The darkness was approaching, cascading over the sky in ominous waves of an ashen midnight blue. The last rays of light held on, just as Clifford Freeman held on hope he would make it through one last night. They were growing in size. He bounced his leg as the shotgun remained firmly gripped in his palm. A glimmer of the final light disappeared below the horizon and reflected from the pile of sharp objects sitting before Cliff. He was no fool, he was ready. Everything from his kitchen cleavers to the wood-cutting axe had been collected and lay before him in an arsenal ready to take out an army. He had even decided on the gas can and the box of matches, just in case. The newly dew-covered twilight usually brought with it sounds of the nocturnal animals rousing from their slumber. There would be no crickets chirping tonight. Not even the bats would squeak their echo location. The animals somehow knew to not go near Cliff’s farmland anytime after dark.

He grunted and spat a brown wad of chewed tobacco at the ground, but nothing happened. The longer Cliff sat in his chair in the silence of the night, the more his hair began to stand on end. But it wasn’t the chill in the air that caused it to rise, it was them. He could feel them crawling closer to the surface and his breathing involuntarily began to quicken. “Come on, Cliff, you’ve worked hard for this all summer, you deserve this! Don’t let a bunch of them take you out! You created them, you old fool!” He wondered if he’d heard something, but was too busy pep-talking himself to know. He listened closer still, but couldn’t take the wait. Cliff jumped from his chair in anticipation, turned on the first lantern, and picked up his gun, ready for anything.

First were the roots, always the damn roots. They used their spider-like veins that spread underground for moisture, and turned them into legs, crawling up and out of the rich soil. The ends of the roots were like a prehensile appendage, surprisingly agile. "Ssssss," he tensed at the wriggling of their bodies moving along the packed earth like an army of slithering snake bodies.

Cliff spat at the ground again, this time the dirt responded. It bubbled and broiled like a muddy volcano by his boots spitting rocks and black dirt back at him until it grew still. Then shooting up from under the ground like a spring, it attached itself to Cliff’s face with a set of barbed teeth. He ripped it off, cursing, with a wad of skin from his cheek, and took a good look at the violent culprit.

It was a giant white radish with eye slits of freshly opened red. It snapped its mouth in loud smacks at Cliff in an attempt to find more flesh, and revealed mucky, blood colored root hairs and cruel, razor edged teeth. He threw it into the first hole and quickly pushed the dirt mound over it with his shovel, burying the screeching, demonic radish. He heaved a heavy bag of sand over the mound and hoped it would hold for a while, all night if he was lucky.

The carrots came at him next in an army of a deep, bloodlust orange. The massive growths used their tails to crawl across the dirt at an intense speed and Cliff felt they wanted a taste of him in the moonlight. They sprang at him in a planned formation and he grabbed hold of the wooden pantry door he’d taken off from its hinges in the kitchen. With the extra sets of handles he'd screwed into the middle, the heavy oak door was easily lifted and he ran at them from the side. Cliff yelled a battle cry as he ran at as many of the carrots as he could, barreling them into the dirt pits he’d dug in preparation. Their bodies were much larger than a usual carrot's, causing the man and the door to jerk back with each "thunk" of fibrous mass. He quickly covered the pits before the carrots could escape and heaved the bags of sand on top of the mounds, one by one. In the final pit, a rogue carrot crawled its way back to the top before he could bury it and Cliff gave its massive root body a push with the heel of his boot. As the carrot fell back, it wrapped its end around Cliff’s ankle, caught itself, then attacked him with the thick green carrot top. It threw the greens around him and spit fine, hairy needles through his pants and into his flesh.

"Ockkkkkk!" Cliff cried out as he quickly put on a pair of gloves from his back jeans pocket and pried the carrot off, the body muscular, like wrestling a python. Once Cliff unraveled it from his leg, he couldn't help but pause to admire the beauty of the carrot as it threw its body around and screamed in his grasp. That one will do very nicely , he thought. He grabbed a large cleaver and gave it a good chop to the middle, splitting its coarse body in two. It hollered in a fury at him and he ignored it, chopping away until it was down to fibrous splinters. That would buy Cliff some time before dealing with the beastly carrot again.

It became eerily quiet, as if something else lay dormant waiting for its moment. Cliff sat back down on his creaky lawn chair, took a swig from his beer and dreamily thought about the roots he'd just done battle with. They were splendid specimens, nothing like he'd seen before anywhere. His beauties!

Never in a million years did he think he'd be lucky enough to have found the land for sale when he did. He'd won it in an auction seven years ago when the house was a dilapidating mess. It took a lot of fixing, and most of it he'd left alone, living around its crumbling walls for some time. The repair costs were too much to start, but it came with some acreage and he was excited to use it for growing his crops.

Cliff had first been warned by Charlie Radson, the old geezer in town that was always hanging in the bar. Turns out he'd been born in their little town of Milton and all the rumors, superstitions and stories that came with it were passed down through the generations in his family.

"That land is cursed!" He'd yelled when Cliff went to town for his farming supplies. "My own Daddy said nothing of any good can grow there! You best off not even trying!" Cliff disregarded Charlie’s words as ramblings of a drunken old fool, but realized quickly that, perhaps, they weren’t ramblings after all, and maybe, Charlie wasn’t as much of a fool as he’d thought.  Cliff discovered for himself something wasn't right when he first started farming. First, he noticed the way the lightning hit his land in great, powerful successions during a storm, almost as if something attracted it. Then, when he finally planted, it was relatively harmless tomato plants first. He'd begun to hear the house creak at night. By the end of the first month, he'd found the vined plants had worked their way up through his house floor boards at night and into the bedroom where he slept.

It wasn't until they were mature, sagging with bulbous tomatoes, that they had tried to first kill him. Cliff remembered that night, waking in a gasping need for air as a vine had wrapped tightly around his throat in his own bed. He was lucky to have a pair of shears laying on the bedside table, what he had thought was the result of a momentary paranoid thought that week, had saved his life. It was the last time Cliff would sleep through the night. That vine he’d clipped from his throat was from the first plant he’d collected. The bloodlust that particular one had, was impressive. The tomatoes hanging from it were larger in size and were of a darker, blood red color. He kept its seeds for the next season, tightly tucking them away in his old, metal chest. He knew those seeds were going to be special, he could feel it.

The next season was the first year the vegetables themselves began coming to life at night, taking on human-like characteristics with body parts and noises. And each year, Cliff saved the best; the largest, meanest and strongest for the seeds. Now here he was, face to face with his most fantastic and evil crop yet.

As if in reaction to that thought, the corn began on queue. The popping sounds of the stalks spitting their cobs from the bottom of the hill broke the silence. It happened all at once, the popping filled the air like fourth of July firecrackers. When that had stopped, the thundering sounds of the rolling began. The cobs rolled over the acreage and worked their way up the dirt hill where Cliff sat waiting. The cobs rolled together forming one big wave of green and yellow, an ocean of loud creaky husks. When they reached the top of the hill, they created a formation Cliff had never seen. He watched in awe-struck horror as the cobs weaved together and formed a towering, menacing flower that looked down at him. The flower head bloomed, unraveling more cobs from its center, and created sharp, cob-mouthed petals with a husked, ominous center.

It began to open and close its bloom rhythmically, an electrified jellyfish, with silk that floated in the air from every cob’s mouth. The silk tendrils danced to tempt Cliff into touching them, but he knew better, regardless of how delicate they seemed. He could feel the electricity pull at his own hairs on his head and forearms, buzzing and tickling the skin. Then the flower stopped its captivating dance and dove at him instead. Every cob opened back to reveal a set of small yellow teeth as they chomped at him like a hungry animal looking to devour its next meal. He rolled off to the side just in time, avoiding the bite, but some corn silk swept at him and electrified his body in a jolt of horror.

He’d had enough with this thing, as marvelous as it was, it needed to be put down. Cliff grabbed his chainsaw and started it in one swift tug. He waited until it came down in another bite, then sawed right through as many of the cobs as he could in one slow swing. The corn cob halves dropped to the ground and the flower sagged. He took his chainsaw to the weaved flower stem next, halving up all of those cobs as well. The cobs were left hobbling and rolling around on the earth, as if in agony. Cliff's focus shifted from the cobs as he looked to the bottom of the hill. His biggest concerns were awake now, and they looked for him. He saw their vines come up over the hill before seeing their bodies. The vines held all their weight as they lifted the enormous jack-o-lantern pumpkins and carried them over the ground, walking them like legs. Three massive orange bodies rose over the hillside emanating an orange sun rising from the horizon. Oh, how Cliff wished it were the sun.

The first pumpkin's vines immediately threw its vast body up in the air and it came crashing down at Cliff in a body slam. It would have crushed him easily, as it was almost double his body's size, except Cliff took a rapid dive off to the side, narrowly avoiding the assault.

Another pumpkin came crashing down with its body at Cliff once again, and this time he stuck its gourd flesh with the head of his axe. He was able to get a couple of good chops in before one tried rolling its giant mass at him, but it luckily missed and went rolling back down the hill.

The one pumpkin had it's seedy sludge dripping from where Cliff had opened it with the axe and had now turned into a gaping mouth. It smiled at him in mockery, eerily similar to a carved jack-o-lantern on Halloween. It laughed a deep, devilish laugh and Cliff shivered, he'd never heard one of them laugh. They swept at Cliff's legs with their vines and he went down unexpectedly. Still with the axe in his grip, he began swinging and chopping at the leaves, trying to keep them at bay, but because they were thick and had many shoots, the chopping seemed to be fruitless.

He missed dodging a pumpkin's body in time and it came down, crushing him, as he felt his head get slammed by its globe, then the wetness of blood trickled down his forehead. The body was lifted back up on its vines, prepared for another tackle, and as it came back down, Cliff winced and closed his eyes, unable to move. This was it, the end would be with his pumpkins. Befitting, he thought, as they were his most marvelous plants . But instead of feeling the crushing power he'd expected, a man hollered, enraged, then Cliff felt the heat of a flame.

He opened his eyes and saw a scrawny man's figure hidden beneath a welder's helmet holding a torch turned on full flame. The welder's torch was connected to a couple of cannisters strapped to the man's back and he had an aerosol can he used to blowtorch the pumpkins. They visibly shrank back from the heat until their vines caught fire, then the pumpkins scrambled back down the hill while attempting to put out their flames. The scrawny man turned towards Cliff and lifted his welder's helmet to reveal the tired old face of Charlie.

