write? Eitherway, I am still lucky. "Noah, what sex positions that works best in this?" I nonchalantly asked him at the cafeteria. He turned beet red and was telling me to keep my voice low. "I want to include it to the story, I just want to know if there are any positions convenient on this?" he snorted as he laugh as I was naively ask him. People adored Noah for being diligent and responsible, on the other hand, I was stuck on reading that I sometimes forgot about the existing real world. Being an orphan makes you immune to being treated as non-existent. It turn out to be ordinary to me but Noah made me feel that I am existing. Noah lost his parents on an airplane crash leaving him and his rich coldhearted granpa that basically turned Noah as an orphan with unlimited credentials. "I love you, Becky, stay here, we can be together, please stay," he said as he reach for my shirt and slid his hands underneath and cupped my skin. He kissed me gently then hungrily, like someone who wants to consume me inside. I respond with the same pace and letting my hand wander to his body. I gasped as our lips parted. He took off my shirt and gave me hot pecks on my collarbone. He leave marks all over my body, marking me, loving me, believing in me. "Is it bad if I say that I don't want to live with you? I want to be with you, Noah, Yes, I really do. But as of now I want to know ME, more of me. Is it bad if I focus on writing, for now? Is it bad to pursue solace from my self?" I asked continuously and he heaved a sigh and hug me covering me with his scent, "If it's your choice Becky, I will respect it." People thought Noah as an out-going guy because he was one of the cheerful and easy going adviser but he turns out to be the most introverted soft boy. He sometimes sneak or rejects parties, drink nights, even meet-ups. I even caught him sneaking out with a book everytime there was a family gathering. I really don't get how this guy's mind works but deliberately he just confidently do his thing.

I sometimes loomed if he would do that if we would stay in one roof. Would he try to escape away from me? Then I noticed that Noah loved the silence between us, he loved the idea of the tranquility that courses between us and that comforted me. In retrospect, he pushes me to be an occasional out-goer instead of writing all day long. Parties, contests, book signing or publishing, it was hectic honestly. Surprisingly tiring but doing it together with Noah made it little less a burden to me. I received awknowledgements and earned a name as an author, all thanks to the dreamy Noah who keeps on pushing me to be a writer. One time he got from his work and was yelling "P-A-R-T-Y!~" . I was delighted that he initiated "Party" but alas, after bath, he took the new book that I bought and sat comfortably at his bed and read the entire series all night. Yes! Party it is! That's just how he is.

"Beckyy, give me a snuggle, I miss you my sweet sweet Becky." he sang as he barge in my apartment after the field trip at the school he was teaching. I gave him a warm welcoming hug while he planted kisses to my head. I decided to write a love story as requested by him. I find writing romance easy because I based the personality of the character to him. I fixed a decision that after I finished this book, I can let myself live with him.

I got engage with writing. Too busy that I lose sleep. I rarely visit his place and when he does barge in my apartment, I neglected him that I didn't realized that the silence was suffocating him. I didn't mean to, I just got so absorbed at finishing the book that I sometimes forgot to eat. I kept on writing holding to the idea that I can live with him after this. We will be together. This is my surprised for him. A gift devotedly made just for him. The romance book he was asking for.

But I was wrong. I received a call one evening, telling me to go to a hospital. When I arrived, I didn't made it in time. He got on a car accident, died even before I arrived. Or, I think he died after I totally absorbed myself on writing and neglected him. I didn't know if I cried. But I went to his place and slept there. I woke up covered by his clothes. I barely remember what happen last night. His room was a mess. I guess, I berserk last night and made a pile of his clothes and created a bed out of it. It smelled like him. I missed him. I accidentally slipped over a tiny red box tucked on one of his shirt. I opened it and saw a ring with an attached note-- 'For My Sweet Becky. She offer me a book, I offer her a ring.' I didn't notice the tears were that warm as I whispered his name.

I didn't know that love can bring so much pain. I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. After that day, I move to his place, the book I've been working, I don't think I can even look at it or read it but I can't bring myself to burn it, so I put it at the stack of books and left it. Unfinished.

I continued to write. It was the path Noah had given to me. And I write perfectly, I need to write it perfectly. I don't know if I became numb but I craved to write perfectly. Well I got lost from time to time. I made mishaps. But Noah wouldn't mind, right?


