“Are you sure I bought it?” queried Bradley as he stood and looked at the plant alongside the estate dealer’s delivery driver. “Yes sir. One Nineteenth-century French Louis XV Gilt Bronze-Mounted Side Cabinet…and plant.” The delivery man checked the manifest and double-tapped his pen on the sheet with a firmness that confirmed his absolute accuracy. “I don’t recall saying,” Bradley persisted. “It’s all here in black and white. Shall we take them inside for you sir?” Bradley scratched his temple and nodded his head. “Yes. The cabinet will go in the living room right there.” He pointed to where the hardwood was covered by a “Persian rug” not more than fifty feet from the entrance. There was a large sliding glass door opposite the entrance where two reading chairs stood on the rug and faced the outdoor view. A modest reading table stood betwixt them, supporting several periodicals and books in various states of literary consumption. The deliveryman cleared his throat. “And the plant…sir” “Right…By the sliding glass door.” “Very good sir.” The delivery driver turned to his men and sent them on their way to deliver the goods purchased by one Bradley Singleton with a quick nod of his chin.

The delivery men gone, Bradley stood in the living room and surveyed the two new additions. He felt lucky to have stumbled on an estate sale not too far out of the city where the recently deceased, Mrs. Eleanor W.S. Farnsworth, III. It cost more than he made in a month, but it was worth it. His Great Uncle Anton had always told him that a solid piece of furniture, especially a bar cabinet, made a man someone to be reckoned with. This made Bradley that man, no doubt about it. He walked to his kitchen and returned with a bottle of brandy and a highball and placed them on the marbled top. He poured a glass and took a sip. He missed his uncle. Years ago, Anton had simply disappeared without a trace. It was a family mystery. A private detective, part of his grandmother’s will, was kept on retainer and had been for years to no avail. No Anton. No clues. He leaned against the cabinet and instantly felt more confident. He turned towards the chairs and there stood the other purchase. If oozing confidence was the bar cabinet the plant was most decidedly at the absolute, opposite end of the spectrum. The planter was glazed pearl and more than a foot and a half high and almost as wide. The plant stood another four feet high and was almost eye-level with Bradley. It wasn’t a ficus or a palm, that was for sure. It had a sturdy trunk with large leaves with holes in them that didn’t look natural. The leaves drooped and the branches were spindly at best. The leaves were green but they lacked a healthy luster. Had it been made of plastic he wouldn’t have been surprised. He rubbed one of the leaves again and checked its underside. Sure enough, still a plant. He sat in his chair and took another sip of brandy.

What if I simply chuck the thing? No one will know. He didn’t have the heart though. It seemed as if it was looking at him pondering its newfound fate in Bradley Singleton’s apartment. “I do hope that the window is to your liking.” Good god, I’m talking to a plant, he thought. He drained the brandy and grabbed a glass of water, pouring it into the soil in the plant, returning both glasses to the counter. He grabbed his jacket and headed out for the remainder of the afternoon with the prospect of seeing friends, with any luck Diana would be there too. Diana, who also worked at the agency but in the design and layout department, was as beautiful as he imagined her Greek namesake was. Not quite of this earth with a laugh that made a man sigh despite himself. Bradley strolled through Boston Common on his way to Bistro du Midi. The expanse of lawn interspersed with clumps of leafy elm trees and people enjoying the sunshine was a relaxing tonic. He skirted along past the Central Burying Ground and popped out onto Boylston Street. Bistro du Midi was the perfect combination of old-world charm and quaint, springtime patio bordered with ivy and pansies separating patrons from the passers-by. “Bradley! Brad! Over here!” shouted Martin. Bradley steeled and reminded himself that congratulating Martin for securing the new account was the right thing to do no matter how much it bothered him. He came around the entrance corner and there was Martin with Diana. Beauty and the Beast he thought. He smiled cordially and shook Martin’s hand and then smiled Diana’s way. “Congratulations. Really well done.” Bradley said as he sat next to Diana. “Next time it’ll be you, right?” he laughed and smiled as he waved over to the waiter. “Everyone! Champagne? Cocktails? What are we doing?” There were only the three of them and Bradley smirked at the grandiose request. Diana caught Bradley’s smirk and smiled in return.