"I knew you were up to something!" He spat angrily at Cliff revealing some missing teeth.

Cliff shook his head in disbelief, "None of your concern, Charlie!"

"The hell it ain’t! It becomes my concern when I have to swoop in and save your ass!" Charlie offered his hand to help him off the ground and Cliff looked back at him, feeling pretty sheepish. He pulled him up to standing and let him catch his breath. "No more, Cliff. You gotta promise me, this is it. You'll kill yourself playing with this land cursed by hell." Cliff wiped his brow and scoffed.

He was saved from having to answer because the roots had worked their way out of the ground, mended themselves back together, and came at the men in their last round of attacks. They fought the men with every last bit of dark fury.

Cliff brandished his shotgun and began to blast them back to splinters as Charlie equipped his welding gun, setting them aflame. They fought side by side until, finally, an orange sphere on the horizon began to glow at the top of the hill, and this time, it wasn't a dreaded pumpkin. The vegetables began to disappear back into the ground, ready for their comatose slumber. "Okay," Cliff conceded, "I'm done. This is it." Charlie looked at him and raised his fly away brows. They both joined in together in a sudden relief of laughter. "But you have to admit, they are spectacular specimens I’ve created." Cliff said with pride. # One week later, at the Milton County Festival, a booth was covered with cups and ribbons as Cliff stood proudly with his beautiful crop. His produce was selling for a ridiculous price and people were willing to pay.

“I’ve never seen such magnificent carrots,” some would say.  Others would comment, “Just look at the size of those tomatoes!”

But it was the enormous pumpkins the people really talked about. The biggest he had ever grown was on display, the size of a small shed, now forever docile in the sunlight away from Cliff’s land.

It was his pumpkin seeds everyone wanted. They were going for $5.00 per seed, guaranteed to grow. People had heard of Cliff’s pumpkin’s from out of town and made their way to the fair just to get their hands on one of the special seeds, especially after he'd announced this would be his last.

Young Travis Baker came from upstate and had traveled all the way to the festival with his granddaddy. He'd heard of Cliff’s amazing pumpkins and was determined to get his hands on a seed. He was going to make him and his daddy rich by growing a mass of gigantic pumpkins from the one he’d grow with that seed. He'd saved up a long time for one, but the investment would be well worth it.

When he got to the front of the line, he pulled out his clean sock full of coins, ruthlessly dumped out the contents onto the table and counted out the $5.00 for Cliff, beaming with pride. Cliff smiled and handed him the little baggy that held the large pumpkin seed in it and Travis was immediately satisfied.

He began to walk back to find his granddaddy but stopped and dumped out the seed in his hand to have a good look. The feeling of it in his palm gave him goose pimples. The seed went flying out of his hand, almost as if it had jumped! Travis was beside himself as he frantically searched the ground for the lost seed and cursed himself for letting it go. Thankfully, he found it again by his shoe and breathed a sigh of relief. He put it back in the little baggy and secured it safely into his jean's pocket as he ran to find his granddaddy. Travis knew that seed was going to be special, he could feel it. THE END


“Want some?” “I am fine, thanks. Chocolate makes me airsick.” “We are not flying anytime soon, believe me. 20min delay usually means two hours.” “Do you often fly to London?” “I used to. When I was doing my PhD there, my boyfriend used to lived here in Geneva - I traveled back and forth regularly. Never got there, or here, on time. Never.”

Her shining burgundy nails pushed a chocolate ball into her mouth and her masculine jaws crunched it down. From the half-moon tattooed on her wrist, a scent of spicy pomegranate emanated and tickled Elleree's nose. She cleared two chestnut strands off her face with calm assertiveness, as if unveiling a contemporary painting at a reputable auction house. Elleree stared without a blink - she had no idea how old this woman was, but someday she'd look just like her. “He was definitely not worth all that waiting time at the airport.” The woman laughed and hid her teeth with the back of her hand, displaying another wave of scent around - Elleree inhaled and watched her reach for another ball to chomp. “I’m Alicia, by the way. Ali for friends.”

“Elleree, you can call me Elle.” “Elle, hm, hm. French?”, she winked. “No, British.”

“Come on. Don't tell me you dropped your humour at check-in.”

Elleree smiled – she knew that journey would be special. And this woman was a great start. She couldn't take her eyes off her. Hopefully, she would meet people as interesting as her in the coming months. Alicia’s tongue mopped her upper teeth slowly as she looked at the passengers around, oblivious to Elleree's attention. Some were reading, some checking their phones, some sipping coffee and some dazing through the large window - at the lavender clouds that sprinkled the rosy sky of that autumnal evening. The rest of the passengers were harassing the obviously clueless staff. Ali chuckled and ate another chocolate. “What was your thesis about?”, Elleree asked screening her outfit “Didn’t finish it. Got depressed eight months through it and left.” Ali crossed her legs and tapped her upper foot onto an invisible pedal. “Dumped the Swiss guy and enrolled in a fine arts program. Opened an art gallery near Whitechapel. Ever been?” “No. I rarely go to London - I don't like it.” Ali frowned. “Are you flying there for work?” Elle shook her head and smiled internally - she had rehearsed this scene a hundred times over the past few weeks. In those rehearsals, her interlocutor had a blur figure. On that day, she had straight chestnut hair, deer mascaraed eyes and a sassy AllSaints dress. Elle rejoiced at the quality of her audience - from now on, she would only be surrounded with this type of people. “No, I resigned two days ago. I was working for a pharma company in marketing.” Ali's fluffy eyebrows raised. “Sounds like a big step - congrats. Are you planning anything exciting or just benchmarking airports?” Elle laughed. She now had the attention of that woman in leather jacket and designer boots.

“Actually, that’s a long story.” “Well, now is your moment – we have two hours.” Elle wrapped herself into her scarf – although this was October, the AC was on. Or, maybe, that was her being apprehensive. She cleared her throat.

“I don’t know how to describe this and you might think I’m crazy –“ “I like crazy. Crazy is good.”, Ali said with a smile that was supportive and no more witty. “You know, I think we sometimes meet people with whom we feel a deep connection. I am not sure how to define it – it could be that you see yourself in them, or see part of someone or something you wish you were in them. You feel like you have known them forever or that you would complement each other at some level. That there is something deep inside of them, like a treasure, that has a piece of you inside and that, similarly, there is some answer inside of you for them." "I know that feeling." "Right? And you know, I think of life as a quest for the self where one has to find the path that will lead them towards their self. And, I am convinced allies will show up along the way and it’s up to us to recognise them and buddy up with them. They may walk part of the distance with you, they may redirect you, they may have an answer or a piece of information for you – that does not really matter. What matters is that you recognize them and that you do not miss your chance with them. And so, -“ “Is it a he or a she?”

“A he. His name is Henry.” Ali leaned her head on her folded elbow. “And so?” “And so, I’ve met several of those people already and have always trusted my instinct in following them or making sure that we don’t part without having had a conversation. It has always brought wonders in my life and I would, by no means, really, by no means, be where I am today if it weren’t for those people I have met and trusted along the way. I have identified a pattern of them being usually females that I make eye contact with, usually at a conference or a place that provides for teaching. University, a class of whatever sorts. Something like that. Somehow, we start to talk, and things unfold after months. Usually, we stay in touch for a couple of years and drift away. Serenely. We know we will never be in touch again and that’s as if our paths had to continue and we would, if we were to stay in touch, only hinder the progression of each other. But with -” “But with Henry, it’s different." Ali smiled. "How is he different?” “He doesn’t fit into the pattern. In any way. And that makes it so intriguing. We met through a friend, so I wouldn't define it as a calling from the soul. It's more like an encounter, like a step in the life stairs that I have to climb. You know, if I were honest with myself, I'd say I am not even sure I can trust him. I don't think I've ever had." "But..." "But I felt he needed my support because he is from a broken family. Wealthy but somehow dysfunctional." "Did he tell you? Did he open up about it?" "Yes and no. I just noticed he creates an artificial distance with people. All the time, but not with me, maybe because he knows I'm observing from afar and that he can rely on me. But he does so, I suppose, to protect himself. Which is funny because he can seem friendly at first and keep that mask on throughout interactions. But if you look closer, you can see the cracks. Thin and delicate cracks." Elleree felt the tips of her fingers drawing the lines for the laces of a Venetian mask as if it were sewed into her skin. A quick chill ran down her spine - she wasn't aware this story was that intense and embodied in her. And she was sharing this in the empty terminal of the Geneva airport with this stylish woman she barely knew. Maybe it just did matter to her. It did. She gulped down saliva and her rubbed her right eye out of shyness, perhaps. But shyness was nothing compared to what she had to express, so she went on. "He creates this layering to distance himself from people. And that is something that he does willingly and consciously. I even thought for a while that it was something, he did to test how likely you are to stick around… potentially once you find out the truth about him?” “What truth?" “I am not sure yet, but I want to uncover – “ "I see. But do you really want to stick around someone who hides behind a fence? It's usually not a good sign." "I see it as a mystery calling for exploration." “Careful - mystery often means fast-track to disappointment.” “Yes. But no. I mean. Yes and no. I just know I have to do it." A slight frown weighed over Ali's eyebrows as she stared at Elle. "Do you think I'm crazy?" "Not at all. It's good you're trusting your gut - I like it. And I trust your judgement. But then, he isn't one of those people you mentioned, right? So -" "I know there is something deep inside and I am committed to finding out what that is." "I see." "Because he needs me.” “Bold of you.” Ali said with a mild smile. "But I get what you mean. It's nice to be in that situation although it hasn't happened to me in ages. And I find, on the other end, the other person doesn't always reciprocate. It's like they shut down, you know?' “I know and I guess that's why I can't fully trust him. But I think we all go with what we can share at a given time and I want to see what's hiding beneath the surface. I'm not sure I need more." “Are you moving to London for him?” “No, we are flying to Chile together from London Heathrow. Our flight is in 5 hours, I hope I won't miss the connection.” Elle grabbed her backpack from the seat behind her and dragged it forward, showing it to Ali. “That’s all I'll have for the trip. And you know what? It feels good. I have always longed for such an adventure and I’m excited to go with him. He studied curating at Goldsmiths and has worked for the Latin American section at the Tate Modern. He has an art project that he wants to develop there with one of the artists who exhibited at the museum a couple of years ago. The project is quite advanced, and I’ll be helping with the marketing.  This is all I have ever dreamed of.” A grey veil passed through Ali’s deer eyes. She tried to push the right corner of her mouth upwards to simulate a smile, but she couldn’t. "So you're leaving your life for this trip." She paused, for a moment. And as if to herself, she went on. "But well, those adventures are what keeps us alive, what makes us memorable. And isn't that what we all want?" Ali's dark pupils softened. "How old are you again?” “27. I’ll turn 28 in January. And you?” “41.” Ali unfolded her legs and turned towards the panoramic window that overlooked the runway. She stared at the parked planes as if trying to guess what countries they were from. She looked back at Elle, without facing her. “As time passes, I realize that, no matter what risks you take, you’ll always feel like you could and should have taken more. That settling, even for a single day, committing to a job, to a city or whatever, is wasted opportunity, believe me. I wish I had done more of those jumps when I was younger." “You still can. You can even join us. I’m sure we can find you something for a couple of months – you could find someone to cover for you in Whitechapel.”