“Will Ben Chemote please step forward?” They pronounced my name wrong, I think as I step forward. Stay calm Ben, stay calm. I glance at my hand to double check that it’s not shaking. You may feel scared on the inside, Ben, but on the outside you are as cool as a cheesecake. You got this. I step through the door and close it behind me.

“Welcome to the first season of The Bad Boys, Ben! First of all, I want to congratulate you on getting in!” “Thank you!” Nailed it. “Gosh, I haven’t even introduced myself! My bad! I’m Rutherford, your host this season! Hopefully you won’t be seeing me much because if you do that means that either you won or… Wa-Wa-waaaa!”

I force myself to laugh so hard that I’m positive that they will tune down the audio on that cut so that it doesn’t hurt the viewers at home’s ears.

“So now onto… rules. There are three categories of people: citizens, cops, annnnd thieves. Let’s start with citizens. The citizens' job is simple: Have fun, make money, and follow the rules. If we see a citizen joining the thieves…” Rutherford makes a slitting motion across his neck. I gulp, realizing that that has a literal meaning. “Each citizen will most likely be put in a couple or a family. Remember, your real age doesn’t matter in the City so you… how old are you?” “Sixteen.” I reply.

“So you, a sixteen-year-old may be a parent to a 52 year-old. Or a twelve year old could be the parent of you. You live in houses just big enough for your family, so it may get a bit tightly packed in there. I recommend that you try and get out of the house as much as you can. Each citizen will be given a new age. If your new age is younger than eighteen… Welp, you’re going to be going to school and studying stuff at that grade level. If your new age is over eighteen, you may be given a job. If you know nothing about this job, then you will be trained by some of our in game staff until they think that you are doing a decent enough job. And one last thing about the role of citizen: If you don’t have enough money left to pay for food… you will be kicked out of the city. So work hard! “Now onto the good guys - literally. The cops role is to get all of the thieves into the jail. There are no cars in this game, so you’ll have to run to try and handcuff the enemy. You do have access to the ‘helicopter’ though so that can be handy when trying to spot the enemies.”

I wondered why he put the helicopter in air quotes.

“You will live at the police headquarters/jail with your fellow coppers. Every cop will have a ‘gun’.” Rutherford held up a Nerf gun. “If you get shot in, say, the arm all you have to do is lay down, be silent, and wait for someone to pick you up and carry you to the hospital. If you got shot in something more fatal, such as your torso, you will be taken off the show. Same goes for citizen’s and thieves, by the way. And that’s it! The cops role is simple in words, but complicated in practice. Remember that age doesn’t matter in the City, so a cop could be 12 or 62. “And finally, the thieves. The thieves job is to get all of the money in the economy. You may think that that seems hard, but it may be easier than you think. The thieves will have a hideout that may be in plain sight, but it could be harder than you think to break into their hideout. If you are a thief, you may be given a weapon of some sort. Use that to threaten citizens and escape from cops. You may try to break your partners in crime out of jail, but may be tricky. You can do almost anything as a thief, so be creative! And finally, after talking for what may seem like ages it’s back to you, Ben. What do you make of all this?” “It’s a lot to take in,” I admit. “But I wanna be part of this. That’s why I applied of course!”

Rutherford laughs. “Ben Chemote… Are you ready to be part of the very first ever season of THE BAD BOYS?” “I am.” I say with almost as much sincerity as a fake wedding vow.

“Pick your role from the jar in front of you.”

My hand quakes as I reach into the jar. I don’t hide my quaking, because TV loves drama, and this is one of the most dramatic moments of the season… most likely. I’m not sure what I want. Well, maybe… I read the slip of paper. I say, “...” **** “Citizen.” Whew. I think that in my head, but my face hopefully shows disappointment. The people on TV really want to see cops and thieves, so I play it up for them.

“Oh well,” Rutherford says. “Lets see what age you pick out of the hat! Drumroll please…”

I unfold the piece of paper. “14,” I read. Two years below my actual age. Not bad. I wish that I was an adult, but not bad.

“So pretty close to your actual age, huh?” Rutherford recalls from the conversation that happened two minutes ago. “And lastly, choose which house and what family you will be living with.” This pick scares me. I have never had a sibling, so having one in this simulation… it might be frightening. Or amazing. I really don’t know. “House 16.” I say, fear evident in my voice.