“Ooh I’d love a Kir Royale,” she said. Bradley thought what a perfect drink for an ethereal gal. “Bourbon, neat,” said Bradley. “Sophisticated gentleman. Make it two.” Martin rounded out the trio and the waiter departed with the drink orders in hand. They managed to order hors d’oeuvre when the waiter returned with the drinks. The conversation ran the gamut of work, vacations, family, work again, what shows were in town, what books were they reading, and back to work. Bradley tried to maneuver the conversation his way so he could talk about his recent find. “I was at an estate sale this weekend and found the most amazing” Martin cut him off. “An estate sale? Isn’t that for blue-haired ladies who have run through their old man’s fortunes?” “Not quite. I happened on a beautiful, mint-condition, Louis the fifteenth cabinet with inlaid wood and a marble top. Makes a great bar cabinet.” Bradley relaxed in his chair as he swirled his bourbon around in its glass. “Nice find. What did that set you back?” Martin inquired. “Well, it was the plant that set me back.” Bradley joked. “A plant? What kind?” Diana jumped in with rapt curiosity. “I wish I knew! It looks a bit sad really, but it arrived with the bar cabinet…how could I say ‘no’? You should come to see it and the cabinet” he suggested. “I’d love to. I’m no botanist although my mother was when she lived in Vermont. I find plants creatively inspiring. Don’t you?” Bradley blinked and realized it was a question for him. “Absolutely. Perhaps you could tell me what kind of plant it is. Maybe, next Saturday?” Diana smiled and nodded. Success thought Bradley. Martin, tired of the conversation revolving around something other than him, had wandered off to the bar in search of other female companionship. Diana and Bradley were left on their own. “I guess I should be heading home. Things to do before work tomorrow.” Diana uttered as she looked for her purse. “My treat.” Bradley whisked out his wallet and paid for the drinks even though it was a bit more than he could handle immediately given his purchase. He didn’t want to seem incapable. This was Diana after all. What’s a little brown bag lunch for the week or two, or skipping lunch altogether, for this evening and next Saturday to come? They walked out, and at the corner, parted ways. “I’ll see you tomorrow” Diana called. “And next Saturday!” Bradley echoed in return making sure he had heard her correct and leaving nothing to chance. Diana smiled and nodded as Bradley worked hard not to swoon on the sidewalk right then and there. Back at his apartment, Bradley flipped on the lights to find his botanical friend in dire straits. The leaves, if it were possible, seemed to have drooped more than before he had left. He’d never had plants or cats or dogs for that matter. He felt responsible for it though. Over the next few days, in the morning and evening time, Bradley worked to keep the plant upright and with any luck, thrive a bit. He swung by a local garden shop near his office and bought a variety of houseplant fertilizer sticks, a small bag of gardening soil, a watering can and mister, a book on how to have a green thumb, and a bag of ladybugs in case there were mites. He had no idea what a mite might look like, but he wanted to be prepared. When he arrived home, he placed his gardening treasures onto his dining room table and set to work. He added fertilizer and soil. He grabbed his mayonnaise and a paper towel and rubbed the leaves till they shined. He gave it a thorough misting. He let loose the ladybugs on the leaves but that was a mistake. Ladybugs started flying everywhere in his apartment. Bradley shrieked as he opened the sliding glass door to let them fly free somewhere outside his four walls. Some of the ladybugs exited and a few stayed on the plant and other various surfaces in the apartment, but Bradley was in no mood to hunt ladybugs. By Friday, the plant looked a bit better than it had on Monday much to his relief. Saturday afternoon Diana arrived, dressed in a citrus lime sheath and cream slingback heels. Gorgeous he thought. “Can I come in?” Diana said with a smile. Bradley blushed and said, “Entre-Vous mademoiselle” in his most cheesy French accent. “Champagne?” He had a bucket of champagne on ice on the bar cabinet, his showpiece. “Sure! Oh, is this the plant?” Diana strolled over and touched the leaves. “Yes, this is it,” Bradley said handing her a glass of champagne in the process. “It looks like a cross between a fiddle fig and a coleus or maybe a swiss cheese plant. It’s kind of sweet looking in an odd way.” “Swiss cheese plant?” “It’s a real thing, I promise.” Diana moved to sit in one of the chairs facing the sliding glass door and Bradley took a seat in the other. “Your mother was a botanist?” She sipped her champagne. “Mmhmm, yes, she was. She lived in Putney and was well known for her exotic and lethal collection of plants. Larkspur, foxglove, lilies of the valley. I was never into it.” “I placed the bar cabinet over there to keep it out of the light.” “Hmmm…it’s very nice.” Bradley beamed a bit at the acknowledgment. “It’s such an odd plant. Like a hybrid or some Frankenstein-created monstrosity.” “Oh, it’s not that bad, is it? I’ve grown rather attached to it already” he said with a wistful smile. Diana stood up and stroked the leaves with her index finger and thumb. As he watched her, Bradley felt his pulse race. All of the sudden, a small swarm of ladybugs came out from the far side of the plant toward Diana. Not realizing what they were, she squealed and spun around trying to get them off her. Amid the squealing and waving at the air, she kicked her heel back into the glazed pearly plant pot. Crack! Bradley almost knocked over all the books and periodicals on the modest reading table as he stood to help. The plant toppled in slow motion towards the floor in an epic death scene as dirt poured out slowly from the crack in the pot. Bradley didn’t know where to start. He ran to the kitchen and fetched a dustpan hoping to scoop up the dirt getting all over the floor. He tried to stand the plant back upright but that made matters worse as the pot strained under the shift in weight.