Ali looked at her and kept silent. “I’ll think of it.”, she finally said. "Are you apprehensive?" "A bit but I guess that's what happens every time you make that type of decisions. And, you know, we have known each other for four years now, I know we will always be around for each other. That we will learn along the way and that, in this, will be our most significant metamorphosis. So, although he does not fit that pattern I mentioned, I am positive he belongs to the group of people I trust to change my life and me theirs." Ali nodded. "You remind me of a song - Gracias a la vida by Violeta Parra ." Ali reached for her phone and scrolled down a playlist. " She's from Chile, by the way. She was also a visual artist - I'm sure your friend would know about her. It's funny, she too did a lot for someone she loved. I think he was Swiss actually." She paused and looked up from her phone. "Maybe I should recontact my Swiss guy."

****** “What’s your seat number?” “5B I think, let me check -” “Mine is 23E. In case I don’t see you when we land, here is my card - maybe I can make you like London again.”, Ali said with a smile. “Thank you, I’ll definitely visit. And I’ll also tell Henry about you - I'm sure you two would get along great.” “You know, it's funny. When I saw you with your backpack and potato clothes, I would not have expected you to have such an inspiring story to tell.” Ali stared at her for a long moment. "Really nice meeting you."

****** Last call for passengers of British Airways, flight number 8755, destination Santiago de Chile “Haskell. H-A-S-K-E-L-L. Could you please check one last time?” “Henry Haskell, that’s right. I am afraid, Miss, there are no tickets under this name.” “But it can’t be... Are you sure – “ “I am sorry, Miss. We have to close the gates now. Are you onboarding or not?”


“Rollin’ down that dusty road, windows down Leavin’ troubles behind this small town” “Turn that down a notch Jayce, I gotta pee man, could you pull over the nearest gas station?” “Fuck you man, why do you gotta pee every fifteen minutes? stop drinking from that damn 6-pack you got back there. It’s not like we’re short on supplies and we’re fighting these Megatrons.” “It’s Mechatrons actually-” I give Michael a side glance through the front view mirror. I don’t like his company that much, but he’s the only person that knows how to get to the resistance. We come across an abandoned gas station and I pull over for Michael to go pee. “Make it quick” I say as he gets out of the vehicle towards the toilet doors. I grab my pack of Marlboro and light a cigarette while waiting. Robots weren’t a threat to humanity, I think to myself as I exhale a long stream of smoke and watch it dissipate. I couldn’t help but think how different things used to be. Robots were never meant to be weaponized, but here we are several updates later and every damn robot made us its bitch. I take my last puff and flick my cigarette to the sidewalk. Michael doesn’t usually take that long to take a piss so I grab my pistol and head over towards the toilets. I walk towards the doors and squint through the splintered wood of the restroom door, my heart hammering in my chest. Silence. Then, a metallic clunk echoed through the stale air. My breath hitched as I peer through the crack, my gaze snagging on a sight that sent a jolt through me. Michael stood with his hands raised, a chrome behemoth of a robot stood over him. A yellow light beamed from its chest, scanning Michael - A reconnaissance unit, what in the world was that robot doing in there? “Failure to comply will result in brute force” the robot droned, its voice a grabbing monotone. “You have been warned” Michael’s voice was shaky, “Hey man, I was just using the toilet, no need for all that” I slowly open the door trying not to trigger any sensor. “Stun gun, activated” the robot announced. It’s arm shot out, charged with a stun gun about to be fired. I raise my arm with the robot’s head locked in my sight and pull the trigger with the release of my breath. The shot echoed through the abandoned gas station. The robot jerked as it fell, its yellow light no longer a threat. I look at Michael with disgust on my face, “Did you just fart? What is that smell? ” Michael was still processing the events that happened, but he was relieved shortly after he heard my voice. “We need to leave ASAP because this thing just called for backup” he finally uttered catching a breath. We get into our vehicle and I hit the gas. I guess serving in the army did me good back there, I would never have made that shot otherwise. As we drove along I noticed something off about the area we’re in, that robot wasn’t supposed to be there at all. “Ey Michael, you sure we’re on the right track here?” “Um, they didn’t exactly give me clear directions but if we are, we’re supposed to be seeing some resistance graffiti and go through a couple of checkpoints.” “Fucking hell Michael! Are we lost?” The day was coming to an end, and we’d been driving for hours. I spot a cabin from afar and drive towards it. The sun was setting when we arrived at the cabin. I told Michael to stay close as we scout the parameter for any potential surprises when suddenly a voice screams from behind us “Don’t you boys move a god damn inch” a voice of a man whose prime had long gone. Armed with a shotgun. “Identify yourselves” Michael froze, it was the scenario at the abandoned gas station toilet all over again. He started stuttering his words” “We’ve lost our way and we’re looking for some help. My friend here got us the wrong directions to the resistance” I intervene. “The resistance you say? Well you’re definitely in the wrong neighborhood, but I can help” The man lowers his weapon and invites us into his home. He seemed like someone I’d see myself becoming once I’m old. A good old retirement house in the middle of nowhere filled with books, movies, and a pet dog. “Name’s Ethan by the way. I will allow you to stay here the night and I will guide you to the resistance by morning” The man was generous enough to make us vegetable soup and let us crash on his couch. Morning came and I woke up to the undeniable smell of pancakes. It seemed that our host woke up early to get fueled up for the day to come. I nudge Michael awake. “Wake up, let’s help Ethan make breakfast”, he blinked groggily and sniffed the air. “Oh man, that smells amazing” We shuffled out to the kitchen, our stomachs rumbling, to find our host flipping pancakes on the battered old stove. He glanced over his shoulder and gave us a warm smile. “Gentlemen! thought you two could use a good breakfast before we head out for the day.” he said as he was stacking pancakes onto our plates and joined us pouring a cup of strong black coffee from a cowboy coffee maker. “So.. What’s your story? How on earth did you end up here?” I glance at Michael and smile at the craziness of it all. “We are researchers at the university back in the capital.” I began. “We were involved in a groundbreaking research on how the government is abusing the GNA-F1 substance that powers the Mechatrons and using it on Humans in an attempt to create cyborgs, but then the government started cracking down on dissents, started rounding people up” Michael picked up the thread “We got involved in a few protests, demanding transparency and to end these unethical experiments. I had a contact at the resistance, we managed to escape with critical data on our hard drive but we threw away any traceable devices and went completely offline.” “You’ve got guts kids. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with the resistance. We better start moving soon.” We help clean the dishes and set off leaving the cabin behind, riding behind Ethan hoping that amidst all this chaos that there will be hope. For us and for a generation to come.


Zach had saved a table at his favorite brewery, Top Hops . Neither his girlfriend, Emma, nor his best friend, Quinn, were here yet. He checked his watch, while tapping his foot impatiently. He hated sitting alone and being early, but someone had to save a table or else they'd just be standing around and not enjoying their drinks in the same way. This sense of duty to arrive early both compelled and prided Zach. It slightly bothered him that Emma was late, but he had gotten used to Quinn’s tardiness over the years of their friendship.