“I believe that nobody has joined that house yet, is that correct…?” Rutherford looks at a cameraman. The cameraman nods in affirmation. “Alright, so Ben, it seems like you will be the one in your household who has to wait and see who ends up in your house. Good luck, and don’t get robbed!”

“I’ll do my best.” I reply.

“And cut.” A cameraman says.

“So, Ben, here’s your bags…” Rutherford says. It’s surprising how much his voice changed between his camera personality and his normal self. “It looks like they have been cleared. And, if you want to look at this map here,” I peek over his giant shoulder. “House sixteen is in the southeast housing complex, very close to the docks. So you will go up these stairs, go to the left, sorry, go to the right, follow the sidewalk till it hits a T, turn right at the T, and go up until you see houses on the left. House sixteen is the third down on the right. You got that?” Before I can even reply that I got absolutely none of that he says, “Good luck. Be a good personality and you’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Right this way.” An assistant appears out of nowhere and leads me up a pair of stairs. Right away, I see an underground building labeled “HOSPITAL.” I also note the fact that there seems to be a subway station. Not the sandwich shop, but the train-like thing. “Just up those stairs.” The assistant says.

“Thank-” I try to say, but I’m interrupted by the assistant closing and locking the door behind me. You got this Ben. Cool as a cheesecake. Cool as a cheesecake.  I take a deep breath. Why am I so nervous you ask? Because this means a lot more to me than just winning the reality show. If I lose or die in here, then I die in real life.

***** A few months ago I was in a tough spot. My mom and dad barely paid attention to me. We were losing money like crazy due to my dad’s drinking addiction. So one day, when it was my turn to drive my dad home from the bar, I made a rash decision. This loopy looking man with a goatee came up to me and said. “I (hic), I bet that you couldn’t win THE BAD BOYS.”

Normally, I would ignore people like that. But for some reason, this man intrigued me. “What’s that?” I asked. “It’s a reality TV show.” He said with another hiccup. “It’s basically cops and robbers. But if you win (hic) I’ll double your earnings.”

“HOW MUCH ARE THE EARNINGS?” my father's voice boomed across the bar.

“Ohhhh,” the man slumped against a table. “Between 10,000 and a million dollars. It (hic) depends on how well you do.”

“DEAL!” my father said, stumbling over to me and this guy.

“Alright,” the man said, “But what do I get in return?”

“Uhhh… Uhhh…” My dad said as in his drunken state he tried to think of what little we had that would match this guy's proposal. “Umm… Would my son work?”

“Dad, no!” I didn’t even know what he meant by putting me up for some bet.

“Deal!” The loopy man said as he and my father shook hands. “But let me warn you… it’s rigged! You can never win, so you better say goodbye to your son!”

After that I went home and searched up THE BAD BOYS. It turns out that it really was a thing. My dad wanted that money desperately, so I was forced to apply. I tried to research the best strategy, but the season that was coming up was the first, so I came up with nothing.

I thought about this as I was going up the stairs, leading me to the setup world of THE BAD BOYS. Up there, that’s where I decide if I win money, or if I get my life sold to the loopy man. I step up the last step and take in the breathtaking view in front of me.