“What’s that?” Diana pointed at a metal box sitting in the dirt under the root ball in the glazed pearly pot. Bradley reached in and pulled it out. There was no label or writing. He wriggled it open to find a bag filled with ash. He dug within when he felt something hard like a pebble. Pulling it out, he dropped the bag on the floor. “Is that a tooth? Oh my god please don’t tell me those are…. someone’s ashes.” Diana was visibly flustered and while Bradley could have thought of nothing better than to comfort her in his arms now was not the time.

“Call the police, would you?” he asked as he plopped the tooth back in the bag and curled down the bag edges as he closed the lid. They sat together until the police arrived and explained every moment since the plant had arrived until they had discovered the remains. “We’ll need to take those with us to try and identify them,” the policeman said. Bradley nodded and handed him the box. Diana turned and thanked Bradley for a lovely time. “Not exactly what I had planned.” Diana smiled. “See you on Monday.” As the long summer days passed Bradley had all but forgotten about the box. The night it all happened he found a stockpot in the back of his kitchen cabinets and filled it with dirt until he could get a new pot for his plant. He didn’t want to see it die and, in the days since, it had started to grow, its leaves were less droopy and the color a bit brighter albeit still holey. It was a surprise then on a Friday evening when an unexpected knock came at Bradley’s door. “Hello.” Bradley opened the door to find the policeman who had taken the remains. “Come in. Do you have news?” “We have. We thought you might be interested.” The two of them stood in the living room. “Those remains have been a part of a cold case. How they ended up at the bottom of that plant may always be a mystery. But we know who it was.” “Who?” asked Bradley with a slight tone of exasperation.