About ten minutes after Zach arrived, Emma pulled up in her white sedan and parked. She took out her bejeweled smartphone to see if her boyfriend, Zach, had texted her that he had arrived yet. She knew it was probable - Zach was always on time. He made sure to be there first, otherwise “it’d be a nightmare,” as he would say. Imagine having to wait ten more minutes for a seat, she thought with a sigh. Even though she loved Zach, this particular affinity for doing things a certain way did sometimes rub her the wrong way. Sometimes, she had this nagging intrusive thought of texting him her frustration. But when she weighed her frustration against her love for him, the small annoyance didn’t really matter. It was just a thought and nothing more. As she was checking her phone, another car quickly pulled in beside hers. She glanced up to see Quinn, wearing expensive sunglasses as he drove his modern red sports' car. He looked over at her and smiled. She sighed a little bit. She always hated walking in with Quinn instead of Zach, but her and Zach never arrived at the same time. That intrusive thought came back. She pushed her phone back into her purse to shake off the temptation. Quinn strode out from his car and around to her. "Em!" Quinn shouted, arms open wide. He came in for an embrace. She always hugged him back, but tried to make it quick. It was no secret to Emma that Quinn had an obsession with her. She and Zach had talked about it on more than one occasion. The compliments Quinn always said to her, the gifts he gave to her, the opportunities he took advantage of to sit across from her and stare deeply into her eyes. If Zach wasn't such a confident guy, she didn't think their friendship would still be working out. But since Zach wasn't threatened, and she was not attracted to Quinn, they allowed the dynamic to remain. "Is Zach here yet?" Quinn asked as they began walking side by side into the bar. "What do you think?" she retorted. Somehow, her tone had come out bitterly. The intrusive thought wasn’t going away as easily this time. Quinn picked up on it immediately. "You know, I'm never on time. It's one of my charms." She laughed. He smiled proudly. One of Quinn's favorite things about Emma, that he always complimented her on, was her laugh. He tucked a lock of his straight, coiffed black hair behind his ear to accentuate his squared jaw. "You two are very different, you know," Quinn added. "Yeah, opposites attract. Haven't you ever heard that?" "Opposites attract, yeah. Men and women. They're opposites. That's what the expression means." "No, it does not," she said, then a sudden doubt arose in her mind. "I hope that wasn't your main criteria for dating my boy Zach," Quinn added as he purposefully brushed his arm against hers. Before she could protest, they came inside. Zach saw them both and stood up. He was well-dressed, usually overdressed for an evening out. He immediately put his arm around Emma who smiled blissfully. Quinn looked away and sighed to himself. Then Zach came over and greeted Quinn with a slide and pound. They all sat down - Zach and Emma on one side of the table and Quinn on the other side, directly across from Emma. They made small talk about work, school (Emma was in nursing school, but Zach and Quinn were both already in their careers), and told many jokes. After a little bit, Zach excused himself to use the bathroom. He had a small bladder and had to go after just one beer. "There he goes again," Quinn said. "I swear his bladder is smaller than a pine nut." Emma laughed again. He smiled the same way as before. Then he leaned in across the table. "How did he do it?" Quinn whispered. She furrowed her brow. "Do what?" "How did he land you? I mean, I love the guy, but I wouldn't date him. He's too... particular. You strike me as the type of girl who likes someone more... laid back." Insulted, she sat up, and said firmly, "Enough. It's none of your business. Okay?" Pulling back from the table and raising his hands innocently, Quinn got up to get himself another drink. "I'll be right back," he said. Emma took out her phone and began scrolling through social media. She wanted to distract herself. She was getting a little tired of hanging out with Zach's friends, especially Quinn. She texted her friend, Alaine, and asked if she wanted to meet them at the bar. That would be a good buffer for Quinn’s inappropriate advances towards her. Meanwhile, Zach was sitting on the toilet, typing away on his own phone. He hated being at the bar with Quinn and Emma. The confidence that Quinn had, the natural poise and bravado. Those were things he desperately wanted. He felt so boring by comparison. Before Zach headed to the bathroom, Quinn had dominated the conversation with all the interesting things he was up to. While Zach worked a normal 9-5 office job, Quinn was the lead developer at a video game franchise. He was making lots of money and was only twenty-six. He had two sports cars, his own house with a pool, and lots of pets and leisure. Every other week he was on vacation it seemed like. Zach was struggling to impress Emma. His dingy little apartment, used SUV, and pathetically cheap date night ideas was going to inevitably lead to Emma leaving him. For someone like Quinn. Someone more interesting and fun. He just wanted that confidence. As he sat there with his phone open, Zach had this intrusive thought of breaking up with Emma. He didn’t want to, she hadn’t done anything. She was perfect in his eyes. But he had become even more self-conscious since they started dating. He was constantly beating himself up for not doing enough. Even his successful dates still had drawbacks in his mind. But he tried to shake off the thought. Emma wasn’t the problem. It was him. Flushing the toilet, he got up and looked at himself in the mirror. She always told him he was handsome, but he doubted it. His long working hours and volunteer work left little time for the gym or even a good shave. He noticed strange, long hairs under his chin and… Was that toothpaste in his mustache? He wiped his face with a towel and cleaned up, but he couldn't do anything about the random neck hairs he'd missed. With a sigh, he tried to collect himself and came back out. To his surprise, Emma's friend Alaine was sitting at the table beside her now. Quinn was not around. He came over and sat across from Emma. "Hey, Alaine, when did you get here?" Emma leaned in and whispered, "Quinn was being a jerk so I brought Alaine to intimidate him." Alaine was not easily pushed around and she was Emma's protective friend until she had approved of Emma's choice of Zach. He was honored, but still couldn't quite understand how he'd passed the tests. "Oh, don't be bothered. He gets like that when he’s buzzed is all," Zach said. "Is he always buzzed?" Alaine said, causing Emma to laugh. Just then, Quinn came back with a new round of beers. "To friendship," he declared, setting down the tray full of bottles and glasses.

The round was more than Zach would have ordered for himself. At $9 a pint, he tried to limit himself to one beer. When Quinn did stuff like this without asking, it always bugged him. But he hated to be in debt to anyone, even friends. "I'll Venmo you," Zach said, taking out his phone. "Pish posh," Quinn said. "It's on me,” Zach nodded, then began to put his phone away. Then Quinn added, “I know you need the money, so." The words were like daggers to Zach's fledgling ego. "Screw you, bro." He yelled, abruptly leaving the table and going outside. Emma got up quickly after him and followed him out. Alaine stayed seated, arms folded, glaring at Quinn. "What?" he said. "Zach’s fine. He probably didn't get the raise he was going for or something like that." "Mhmm," she retorted. Outside, Emma found Zach pacing back and forth with both hands in his jacket pockets. "Hey, what was that all about?" Emma asked. "I know he's a jerk but that seemed sort of out of character for you." Deciding to tell the truth, Zach laid it all out, or all that he could lay out in five minutes. Emma stood there quietly until he finished. "Babe, you really think that Quinn is better than you? There is nothing better about him than you, trust me." "Are you kidding? He has everything I want, babe." She took his words personally, taking a step back from him. "Well, he doesn't have me." Since he didn’t respond right away, she turned around and walked away from him. Going back inside, Emma grabbed her purse and tugged on her friend’s shoulder. "Alaine, let's go." Alaine wasted no time. They got up and left without a word to Quinn. Emma barely said a word to Zach as she walked past him. She just said they were leaving. And they did. Zach came back inside, defeated, and sat slouched in his chair. Quinn held out a beer to his friend. "Nature's cure-all, pal." "Thanks," Zach said, taking the glass. "Why am I such a failure?" "Failure? Bro, look at your freaking life. You have what every guy wants." "No, you have what every guy wants," Zach said. There was a moment of silence between them. "Are you saying you… Want to house sit for me next weekend? Cause I'm going to Cancun with the folks for four days," Quinn said. "No, I--" he thought about it, "Okay maybe, sure. But what I mean is you have the life... I may have the girl, but I don't have anything else going for me." Quinn pensively tapped his beer bottle against his lip. "Well, I have the job, the house, the cars... But I don't have anything else going for me." It was the first real moment they'd had since Emma and Zach started dating three months ago. "So you've been looking at my life with envy?" Zach asked, baffled. "Yeah. And you've been looking at my life with envy?" Quinn said, taking a swig of beer. They sat there in silence for a moment. The realization was slowly sinking in. "You know," Quinn said slowly. "My company is hiring. It's entry-level, but it'd be more exciting than ordering seat cushions for a living..." Zach perked up. "Hmm. Also, I was thinking, Emma's cousin Steph is single again. Remember the one you talked to at her birthday party? The one with the green highlights in her hair." "Yeah," Quinn said reminiscing. He looked down woefully. "Nah, she probably wouldn't go for me." What he really wanted was Emma. "No, no, Emma and I can talk you up. I'll be your wingman." Quinn gave a half-hearted smile. "This is why we're best friends, Zach. We fill in each other's gaps." "Cheers to that," Zach said. They clinked Zach’s glass against Quinn’s bottle then both took a drink. Quinn stared at Zach. Even though he was his best friend for years, this sense of boiling jealousy never abated. Zach was always more desirable to women, and it drove Quinn crazy. "Do you ever wonder if in an alternate reality, there's a version of me with your girlfriend, and a version of you with my job?" Quinn said. Zach coughed up his last sip. "And, you ruined the moment," Zach said, getting up and leaving. "I will Venmo you. For that beer. I don’t want to owe you anything.” In a short time, Quinn had scared everyone away. He sighed, eyeing the two beers Emma and Alaine had left behind. He quickly chugged one of them then slammed it down on the table. Fury was rising up inside of him. Zach was probably gonna go home and call Emma. They were probably going to make up and be all jolly and cheerful together. Quinn couldn’t fight this hatred he was feeling. He looked around at the rest of the bar. A table of women who’d witnessed some of the scene earlier glared at him with judgmental stares. Women who were detested by him.

He eyed Emma’s unopened beer bottle. He had had four already tonight. He was seeing the bottles shift back and forth in his vision. Then he had a wicked idea. Picking up the bottle, Quinn ran outside. Zach was still approaching his car and fumbling for his keys. He never heard Quinn coming. With his blood pumping, Quinn swung the bottle at the crown of Zach's skull. It shattered and Zach fell forward with a yell. His forehead struck the SUV’s bumper and made a dent. He fell face down on the concrete and did not move. Quinn's hand was shaking. His vision was blurry but it came back into startling focus. The initial rage was gone. "Zach, Zach! Get up, man." He tried to lift him, but Zach's head had a greenish purple color at the forehead and temple. He was not responding. Even though he was struggling to, Quinn had to think fast. He couldn't go to the police or even the hospital after what he’d done. Driving with the body in the trunk, Quinn went to the top of the highest hill in town. "Zach liked my car. Maybe he stole it. Yeah, that'll work." Putting the car in neutral and getting out, Quinn bit his lip. The car inched, then scooted forward towards the edge of the hill. It went over the top and quietly fell down. The crash was loud. Very loud. Lights went on in the neighborhood. Quinn climbed down. He walked for an hour then got home, unlocked his house door, greeted his dogs, then got in bed and fell asleep. Even though he was a prime suspect, and the police investigated him for weeks, Quinn was never convicted for the crime. It had been ruled a drunken accident…

It wasn't immediate, but eventually, Emma began to love him. She had been angry when Zach was found dead, as she assumed Quinn was responsible for Zach’s death. But once the cops cleared him of guilt, she apologized to Quinn. She cried in his arms. Then eventually they kissed. The rest was history. Thirty years later, sitting on his deck of their beautiful vista in Italy, an older, fatter Quinn looked out on the night sky. A more fragile, but still delicately beautiful Emma came out and kissed him goodnight. The grandkids were coming over tomorrow. He smiled and said goodnight. "So," he said alone and to himself. "So this is the alternate reality." Thinking back, he had had a good life. But the haunting memory of what he had done had never gone away. He had gotten everything he wanted, but he had lost his best friend in the process. It wasn't worth it. At the bar that night, Quinn stared at his fourth beer. His eyes went back into focus. He called an Uber. "Please take me home right away," he told the driver. Then he called Zach from the car. "I don't want your life, man. I'm sorry. I like the way my life is. And you should too. You really should appreciate it. Enjoy Emma and we'll talk about that job tomorrow, okay?" Zach agreed. He and Emma had made up and they were together in his apartment. He had called her and apologized, explaining more about his insecurities. His life was much better than he felt it was. He had called her from his small apartment and they talked on the phone for an hour, before she realized she wanted to come over and be with him in person. He sat on the couch with her and looked at his flat screen TV, kitchen amenities, and framed picture of his family. He actually had it pretty good. And the best part was his relationship. Even though he had doubts and fears, they were not worth a life without Emma. What they all three realized that same night was that sometimes all you really needed to hold your life together was a little gratitude, forgiveness, and perspective.