The air smelled like dish soap. I gave the janitor a polite, forced nod and stepped over the disgusting soapy puddle, holding my breath. My mother had always thought the smell was fresh and lively, but to me, it was horrible. It smelled like white hospitals and washing machines and lateness, my three least favorite things. I glanced at my brand new watch, it had cost a fortune, mind you, noting that my big presentation was in 7 minutes. I had prepared a slideshow, and I couldn't help but hope that everybody else would like my presentation. I straightened my skirt, taking comfort in the fact that I was pulling off the "work-chic" look absolutely perfectly. I walked into the elevator the second the doors slid open, accidentally brushing shoulders with the man who was already inside. He looked about two years younger than me, somewhere in his early twenties. His sharp jawline was what drew my attention to him, but he didn't even bother to take a single look at me when I smiled at him. I widened my smile to show my teeth, parting my red lips. "The fourth floor," I said, widening my smile even more, and waited for him to press the button. He did nothing but glance at me, unimpressed. Perhaps he hadn't heard me, I thought. "The fourth floor," I repeated, my voice a good amount louder and firmer, but he didn't even bat an eyelash. I'm sure he heard me this time! I looked down and cleared my throat softly, now feeling like an absolute idiot, and stepped forward to press the glowing number 4 on the set elevator buttons. I heard a mumble behind me and I spun around, almost tripping in my new high heels. I hadn't quite gotten used to them yet, but I knew that I had to look good for my big presentation. "What. Do you want?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound as uninterested as possible. Sure, he was definitely handsome, but if he was rude to me, then there isn't a single reason why I can't be rude back. "All you had to do was say please," he said shrugging his shoulders coolly, like saying that to a complete stranger was okay. An involuntary scoff escaped my lips. I had done absolutely nothing wrong to him, and he has the nerve to act like this? How dare he! I glanced at the number 3 lit up at the top of the elevator. My floor was next. I could see that he had to go to the 21st floor by looking at the illuminated numbers on the button. I started pressing all the numbers starting from 5, avoiding his confused glare. "What are you doing?" he spat loudly, stepping towards me. "Stop it! Now! I have somewhere to be, you know!" I smiled sweetly at him and kept pressing, enjoying the face he made whenever he heard satisfying little clicks. When I got to number 19, I paused, looked at him, and said, "All you had to do was say please." His jaw dropped open and if we were cartoons, you would practically see the smoke puffing out of his ears. I reached towards number 20 just to tick him off even more, when I noticed something very odd. The buttons weren't glowing anymore. I shot a confused glance at the man, which he returned with a sneer, when all of a sudden, the inside of the elevator went completely black. I felt myself falling before I could even start to register what was happening. I heard ear-shattering screams, although I couldn't process whether they were his or mine as I grabbed onto the elevator bar. I felt a sharp shard of glass fly into my forearm, and then two more shards flew into my leg. Even as I was falling, I understood that they were from my watch, which was now broken Something, or rather, someone clasped my leg tightly and I screeched even louder as I was suddenly pulled down to the elevator floor. "LIE DOWN!" the man screamed, pinning me down next to him with his elbow, pain running through my arm. That's when I felt the jolt. It was terrifying, I was thrown upwards as I crashed into the side of the elevator, my knee taking the full blow. The man rammed into me and we both fell down in a heap on the floor. Tears were streaming down my face and I was shaking uncontrollably when the doors crashed open. "Are you okay? Evacuate now!" A deep voice called, but I couldn't bring myself to move. My eyes stayed wide open and frightened, and I felt like I was frozen in time. I could barely process strong arms lifting me up and carrying me bridal style out of the elevator and onto a stretcher. I was loaded into an ambulance and then I blacked out. #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#_#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#- I was still curled up into a tiny little ball when I woke up in a white hospital bed, but at least I had stopped shaking wildly. "Water," I croaked, to anyone who would listen, blinking slowly, the bright lights blinding me. "Please," I said, my voice cracking and hoarse from all the screaming I had done when the elevator was falling. I noticed a familiar face in the bed next to me. It was the man from the elevator! He had white gauze that had turned a little bit red on his head and leg. He handed me a glass of water from his bedside table, wincing a little as he stretched over to my bed. "See?" he said, smiling slowly, still obviously in lots and lots pain. "All you had to do was say please." And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled back. A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_ Thank you so much for reading! This is my first writing contest entry on Reedsy and it was so much fun to write! - Shriya


1208 words Rated PG; blood, gore Prompt: Set your story on (or in) a winding river. My shoe was gone. I was walking along the stream at noon when it fell in. I was trudging along, tired from lunch, kicking at all the stones in my path. One kept staying in front of me. I made a game of aiming it straight so that I could kick it again. My foot had been off one time. I had kicked it to the left.  On either side of me, fields. Tall stalks of grass shoot out of them. If I cared to venture further, if I wanted to push the grass aside, then I might have found beautiful creatures. There could have been snakes and frogs, crossing paths and nodding. I might have seen a fox, a mouse, or even an owl flying by. Then I wouldn’t have lost my shoe. Instead, I kicked at the ground in anger. I missed the dirt, and my red sandal with white trim was launched into the air. It landed in the water and sank like a brick. babbling water turned into an overwhelming force when the shoe landed. There was a splash, and instantly the waves became so big that they could swallow my waist.