The policeman referred to his notebook, “Anton Marcus Singleton.” Bradley went slack-jawed at the name. “Uncle Anton? Dead? Cremated? Hidden away at the bottom of Mrs. Farnsworth’s plant?” He tried to puzzle it out but it was simply too much. “How?” The policeman nodded. “Well, we tested the tooth, which was unusual to find with cremated remains, and ran a toxicology report along with the DNA test. We discovered that he had been poisoned with Larkspur. The last known location for Mr. Anton Singleton was in Vermont. Putney to be exact. Do you know anyone in Putney?” Bradley thought. Where had he heard about Putney? “No. No one comes to mind” he said as his heart pounded in his ears. “No family? No friends?” the policeman continued. “No. Our family is from Boston.” Bradley chuckled with a nervous breath. “Your plant looks better.” “Thanks.” Bradley walked him to the door and locked the top lock as soon as he was gone. He grabbed his phone and rang Diana. “Hello?” “Diana. It’s Bradley. Any chance you’re free tonight?” He wiped the sweat off his upper lip as he waited for her response. “Sure. What time?” They settled on seven-thirty pm.

Diana arrived in a lavender gingham tea-length dress. Bradley for a second forgot all he had learned earlier in the afternoon. “I brought some crab dip and baguette and….” She looked at his face which had gone quite pale. “Are you alright? Sit down.” She motioned to the chair, setting down the basket of appetizer goodies. At last, he gazed her in her eyes as he sipped the bourbon she had brought him and said, “Did you know him? Anton?” “Why of course I knew Anton. He was a very close friend of my mother’s.” “When?” He didn’t want to know but he couldn’t help asking. “I was young. He was a fan of her garden and her beauty.” Diana sipped her bourbon as well. “Were they? I mean, did he?” Bradley stammered as he tried to ask the obvious. “Were they lovers?” Diana said with a lilt in her voice. “Yes, I believe they were. He left my mother in his will. Of course, she’s gone, but I’m still here.” Bradley downed his bourbon and Diana reached for the bourbon she had brought along with the crab dip and baguette and poured him another glass. He sipped at that one as well feeling momentarily better. “He’s family. Now that we have found his remains, his will with our lawyer will be settled out of probate.” “Perhaps. But I don’t think you’ll be there to see it.” Diana breathed deeply as she brushed the hair out of her eyes. “You see the bar cabinet may make the man Bradley, but the larkspur in the bourbon will do him in.” She swallowed the rest of the bourbon in her glass and smiled.


John gazed out of the kitchen window in a fantastical trance. The world outside this window was a carefully crafted fantasy. The garden was overgrown now, but still it described a form of order that he could not exert on the aspects of his life that really counted. Life was wayward and chaotic. It presented a pretence of order for a while, and then it would unravel however a person reacted to the undoing of all their efforts. This John knew, was a death of sorts. A harsh end that handed him an opportunity to begin again. The assault course through to the beginning would build his strength so that he was equal to the challenge of the next phase of his life. He breathed a sigh that wracked his body with sadness. He hurt in ways that were unfamiliar, even though he had been here before. The body’s memory was necessarily fickle. The body only lived in the present moment. No past and no future. John was all too aware of the animal he was, and right now, that animal was wounded and maddened with the pain of wounds it did not see coming. He wanted to fight, but he neither had anything to fight against or for. There was no point in fighting for himself. He’d done that already and inflicted losses upon himself in the mistaken belief that he could win a battle that only he had attended. A single word formed itself within him. Time. This concept weighed heavily upon him. He felt old and maybe he was. There was none of the youthful exuberance left for him. This was the last, downhill stretch of his life and the fork in the path had been hidden from him, so that by the time he realised Vicky had taken it, it was far, far too late. There was no going back. Time made life flow in one direction and one direction only. Or so it was said. John wasn’t so sure about that. He’d experienced all of time’s tricks and been assailed by its wanton use of him. Time was a label slapped upon one of the many faces of chaos and John was too scared to remove that label and peer at what lay beyond. Looking down at the turgid washing up water he experienced a slip in his reality. The dirty dishes had been spirited away to the drainer, but he had no sense of how that had happened. He was here, but he was not present. He almost did not bother upending the washing bowl, but the dirty water offended him sufficiently to provoke a reaction. The action performed, he left the bowl asunder. A simple act of defiance that reminded him of the expanse of hurt that lay beneath him and would not allow him to relax or to sleep.