“Explain.” The word I now dread most. Before this I was a teacher; explaining things was my job. This is how a cell works. Here is our evolutionary tree. The three types of rock are igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic. Explaining things to children takes time and patience, but they learn, grow, and eventually become full-fledged members of society, ready to consume content, post asinine opinions online, and forget everything I’ve taught them. The circle of life. “Explain.” I shudder. The inquiring alien is a hulking mass of tentacles and eyes, wearing a crown of nebulae. Its sceptre is made of pure energy, its garments are sewn from cosmic dust. It blinks, and its eyes flutter like a crowd wave at a baseball game. In the time it takes to complete the blink, cosmoses flare into and out of existence. I still struggle with seeing time this way, from the top down.

Explain? You want to know about the weird time here? Imagine yourself in the mirror. You look good today, nose, eyes, normal human anatomy. Now imagine the mirror also shows you the back of your head and the view from the ground when you stand on it. You can see your muscles, your skeleton, what you’ve had to eat today. Simultaneously. That’s life in this alien dimension. The mind reels. “Explain!” I can’t hold it off any longer. We launch into our eternal back-and-forth ritual. A human invention sits in front of me, this time a comb. It can be anything they’ve dug up over the years, broken tile, a soccer ball, a DVD of the seventh season of ‘Frasier.’ “This is a comb,” I say. “It’s for styling one’s hair. People use them to untangle knots, too. This one is made of plastic, in a country called China, that’s in those little gold letters there. This comb is black, probably disposable. Human beings love to throw things away, and do it with relish.” “Explain. They style their hair, then dispose of this? Why? It’s a perfectly good . . . Comb, you called it.” “Explain. That’s all you ever say to me. Look,” I say, running my hand along my bald head. “I didn’t use the things much, didn’t have much need. Give me something I know about. Action movies. Video games. A DVD from the eighth season of Frasier. You know, pop culture. I’m no historian.” I groan. “We’ve been at this for centuries. I’m ready for a break.” “Explain.” “Explain? Explain what? My feelings?” I hurl the comb at the alien. It bounces harmlessly off and floats toward Pluto. “You scoop me up from my planet along with a bunch of junk — you’re Alaskan crab fishermen, and I’m the crab. You’ve got me explaining details of our civilization one by one, using terms you may not even understand. ‘Explain Christmas, explain inflation, explain the appeal of Gwyneth Paltrow.’ It’s impossible!” I pause for a moment to wipe the spittle from my mouth. “I’ve been in your clutches for eons, answering your endless questions, and you’ve never once answered one of mine. So no more.” I crossed my arms defiantly. “Your turn. Explain.” “Explain? Very well,” the alien rumbled, its voice like a semi truck passing by. “Normally subjects are terrified; they explain until they expire. But I can see you’re a curious man, our species loses hair too as we swell with knowledge.” I tried not to picture one of these ghastly beasts with hair. “My identification is Skim. I’m a researcher and author of travel guides.” He held up a dodecahedron and it blazed with swirls of knowledge.

“Explain. Saber-toothed puff-dog.” A frightful hound materialized before me, eight feet long, with a pink, puffy coat like a Chow Chow and a toucan-like beak. From the beak extruded four fangs, completing the image of a perverse quadruped. It croaked a deep ribbit. A voice oozed from the dodecahedron. “Saber-toothed puff-dog. Found in the jungles of the Yo-Yo System, these fierce predators of the forest make terrific pets for the energetic inhabitants of Yo-Yo III who like to walk the dog. Around the world, these dogs are sometimes known as ‘sleepers,’ due to their hibernation strategies where they rock the baby dogs to bed.” “Explain. Galactic core.” The hideous dog vanished, replaced with a complex map of the center of the Milky Way. “The galactic core is 10,000 light years-” “Explain. Earth comb.” The galaxy dissolved, leaving only the dim red light shining from the dodecahedron. “Not found.” Skim shrugged its tentacles. “I need your knowledge to complete my latest installment. ‘Skim’s Guide to the Milky Way: See the best 2% the galaxy has to offer.’ Earth has quite a few treasures, did you know your moon and sun ratios are practically identical? The eclipse you take for granted is a natural wonder of the galaxy, your people can really get some tourism specie. Once you start advertising it correctly, beings from all over the galaxy will swarm to your tiny corner.” “Explain. Advertising correctly? Swarm?” I ask. “It sounds like you want to take over Earth. Conquer it.” I began to sweat profusely. “Everyone who tried to conquer Earth has failed, we’re a resilient species, and there’s nothing we hate more than non-humans. That’s why dictators compare minorities with rats.” “Explain. Rats. Never mind, we’ll come back to that. I don’t want to conquer you,” Skim said, laughing so hard its rows of teeth dance. “I like Earth, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s a dump, and there are some bad neighborhoods. Have you ever been to the Colosseum? Those Romans don’t care who gets thrown in there. Your government doesn’t make real contact until 1947.” Skim smiled. “Let my book do the work, and soon you’ll be swarmed with aliens. Earth real estate will be worth a fortune soon, there are many ancient beings looking to retire near a yellow star.” “Explain. How is this not being conquered?” I ask. “You can’t show up somewhere, declare it beautiful, and decide to move in. You’ll be taking land from us. We’re the native people,” I say. “And if this is hurting my planet, you won’t get any more information from me. I won’t be explaining chocolate ice cream, the sunrise, brown paper packages tied up with strings, or ménage à trois. That last one is great. You’ll have to kill me and dump my body in a space ditch.”

“Explain. Native?” Skim chucked again. “You aren’t native. Your people moved to Earth, just like you moved from your planet before that, and the one before that. Humans are as plentiful in the galaxy as suns. You came to a planet, declared it empty, killed the local Neanderthals, and now you’re angry someone might do it to you. And if you won’t explain Earth’s ways, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Explain,” I say. Skim lifts the dodecahedron, and I feel each atom in my body buzzing, churning, longing to separate from its cohorts. My body is alive with vibration, each cell burns as the mitochondria swell and begin to revert to stardust. My tongue falls away, and with my last breath I gasp, “Stop.” My body becomes one again, and I collapse to the floor, heaving in pain. Skim points a long, terrible tentacle at me. “Explain.”