It didn’t slow down. It became a typhoon, expanding onto the other shore and eating up the land. It took about 10 metres of grass before finally settling down, and going back to its calm and peaceful existence. In less than a minute, the stream became a deep river. I had to get my shoe back.

I took off my other shoe and placed it gently on the ground. I could not risk having to do the same thing twice. I removed my beige sweater. It was knitted especially for me, and ruining it would not be a good idea. I also took off my glasses. They would do nothing for me underwater. Following the actions of my shoe, I dove into the water.

I no longer needed to breathe. It wasn’t that I couldn’t--I was frequently inhaling and exhaling. However, breathing no longer did anything to help me live. The water was the only thing I knew I had to have. I began swimming down and was immediately immersed in light. I squinted. The light was warm and looked to be coming from many different spheres. They were mystical, and I had to look closer. I kicked downward just a little more to see what was going on. I was right. My glasses didn’t help my vision. I could perfectly see the scene in front of me without any help. It was unusual to be able to rely on my eyes. But I trusted them. I trusted them that I was seeing a card game, illuminated by a string of lanterns hung in between two rocks. Who was playing, you ask? I’ll tell you. It was minnows. Lake chubs, to be exact. The small fish with a black stripe and yellow and grey bodies were hovering over cards. The cards lay on the river bed and were as big as each fish’s body.

They were all extremely focused on their game. It seemed as though they were playing something of the utmost elegance. Is this what water life does while we humans aren’t watching? Engage in activities that we might not even be able to comprehend? “Go fish!” Yelled a fish. The fish in question was one with deep yellow scales that faded into black at the very bottom. They grabbed one of the cards in front of them, swam to the middle of the circle, and tossed it out of the light of the lanterns. Another fish--probably the one who inquired about what card the first fish had--dutifully turned around and raced out to catch it. The rest of the circle looked in the direction the fish rushed to. For a few seconds, the silence and suspense were unbearable. I found myself holding my breath, which still didn’t do anything.

With an ace of spades in their mouth, the fish emerged. They spat it towards the first fish. “There you go.” They smirked. I think they did, at least. It was a bit hard to tell. The circle cheered and congratulated the fish. They chanted their name--Cora--and danced around them joyfully. “You know,” Cora said, staring straight at the first fish. “There were a lot of human things down there.” The other fish quieted down. Humans had intrigued them. “A tire, a shoe, and even an old telephone.”

My shoe was close. The fish exchanged looks. Maybe. Again, fish aren’t the best at expressing their emotions. “Dinner!” One of the fish exclaimed. They were going to eat my shoe. I turned my head to where the fish had gone. As quickly as I could, I dove in that direction. My Dad would not be happy if I didn’t get my shoe back. It was darker there. I still had faint light from the lanterns, but it was getting further away with each kick. As soon as I found my shoe, I could go back to land. It would be fine. The gravel was small. I might even consider it sand. I tried to put my foot on it. It worked. Suddenly this was my gravity, walking on the river bed like a floor. I would have to go back to where I came from to escape it. My hair still floated above my head, though. I saw two of the human treasures the fish had been talking about. The tire was that of a bike, and the telephone was blue with a twisting cord and no receiver. The third thing that fish had promised, my shoe, was not there. In the place of my shoe was a monster. It had that vague outline of a fish. I could see flippers, a tail, and a fin in front. It was about the size of a refrigerator. I could make out no other details. It was painted in shadows. It reminded me of a black hole, the way it could suck up light.  It faced me. I could not see its eyes, or know if eyes were something it had, but it was facing me. It knew I was there. When I moved a bit to the left or a bit to the right, it followed me. No matter how I maneuvered it was blocking me from going forward. I started walking backwards. I slowly took steps behind me. The thing still followed. It kept pace with me. It had no concern with touching me, only to be able to feel my presence.

I had to run. I could come back later when the creature had gotten bored, and look for my shoe. Until then I could just play and talk with the minnows. As long as I didn’t have to fetch any cards. The thing opened its big mouth and swallowed my entire being. It gulped down my essence. they trapped me forever in a void in the universe. It cut off my arm, and the blood stained my existence. It gouged out my eyes, and my world was now as black as it. It turned my insides to stone, and now I’ll never recover. I didn’t find my shoe.