This hurt was not his own. He had been gifted the pain by another. By others. A terrible pass-the-parcel. The music had stopped and here he was. His inner teenager had awoken then. He’d kicked against John’s raw and bleeding side and raged at the unfairness of it all.

This is not my fault. And it genuinely wasn’t. For once in John’s life, he had not fucked up. Oh, there were lessons to be learnt. The presence of the pain told John that. But the teenager was right. This wasn’t his fault and it just was not fair. John had wallowed in that unfairness for some while. He lay there in that poisoned cocoon for far too long. The drug that seeped into him was soporific. He bathed in the lie of it. He pretended that someone would see how unfair his plight was and come and rescue him. That someone was an idealised Vicky. She would find her way back to him and make everything alright again. Only she could do this. He waited. Time punished him for his foolishness and amplified his pain. That pain pinned him in his prone and pathetic position and mocked him. He was ashamed of who he’d become. He was ashamed of how he had gotten here. He wanted to die, but didn’t have the honest strength to deliver that mercy. He was getting what he deserved and a dark part of him relished the self-pity he drank in gluttonously. As he crawled away from that place, he worried away at questions that he could not yet answer. But he did it all the same. There was a utility in this. The words he found were stilted and fell short, but they paved the way for him to live the answers that were required. He was at last doing something that was needed.

And yet he dare not look up and face the enormity of his now lonely existence. He did not have the courage to face the world, let alone step out into it as himself. Instead, he put on a face and called it brave in the frozen state that it presented. This was not him. He did not know who that was. Not yet he didn’t. He tried not to think about whether he’d ever known who he was. Better to consider his former self as dead and buried. That John was no longer with us. The new one would emerge from its chrysalis state in due course. Thoughts of his history began to emerge from the depths of his grief. He must learn from history in order not to repeat the patterns of the past. All of this was necessary. He was moving forward at last. He repeated mantra after mantra to encourage the eggshell thin positive state that he needed in order to do the work on the other side.

All the same, this Saturday dragged him along the cheese grater of his pain in a protracted and disinterested manner. The weekends were the worst. The weekends were where the

Hole

resided. In the week, he could grab a hold of routine and throw himself at work. His beleaguered body was familiar with this and it relished going through the motions. He found that other tasks came easily in the evenings. He shopped. He cleaned. He paid his bills. Sometimes he even slept through. Mostly sleep played with him in a bed that had grown too big and cold for him. He lay there begging for the caress of slumber and when it eventually came, it tossed him and turned him until he was good and ready for the witching hour. Every morning at 3am he was smashed awake with an accusatory thought that had turned up mob handed. He tried to reason with the crowd, but it was too big and he was weak and tired. If he slept after that, he did not remember. All there was as his alarm went off was nausea and fatigue. Another joke at his expense. The feeling that he could now sleep. The desire to sleepwalk through the day. But the day was too jagged and cruel to allow him that comfort. There was relief in the face that was reflected in his watch face. The afternoon was here at last. The moment of weakness could now be indulged. One of his guilty pleasures. He was after all at a never ending wake. Crouching, his knees fired off warning shots that he did not heed. He opened the cupboard door to reveal a depleted stock of spirits. Previous visits were a matter of retrieving the bottle of single malt and bringing it together in a union with a tumbler that he would then celebrate twice over.

This time, he paused at the door and looked inside the cupboard. His initial motive might have been a guilty stock take. Taking stock of his weekend drinking and the need to replenish a cupboard that had been teeming with bottles before Vicky had left. Provisions for the eventuality of her sudden and brutal exit from his life. That may have been how it started, but then time wove one of its spells and he was drawn to a dusty bottle in the deepest corner of the cupboard. As his eyes fell upon the bottle, he was restored to a point that had occurred over a decade ago. This bottle was, he knew, a time capsule. Shuffling the nearest bottles aside, he took the older bottle and remembering himself, also brought along the half full whisky bottle for the ride.