Slowly, stiffly, a bird passing through a cloud, reality grabbed at his unfettering mind. The wind from the open window wafted over him sweetly, its tender touch a lover’s gentle caress. His eyes were closed tight like sealed tombs, and he felt the dream begin to leak out. He saw green eyes, red hair, flames shimmering on the waves. A smile spread itself across his diffused face as the spring air carried him away. She slipped away in shades until the scene was black and cold. Slowly, stiffly, his eyes began to open. He was alone. The flames were now dull phosphorescent lights; green eyes, a pale tiled floor; red hair, plastic prescriptions. He looked down at his limp hands laying useless in his lap. The armrests of his wheelchair, peeled and discolored, pressed against his sides. In the distance, a mountain behind fog, his feet scraped the ground placidly. Between the gentle gusts, the stale smell of the care facility clogged his throat. How many times had he awoken here? He slid his hand into the pond but found no fish. It felt an age and then some. It felt a second or third day; not quite new, not yet old. A hundred years or a handful of days, the smell was always new. He could taste it. It was a demon ‘round his throat. He wanted to spit, drink deep, wash it away, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Oh, you’re awake,” the voice pulled him from his disgust. “I opened the window. Hope that’s okay.” He tried to speak, but only a small grunt left his lips. The nurse was young, her hair gold in the sunlight… running beneath the setting sun, windblown cheeks, a laugh waiting to escape... Her eyes touched him softly, and he shrank beneath her gaze. Was it pity he saw? Disgust? Is there a difference? He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. But he did none of that. Couldn't or wouldn’t, he pretended not to know. Instead, his head dropped to the side towards the window in a half nod. “You want me to close it?” Her voice was soft, almost imperceptible. He moved his head a fraction of an inch in the other direction to tell her no. He looked down at his hands and screamed at them silently to move. They sat frozen like an old dog lying in the sun. Finally, a finger twitched in the direction of the window. “You want to look out the window?” She said with a small smile. “Blink twice if you do!” Her voice was playful now. He blinked twice in quick succession, surprising even himself. A quivering smile followed it, and the nurse beamed with delight. She pushed him softly towards the window. “It’s so good to see you like this. It’s been a while since I saw you smile.” He tried to grunt. “All right, here we are!” She positioned him in front of the window and locked the chair with a dull click. She bent over next to him, her hand on his shoulder. She looked into his eyes and he could smell the sea, felt the soft sand on his feet. “I’ll be back to check on you. It’s so beautiful out today. Enjoy it for me.” Her voice echoed out, ripples on water, and he felt sick. He watched her stand and walk away, his eyes begging her to stay as he watched her go. He pulled himself from her and brought his eyes to the window. The sun shone brightly in the sky, bathing the grass in splendid light; a field of emeralds shivering in the crisp spring air. Flowers, yellow, blue, violet, lined the sidewalk that passed his window. Their sweet scent surrounded him, and he wondered if he’d ever smelled something so wonderful. Small bees darted around the flowers like children on a playground. The trees stretched their limbs, which creaked and groaned in the breeze. The leaves shuffled like laughter in the wind. There, far off, a black dot marred the azure sky. Suddenly, the trees froze. The bees stopped mid-flight, the flowers stiff. The wind ceased, and he could no longer hear the groaning. Everything stopped for only a moment. Then, the bees flew backwards. The trees shifted unnaturally, their groans strained and creaks turned cracking. The flowers jumped backwards, and their scent began to fade. His stomach turned and he shut his eyes tight. After a few moments, the tomb unlocked and he could see again. The window, trees, bees, flowers, were all gone. Now, the sea pulsed in front of him. The sun was lower now, straddling the water’s edge. All the world was gold. He breathed in the briny air, tasted the salt. He looked down and realized he was standing, sand beneath his bare feet. Ahead, a pier jutted out of the coastline. The lights along the edge shimmered in the twilight, and he could see crowds of people walking the length. He turned his head and his heart seized. She was there, her hand entwined with his. Her long red hair flowed behind her, caught and fluttering in the wind. She had a slight smile on her face as she watched the waves. Her lilac dress turned about her, the long ends dancing around rhythmically. She turned her head towards him, her green eyes glistening mischievously at him, her smile fuller now. “I’ll race you there,” she shouted before breaking from him. She ran quickly, and he followed dutifully, the laugh easily passing from his lips. She always won their races. She stopped near the pier and turned around, her hair like fire as it blew around her. She was laughing, her sweet voice drifting towards him with the wind’s gentle push. Her cheeks were red, her eyes piercing. Had there ever been such a magnificent sight? Behind her, behind the pier, the black dot grew larger than the sun. The ground beneath cracked open, and he fell down, a scream caught in his throat. Deeper, deeper. The world shifted and he began to rise, the stars in the sky speeding towards him. Higher, higher. A shift, and he was falling, then rising, falling, rising. The world stopped and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. His knees drop downwards, and the sand beneath his hands collected into a soft white sheet. He was standing, leaning on a bed. The room was cold and sterile. The window was shut, and he couldn’t see the sun. All was gray. He turned his head in despair, and there she was. She lay with her eyes open, lost in some distant sea. He grabbed her hand and she broke from her stupor. She turned her face towards him, and her eyes burned anew. Her hand was cold and weak, but her fingers snaked their way between his. Not long , he heard from some corner. It’s time. We tried. The whispers chattered around him, drowning out everything else. “I always win our races,” she said softly, her voice warm. The whispers died at the sound of her voice, and everything was her. Despite himself, he smiled meekly. “It’s been a while since I saw you smile. But, my love, please, I wanted it this way. Me before you. I don’t think I could live with the grief.” She smiled sweetly. He tried to respond, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Promise me…” She looked tired and weak, as if the wind alone could snuff her out. “Everything is so beautiful in the setting sun… They say tomorrow will be a beautiful day…” Her voice trailed off, and he looked away so she didn’t see his tears. In the sky, the black dot grew and grew. He begged it to go, begged for another moment. He turned back towards her, and she was looking back at him. Her emerald eyes glimmered, and tears wet her cheeks. “Enjoy it for me,” she said, her voice a whisper. And he watched her go. The black dot grew around him, and drowned out the hospital room. He fell and rose. Light shifted around him, and he groped for a hand to hold. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be seen. He watched himself walking along the shore, alone. He watched himself walking along the pier. He watched him beneath the dying sun. The world blinked, and he watched himself walking backwards along the shore. He jumped forward, backward. It spun over him. The whole sky flickered; the wind gulped and struggled like a crying child. He looked down and the wheelchair was there. Red hair left on a pillow. He looked up and saw the half-set sun. A field of emerald. He looked down and saw starched sheets. Lilacs on the window sill. He looked up and saw the morning sun glowing red like her cheeks, a laugh caught in the wind. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. He dashed through the sky, swam with the stars. He passed by massive torii gates. He jumped through the aurora, the pale green light waving him on his way. He walked over the great bridge, dazzling towers dotting the path. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. Then he was back on that beach. He watched her run, heard her laugh. He laughed and laughed. Then the colors began to fade, green, red, purple... His dream had sprung a leak. He watched her smile at him. He could taste the stale air. Dimmer and dimmer she grew, fading in shades. He reached for her, tried to call for her. She remained smiling, tears wetting her cheeks, as the darkness overpowered her. … and he watched her go.


The sun was coming up. Lisa and Paul had officially been up all night. Long nights were nothing new to theatre students especially when the shows were being put on. There is always some type of celebration for opening night: Dinner somewhere. Maybe a get-together at someone’s place. Something to celebrate the payoff for the weeks of rehearsing and making sure everything was done right. Everyone is on edge when going down to the wire. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s punchy. Lisa was certainly both of those. Between her classes, her job, and this show, she had enough to handle. This was only the first night of a show that was scheduled to run for two weeks. She wasn’t sure how it exactly happened, but she and Paul were sitting next to each other at dinner. They were in a class together but, other than that, they didn’t know each other. Paul had been assigned to props. Lisa was Stage Manager. They crossed paths a couple of times during run-throughs and performances. Paul showed up and did what he was told. Lisa showed up and had to deal with all of the problems that came with being a Stage Manager. That was how it happened. Lisa was venting about having to deal with everyone’s problems in addition to her own. Lisa was the one who had it together and it would be helpful if someone else could have it together, too. The first scheduled show went off and it was a success. You couldn’t tell it was a train wreck behind the stage. That’s where Lisa came in. She was the one who was able to hold everything together long enough for the curtain to come down and the audience to leave the auditorium. Then , she could finally let out a sigh of relief and relax. After everyone got to leave the auditorium, Lisa could ease up and stop worrying. Paul was sitting next to her and they started talking. Lisa needed that and she got it. Paul could tell Lisa was not in a good mood despite the feel-good atmosphere at the large table where the cast and crew were congregating for the Opening Night repast. And the last thing Lisa, a 23-year-old senior needed was an 18-year-old freshman. She had seen enough of his kind. Smart-ass know-it-alls who were still living with Mommy and Daddy but somehow know everything. Yes. Paul was a freshman. Yes. He was living with Mom and Dad, but he was also working and putting himself through school. Lisa could appreciate that. She also knew he was the quiet kid who sat in back of the class and noticed the professor’s occasional comments about Paul’s work on a project or the noticeable effort he put into the last test. All it takes is eye contact at just the right moment. Lisa and Paul made that eye contact as she was going on about the challenges she was dealing with and meeting. Paul was born with a sense about him where he knew when someone needed to vent and all they needed was an ear. It would have been very easy for him to make a joke about her complaining and agitate her, but he could tell it was not an easy night for Lisa. So, instead of adding to her agitation like everyone else had been doing all week (Jesus. Lighten up, Patton. We’re going to be alright.”) , Paul decided to sit back and let her blow off some steam. Lisa felt better as the night went on. She was able to talk about things that didn’t involve the show. Paul was glad to do the same. It had been a long week of classes during the day and run-throughs at night. Dinner was good for the body. Conversation was good for the soul. Both people needed both of those things and both wanted to talk some more. Paul agreed to follow Lisa home. He parked behind her, got out of his car and into hers. “I don’t mean to sound forward,” Paul said, “but why are we sitting in a car when your apartment is right there?” Lisa snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We just met. I have enough problems, now I also have to worry about another guy trying to come home with me?” “That’s not what I meant,” Paul said. “I just meant-” “It’s alright,” Lisa said. “I don’t feel comfortable inviting someone in whom I’ve just met.” “So, how are you doing now?” Paul asked. “You seemed to have a lot on your mind tonight.” “I did,” Lisa said. “And I still do. It’s been a long week.” “It’s been a long week for everyone,” Paul said. “It’s Production Week. Everyone has been dealing with the stress of run-throughs and making sure everything is right for when the curtain goes up.” “Not only that, but there are also the classes we still have to take during the day,” Lisa said. “We need to go to class and do the assignments during whatever time we have between that and the call times for that night’s show. I still need to be at work. I have to pay my rent. No offense, but there’s a lot of things you don’t need to worry about when you’re 18 and living with your parents.” “None taken” Paul said. He knew Lisa was right. Paul was still with Mom and Dad. It was his first semester in college and he wanted to go to this college, not because it was close to home, but because it had a good theatre program and he wanted to study Theatre.” “Look,” Paul said. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just thought we had a good conversation tonight when we were out. You seemed like you needed to get some stuff off your chest and I’m glad I was able to listen to you. If you need to go inside, that’s fine. But if you still want to talk, I’m willing to listen.” “I appreciate that,” Lisa said. “Most guys your age don’t want to just talk, or listen to someone vent. It’s weird, but at the same time, kind of refreshing.” They both smiled. “I guess,” Paul said. “I don’t know. I just don’t say much. I tend to listen to people. Plus, it takes pressure off of you when you don’t know what to say.” “Looks like it’s helpful to both people,” Lisa said. “Four years of college and all I see from freshman is horny guys who are trying to score. They think I’m easy.” “Where did that rumor start?” Paul asked. “From me,” she answered. “I went to high school near here. I was one of those girls who “matured” early. Boobs. No braces. Upperclassmen liked to talk to me, and I liked to talk to them. They had their driver’s licenses and cars. They’d drive me to parties. I’d go with them and get buzzed on beer.” “And that made you easy?” Paul asked. “No,” Lisa explained. “I would fall in with a group of girls and they would be talking about guys. Funny thing about alcohol. It makes you talk… A lot. So, these girls would go on and on about the different guys they had dated. Guys trying to get lucky. Guys thinking they were studs. I would hear these girls talk about the guys and how they think they have such a huge – well you know what guys like to say about themselves.” Paul smiled and said, “Yes. I do.” “Well,” she continued. “Girls talk about the guys and if a guy pisses her off she’ll talk about how it’s not so huge. In fact, it’s rather small .” Paul laughed and said, “Ouch!” “So, anyway, a guy brings me to a party. I have a couple of beers because I’m at a party and that’s what you do at parties. He takes me upstairs and we fool around. I thought that was what you did at parties. He’s a good-looking guy. The beers make him a little better looking. And we start making out and it gets hot. I didn’t have sex with guys right away, but I remember my first time. You always do. He wasn’t exactly my first choice for someone to lose your virginity with, but your first time is always weird. “So, that was it,” Lisa said. “Word got around that I liked to sleep with guys, and I did; Especially the older guys. I went to parties, drank, and fooled around. As I got older, the guys I dated had moved on to college. Some of them went here. There are more parties in college than in high school.” “I figured,” Paul said. He was thinking of Lisa being in a bedroom. She was an attractive woman. Paul was thinking about a chance to be in a woman’s apartment. She already said no, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. “Well,” Lisa said. “I noticed something at the college parties. “There are different types of people there. You notice that. You see there are people who aren’t going anywhere with their life. There are people who partied in college and don’t know how to do anything else. They’re older than the rest of the group and they stick out in an awkward way. There are people who slide by. You can do that in college but only for so long. You can’t go far doing that in the real world.” “So, you saw that?” Paul asked. “Yes, I did,” Lisa said. “I saw people at parties more often than I saw them in class. I saw people who were going nowhere with their life. People who didn’t or couldn’t grow up. I didn’t want that. I wanted to do something with my life, not be some burnout who couldn’t go beyond college parties and not know how to do anything but drink until you can’t see straight, “So, I didn’t go to the parties as often. Guys tried to take me, but I said, ‘No.’ I went to class. I studied. I got good grades. Next thing I know, I make the Dean’s List. After that, I was getting grants and scholarships. Soon I’m not paying for school. I get a job and I make enough money to move out. I’m graduating next year. No student loans. I already have a place. I’m going to start looking for a job. I’m going to get out of college with no debt, money saved, and a job lined up. Guys in college still hit on me, but I say, ‘No,’ and go home at the end of the night.” Lisa’s phone buzzed. She picked it up and smiled. “That’s my alarm,” she said. “I’m supposed to be getting up now.” She laughed. “Listen, I really enjoyed talking to you, Paul, but I need to change my clothes and put some deodorant on. I have a class in an hour.” “Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll see you tonight.” He got out of her car and walked to the campus where his car was. He drove home to get his books for the day’s classes and stopped for a coffee on his way back to school. Later in the day, he had a class with Lisa. Lisa didn’t notice him, she was too busy talking to someone, but he could see the look on her face. It was a face that was craving sleep. He was back at the auditorium that night for the performance. He noticed Lisa as she did her job that night. There was a party following the show. Lisa was going. Paul made sure he was going. At the party, Lisa found herself stuck with a guy who was talking loudly and thinking what he had to say was pretty impressive. The guy made eye contact with Paul and motioned for him to join them. “Come over, young man,” he said. “Let me tell you about our department.” Paul looked at Lisa, who rolled her eyes. The man, John, started to share his knowledge of the department and the school. Only when he wanted another beer did he leave them. “Who was that?” Paul asked. “That’s John,” Lisa said. “He’s supposed to graduate this year. He’s been trying to hook up with me ever since we met.” She yawned. “I need to get out of here before he comes back.” “Can I walk with you?” Paul asked. “Sure.” The two left the party. “How are you feeling?” Paul asked. “Exhausted,” Lisa said. “I’m going to sleep like the dead tonight. Thank God I don’t need to be in so early for the next show.” “I’m sorry I kept you up,” Paul said. “I lost track of time.” “We both did,” Lisa said. The two continued to Lisa’s apartment. On the way, they talked some more. Paul told her about his high school and what he liked about college. He told her about the other classes he had and what he was hoping to do in the next semester, which wasn’t far off. Lisa offered him advice, especially about the teachers within their department. Before long, they reached Lisa’s apartment. “Well,” she said, “It was nice to speak to you tonight. Maybe some time I could buy you a coffee to show my appreciation.” “Tell you what,” Paul said. “I’ll buy the coffee. You bring a nip of Kahlua for me to show your appreciation.” Lisa laughed and said good night. Paul walked to his car. It was late, but he wanted to take a ride and unwind from the classes and the show. There was a route Paul liked to take. It ran along a lake he always liked to walk along. There was a parking lot on one side of it. He pulled into the lot and turned off the ignition. There was a full moon. The light of the moon gave enough light. Paul could see the parking lot around him. It had been a long day. Two days, actually; with a sleepless night between them. Why didn’t he just go home? Because home didn’t have this view. Besides, he wasn’t going to be there long. He just wanted some time to be by himself and this was a place he had always liked. He thought about Lisa and the talk they had. The moon was high above him, reflecting off the lake, as Paul nodded off to sleep.