Withdrawing to the relative comfort of the sofa, John poured himself a generous quantity of whisky and sipped at it as he commenced a staring contest with the dusty bottle. He knew the old bottle would win, but he could not rush this. The contents of that bottle had aged sufficiently and they were to be savoured. As he sat there taking repeated sips of his whisky, he considered the first question the bottle presented to him. If he could turn back time, would he do things differently? His stock answer was no, he would not. He was who he was right now because of all that had occurred in his life. His was a life without regret. That was what his mind said. His broken heart disagreed, and he could move no further forward on this. In asking this question, the bottle reminded him that it was his time machine. He cast his mind back to its creation and smiled wryly. Time may weave magic, but this was a magic of his own and now he would at last uncover the secrets that he had woven into the magic of this bottle.

Leaning forwards he almost plucked up the bottle. But his tumbler was now empty and so he attended to this first. He imbibed some of the amber blood and said a self-serving prayer. This was his moment and there was nothing else to it. The world could go fuck itself right now. It had taken enough of him and he needed this. He realised he needed it more than anything. For the first time in an age he felt a warmth that went beyond the whisky. He was feeling the flame of hope within his heart and now he smiled that hope into the room around him. Another, generous sip from his tumbler and he was up and away to the door that connected to the garage. He found a large rag, selected a hammer and wrapping the bottle up in a shroud he readied himself to smash the bottle open. He paused before this violent and sacrilegious act. He’d not even tried to retrieve the contents from the bottle. But then he nodded. Smashing the bottle was right. Symbolic of the destruction of his life. Another end to herald a bright new beginning.

Still he paused. This was not him. He was a giver and a fixer. He was not prone to the breaking of things. This was wilful. He felt as though he was in danger of becoming the sort of thing that threw fast food wrappers from the window of a car when the easier and better option was to use a bin when the car stopped. This was a line he did not want to cross, because lines and boundaries and values were all that kept him and his life intact. Without defining a safe and good place for himself, he would have lost everything and had precious little prospect of becoming the man he saw glimpses of as his pain subsided. In the pulses of it’s terrible heartbeat he was seeing an outline of himself up ahead and he wanted to fill that space. With a force of will and an impetuous burst of energy he brought the hammer down and was rewarded with the song of breaking glass. He stood for a while and savoured that song. Just beyond reach were lyrics of joy. He fancied he’d hear them one day soon. These were promises of better days ahead and reminders that all things will pass, however we choose to label them, for often a thing is neither bad nor good. It just is. We sully it with unwarranted decoration so we can dabble around the edges of a life instead of living it. Carefully, he unfurled the rag and glass fell in a pile to the side of a beige mottled envelope. He gingerly pincered thumb and forefinger in order to life the envelope free and despite his deliberate actions an invisible shard of glass pierced the pad of his finger. Undeterred, he took the envelope back to the sofa. Once there, he pressed the wounded fingertip to the envelope and left it there whilst he drank more of his whisky. Satisfied that he had paid his blood price. He examined the envelope itself and the fingerprint of blood. Taking his time. Delaying the moment of truth. A truth that existed ten years ago and would be revealed to him now. Closing his eyes, he sought something of the contents of the envelope, but all he found were the circumstances of its coming into being. The pain of another life and the solace he had sought in the bottom of the bottle. He sensed the presence of that second tumbler and was satisfied that he had not fallen so low this time. He would drink a second tumbler, but no more. The altered state that he had attempted to hide in all those years ago was for another man. A different version of the person that now sat here. That was some of why the bottle had come into being. Another end that promised a beginning where a stronger John could be more. More himself. More honest.