I turn off the lights and lock the lobby door to J. Lewis & Sons Accounting Services. It’s only eighteen minutes after five on a Friday afternoon and I am the only fool who hasn’t started the weekend festivities of soaking in the long-missed sunshine. In downtown Chicago, we know how to celebrate a mild and sunny spring day in April because they arrive few and far between.

At least, I think it’s warm out. I check the weather app on my phone. Sixty degrees with no wind. A stellar day for most, but I am dragging. Every part of me moves slowly except for my mind which is racing. My thoughts have been teetering between work and emotion all day. I push the elevator button and wait to hear the car trudge up to the thirty-ninth floor and give me a ride. I still hear their comments.  Am I the naysayer, the doomsday guy my family thinks I am? I had thought of myself as at least royal blue on my personal color spectrum, not the grayest of the grays. They told me I am an eternal pessimist. My family. Last weekend at Sunday dinner between the pot roast and my Uncle Sal’s dissertation on bunions, all eight of my family members told me I fail to see the good in anything. A Daniel-downer. The last one they would want to be stuck with on a deserted island. In fact, my grandmother called me a curmudgeon. I knew my view of the world had become negatively skewed over the years, like a window that was overdue for a cleaning. One that soapy water and a slide of a squeegee would fix. Not like one boarded-up with plywood and a “keep away” sign. They made me sound hopeless. And while my family did not believe I was listening to their choice words, I was. And they hurt. I know not getting into law school soured my taste for career success. And Maggie calling off our engagement less than three weeks after accepting my proposal last summer sucked the water from my roots.

But to call me the saddest person to walk the streets of Chicago? Even more sad than a mob target jumping at every garbage can clank on trash day thinking it is a gunshot? My family needs to stop watching the drama series that are filmed here because they are turning the plotted fiction into my life’s story. My mother warned me if I did not choose to see the brighter side, I would die a lonely, desolate man. Did she remember I am only thirty-one? The elevator doors open and I climb in not yet ready to face the sun and the spring flingers celebrating the earth’s gradual rotation closer to summer. I stand alone and have at least the time of thirty-eight floors, more if other late-to-stop workers jump on, to contemplate my weekend plans. If I go right out of the building, I head three blocks to my apartment where I could grab a beer out of the fridge and search for my next binge-worthy series on Netflix. Or I could go left to Madison and up a couple of blocks to Millennium Park and join the crowds. I push through the building’s revolving door and the momentum takes me to the right. The law of physics speaks and I go with its decision. Four paces out, I set the timer on my phone for twenty-nine minutes. Enough time for brisk walk and a stop at Fierro’s for a footlong with mustard and extra pickles. The sun peeks through the alley ways between the buildings. I stop at a crosswalk to feel its full effect on my face. Warm, but not hot. The type of rays that won’t burn my unprotected pale skin.

Surprisingly, I like it. The stoplight ticker seems longer than usual today and a crowd behind me surges when the scissor legs appear. I move with the flow, but am spit out on the other side where the sidewalk narrows. I find myself near the entry way of the condo building I aspire to move to when I can afford the down payment. On most days, I trot past the doorman, but today a burst of purple draws my eyes towards him. Massive stone scroll planters with clumps of tulips debut their petals amid the greenery. A splash of color against the building’s façade. I find myself wanting to pick a few tulips for my parade home, but the watchful doorman protects the blossoms in his guarded space. I reach for my phone and snap a picture before he repeats his steps. The smells of Fierro’s drift further today. I can smell the Chicago combination of Italian beef, steamed hot dogs, and sizzling fryer fries a half a block before I reach their door which is propped open with one of their red faux-leather chairs. Fierro’s fifteen seats are crammed with tourists in winter coats and locals sporting their short sleeve apparel. The scents inside Fierro’s make me glad to live in the Windy City. The ambiance alone seems to increase my appetite as I wait in line. I watch the crew whip together customized hotdog orders that are barked from one of the two order takers. I hear a swell from the staff when a guest in front of me orders a hotdog with extra ketchup. I respectfully chuckle at the guest’s lack of research on regional cuisine etiquette. Ordering a hotdog with ketchup is almost as bad as not knowing who the Monsters of the Midway are. I take my white paper-bagged order number 401 with a large fountain Dr. Pepper and proceed to my designated route when the late day sun and the rhythmic pace of the passersby beckon me to turn right down Randolph Street and head towards the lake. I wonder what is my plan now that I am heading away from my apartment. I quickly guide my way through the crowds and end up on the edge of Millennium Park. The exact place I felt fate told me not to go. My stomach rumbles for the food in my bag, but eating near The Bean sculpture with its endless reflecting picture opportunities appeals little to me. I head towards an oasis inside the park that I hope is less crowded and interesting to tourists than the multiple sights stacked along Michigan Avenue. I feel like I am on spy mission with the goal of not being seen. Swerving around tourists stopped in the middle of the walkway for a selfie. Dodging a child on the loose from her creaming parents. I head to the small gap between the hedges that will lead me to the boxed-in plant refuge I found on accident early last summer when Maggie and I inadvertently agreed to meet at two different spots in the park. I suddenly realize that I missed two full seasons of nature in the city. The hedges are not the emerald screens I remember from last year, but a brown canvas of intertwined branches with emerging specks of green waiting to reconstruct. It discourages me some; not sure what I was expecting. Before I can wallow further, my stomach again reminds me of my agenda. I search for a seat in one of the alcoves nestled in the surrounding naked hedges.  A group of teenage boys looks willing to vacate their space after the girls previewing their Coachella wardrobe moved from the boys' sightlines. Chicago is the only city I know where residents are ready to skip the new beginnings of spring so they can wear pieces of their summer wardrobe while covered in goosebumps. I claim a space large enough so I can rest my soda while I two-hand the footlong. Surprising still warm, I bite into the mustard first. The zestiness of it offsets the juicy hotdog and the garlic dill pickles. I notice not all of the landscaped plots have started to bloom, but the ones that have do their best to make up for the still dormant vegetation.  Vibrant daffodils stand tall with other early bloomers in checkered rows. Tulips line up in random order as if someone lost count of what color bulb should have been planted next. With the last of my hotdog swallowed, I gaze at the balance between the bloomed and unbloomed plants. I imagine finding this in my life. Balance where there is color even if it is muted or haphazard. I notice the sun’s rays beginning to disappear and the temperature begins to drop. This is the problem with Midwestern springs. Warm days lead to nighttime lows close enough to freezing to toy with the new plants’ awakenings and palettes. The chimes ring from my phone. I realize I could have already been home, but I am not. Twenty-nine minutes of color for my color-blind psyche. I feel blessed. I remember the artist Seurat who painted using singular dots to from his images on blank canvases. I had thought his labor-intensive style warranted nothing greater than a painter who used broad brush strokes. I think I misunderstood his dots. I count the number of tulips by color until the day’s natural light is nearly gone.  Thirty-six purple. Forty red. Sixty-one yellow. Three pink. Zero grey. I text my mom that to tell her I stopped today to notice the spring colors. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rainbow.


“I know this has been a difficult night for you,” said Nicole, hoping that her voice conveyed some degree of empathy and warmth. It’s been a difficult night for me too, pal. A difficult night, a difficult day, a difficult year. “You’ve been such a help, Mr. Chowdhury. If you remember anything else, anything at all, please call me. Even the smallest detail could help,” she continued, handing the little man her card. You’ve been no goddam help at all. A short man wearing a ski mask with a Hispanic accent and tattoos on his arms? That narrows it down to what, like a million? So he was pointing a gun at you. Big fucking deal. He didn’t shoot, did he? Mr. Chowdhury was blinking hard and polishing his glasses furiously, as he’d been doing during the entire interview. “Will you catch him?” he asked. Nicole tried to soften her eyes. “We’ll do our very best.” Ummmm….no. Your case will be on the top of the pile until the next one comes along five minutes later. And the next. And the next. Mr. Chowdhury looked over at the empty display cases the officers were still examining. Two hours ago, they’d held a variety of knives, pistols, revolvers and jewelry. “I had to give it. And all that cash in the safe, right? He had a gun. He had a gun , Miss. What choice did I have?” He turned to Nicole, almost pleading. You’ve asked that like six times already tonight. “You did the right thing, Mr. Chowdhury,” she said. “Nothing is worth your life.” Nicole sat in her unmarked car scratching out notes and trying to shake off the irritation, but the glare of Mr. Chowdhury’s red blinking PAWN sign only added to it. She took a sip of water and focused on her breathing as her meditation app had instructed. In-two-three-four. Hold-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. A tap on her window. “We’re heading back to the station, Detective,” said Officer Martinez. She gave a thumbs up.

“Me too.” It was 12:45 am by the time she pulled out of the pawn shop parking lot. The streets were clear and she drove slowly. Her mind wandered, as it did so often lately, to her early days on the force. The days when she was first to respond to calls, when compassion for someone like Mr. Chowdhury would have bubbled out of her and she would have listened – really listened – to every word. She would have poured over her notes for hours, followed up on even the slimmest lead and, more likely than not, have solved the case. Back then.  Tossing the folders onto her desk with a half-hearted promise to review them the next day would have been unthinkable. By 2 am, Nicole was pulling into her driveway and took a moment to soak in the dead-of-night quiet. She dragged Michael’s Big Wheel off the lawn and onto the front porch and straightened the daisies on the wreath before slipping inside, hoping not to wake Joe or the kids. After hanging her coat in the hall closet, she removed her holster and gun, checking the lock on the safe three times before heading to bed. Eighteen hours later, Nicole was back in her car, obscured by a bush as she watched people coming and going from a rundown apartment complex. She rubbed her head, sipped her coffee and looked at her phone, wondering how Sarah’s ballet rehearsal and Michael’s t-ball game had gone. No new messages. She’d have to find out the next day. Oh my God, my head – my head hurts so fucking much . Nicole and her team had spent most of the afternoon in the Cuchillo . That’s what the cops called the six or seven blocks where most of the gang activity occurred. Earlier in the day, they’d received an anonymous tip that some of the weapons stolen from Mr. Chowdhury’s pawnshop were circulating in the area.  The bits and pieces of information they gleaned from their investigation that afternoon were coming together to lead them to a suspect known as Manzano. But just when they were about to grab a sandwich and plan their next move, they heard screams and shouting from another block and sprinted to the commotion. They saw a tangle of tattooed arms, glinting chains and blood. Three young men were piled on top of another, punching and kicking him. A fourth held another by his neck with a knife at his throat, spewing vile Spanish. It only took a few moments for the officers to tackle them, make arrests, treat the injuries and bundle them all off to the station. Nicole took statements from witnesses, but the scene had set off a tightness in her stomach and a tremble in her hand. As she made her way back to her car, she started to feel dizzy and blackness closed in on her.  She felt heat suffocate her lungs. She gasped for air and swayed. Just get to your car. Ten more steps. Seven. Four. Collapsing against her car, she managed to open the door and fell into the driver’s seat, sweat pouring down her back and heart pounding. That moment from two years ago. The feel of the blade against her throat, the man’s breath hot on her ear, locked into his vise grip. She tried to push it away, but it kept flashing in her head like Mr. Chowdhury’s neon sign. Nicole closed her eyes and tried to settle her breathing as she had during other panic attacks. As her heartbeat slowed and body temperature returned to normal, she became aware of someone standing outside the car. He looked like one of the locals. She lowered the window. “Are you ok?” he asked. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said. I’m fine. That’s what she told the trauma counselor her supervisor had sent her to after that case. She waved off the Xanax he offered. I’m fine. That’s what she told Joe every time he looked at her with concern, sensing that she was not fine. I’m fine. That’s what she told herself, again, that afternoon. C’mon Nic. It’s been two years. It goes with the job, you know that. Everyone’s had something like that happen. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine. Eventually, as always, she collected herself and got back to work. But the attack had drained the energy out of her and left her with a migraine that even two Excedrin couldn’t dull.

And that’s why, as Nicole sat outside that apartment building five hours later waiting for Manzano to appear, she was rubbing her temples and guzzling coffee. Come on you, fucker.

Almost on cue, three men emerged from the ground floor. Nicole looked through her binoculars. “That’s him,” she radioed to the team. The officers swept in and had all three cuffed in minutes.

Manzano was protesting. He’d heard about the robbery, but he wasn’t involved. He’d been asleep, alone, when it happened. He didn’t know anything about the stolen weapons, jewelry or money. Nicole peered at the evidence bag containing the pistol the officer had just pulled off Manzano .

“I’m pretty sure that when we trace this, we’ll find it was one of the ones stolen from the pawn shop. You telling me it’s not?” she asked. “Shit, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just bought it, you know?” Nicole pressed her fingertips to her forehead, trying to ease the pain, and dialed Mr. Chowdhury. That night, the shop owner identified Manzano in a line-up. The gun was, in fact, traced to the pawn shop and Nicole promised Mr. Chowdhury they’d keep working the case. Hopefully track down the rest of the stolen merchandise and cash. Manzano was booked and the case sent to the prosecutor. Nicole fell into bed that night too exhausted to feel any satisfaction. The next day, the prosecutor charged Manzano with armed robbery. Nicole spent most of the afternoon tethered to her desk, plowing through expenses and paperwork on other cases. It wasn’t until about 8:30 that night that turned back to Mr. Chowdhury’s case.

She pulled up the security footage and zoomed in, hoping to get a better look at the weapons and jewelry that had been taken. She watched Manzano enter, pull a gun on Mr. Chowdhury and make him clear out the cases. He was wearing a ski mask, but his bare arms were covered in tattoos too thick and elaborate to be discerned in the grainy footage. She caught a glimpse of a snake on the inside of his left wrist, which she’d noticed during the arrest, impressed by the level of detail in the scales and eyes. As she watched the footage, something nagged at her. Something that the Nicole from 20 years ago, maybe even 10 years ago, would have noticed right away. Her stomach tightened and she tried to ignore it, keep her focus on the weapons. But finally, she had to know. She grabbed the booking photos and found one where she could see the snake tattoo. Oh no.

Nicole leaned closer to the security camera footage. And then looked at the photo again. She looked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth hoping that she could unsee what she had just discovered. The snake tattoo on the man in the security camera footage twisted from right to left.

Manzano’s twisted from left to right. Nicole pushed the keyboard and photo away from her. Holy fuck. She dropped her head into her hands. She thought about the avalanche of shit that would come if she revealed the mistake. An investigation, reprimands, Mr. Chowdhury, the media. Oh god, the media. Nicole looked at the two images again. A fleeting moment, so fleeting – and so grainy - the moment the tattoo appeared in the security footage. This is a Salvadoran gang member, she told herself. He’ll get one of those overworked, underpaid public defenders who just wants to get through the case fast.  He’s a Salvadoran gang member, she repeated to herself. He’s probably already done something he should be in jail for. If he hasn’t yet, he probably will. Probably will? Of course he will. She closed the footage and shut down the computer. She stuck the photos back into the folder and slipped it into the middle of the pile under the more pressing, higher profile cases. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t have to look at that footage. I didn’t even see the footage. She walked quickly to her car.

What footage? The Chowdhury case? Remember it? Vaguely. Some gang member held up the pawn shop, right? Didn’t hurt anyone. No big deal.

On the drive home, Nicole blared the local news station, trying to distract herself. She picked up Michael’s bat and glove from the lawn and stacked them neatly on the porch. She eased open the door, hung up her coat, removed her holster and gun and locked them in the safe, checking the lock three times.

She padded down the hall and looked in on Sarah, then Michael and then Joe. All three slept deeply, Michael bathed in the glow of his Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight, Sarah with her silky hair draped over the edge of her bed and Joe snoring. Nicole moved into the kitchen and reached into one of the highest cabinets, where she and Joe kept the alcohol. They rarely drank and she couldn’t even remember what they had. Her fingers closed around a sealed bottle of vodka. Just one sip. She stood at the kitchen island and took a tentative swallow from the bottle. She heard Manzano’s voice – “What are you talking about? I was home, sleeping.” She took another sip. Five to 15 years. If he’s lucky. He won’t be lucky. Another sip. She tried to block out Manzano’s protests. The fear in his eyes. That damn snake tattoo. Another swallow. And another. And another.  And another.