He felt the contents of the envelope calling to him and he shed a tear. There was a desperate honesty here. A love letter to his future self. Well he was here now and he was about to commune with his other self. He carefully opened the envelope. A counter to the previous violence exacted upon the bottle. This now was a loving ritual towards a religious relic. The gum of the envelope yielded and now he slipped his finger into the envelope and withdrew the letter. His hand trembled as he held the pages before him. His eyes swam with invisible tears and his mind roiled with waves of possibilities. He could stop right now. He didn’t need to do this. The presence of a reluctant fear intrigued him. Suppressed memories resonating with the imminent future. A warning not to bring two timelines together. A deceitful scream of denial against the truth about to be revealed. Now it wasn’t just his hand that was trembling. His body thrummed with the inevitability of what was going to happen. This was a shocking paradox of two versions of himself meeting. The words could not be denied though and before he understood what was happening, they were tumbling through his eyes and into his heart. Filling it in a way he did not know was possible. The love he felt for the broken man who had had the courage to open himself to the world and express his inner truth almost overwhelmed him, but he fought to keep himself together and ride through to the very end. He owed this to the man who had done this for him.

And as he at last opened himself up in order to contain these words, he understood. He understood that these words came from a past that went far beyond ten years ago. This was the truth of the ages. His parents had contained this truth. He should have honoured them far more. He should have listened with every fibre of his being. He should have asked them to talk to him about all the things that mattered so that they mattered to him as much as they always should.

As the words continued to come alive and speak to him, he saw along a path that was not only the past, but also the future. Everyone who had gone before him and played a part in his creation. His being, a culmination of the hopes, dreams and love of so, so many people.

The truth blossomed around him and he felt his roots in it. He felt it deeply. In one moment, he was an insignificant spec in the endless universe, and yet in the next, he was everything. His connection. His place in the universe should have unhinged him, but instead it enlivened and humbled him.

This letter from his past self, and all the past selves that coalesced in this moment, spoke to John of the consequences of his actions. He’d dreaded the warning that he’d expected to be contained in these few pages of hand scribbled sentences. He’d feared the prospect of coming full circle to the same desperate state as his past self had been in ten years ago, but instead he’d been freed of his misery and pain by the truth of the words and the infinite expanse of love that was a part of his creation and a part of him.

These pages contained the lesson he must learn. The lesson that his pain was bringing to him. His past self had gifted him this elevation from the pain, and now he saw what he must do. John smiled as he returned the letter to the envelope. He was still smiling as he raised his glass to all those versions of himself who had been, and those who were to be, and he promised them all that he would live well and that he would embody the truth of them all. That was the day that John really started living.


John looked out at the magnificent canyon in front of him. Layers of orange, brown, and purple underlined the indigo sky above. The scene looked almost unreal. The colors of the rocks seemed to change with the light and shadows. “Cliché as it is, it really is grand”, he thought to himself. John had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. He had been planning this trip for years. Now, he was finally here.

And he had a feeling that he would find what he was looking for. He marveled at the geological greatness in front of him. The relentless cutting action of a river carved into the terrain over millions of years to create this canyon. Now, that river appeared to be a mere thread, winding through the sheer cliffs of the canyon walls.

“Nature always wins”, he mused. “There’s no escape.” John was nearing retirement age. And he had never married or had children. He never had the time. Work had always kept him busy and content. Gearing up for that promotion. Or that raise. So that he could buy more things. They all said that he was lucky to have been assigned an “intellectually stimulating” job at least. Working hard gave him the right to be in this world. As John sat there in awe of the canyon, he noticed his attention turning to a series of images from earlier in the day. Sights and sounds of the people he had seen in the afternoon. Friends, family, and lovers. Smiling and laughing. Faces with rosy cheeks kissed by the brisk air. All visiting tourists, like him, who came to appreciate the awesome, alien-like landscape on this perfect autumn day. Happy. Now, their joyous faces seemed to be but mere traces in the burnt-orange dirt. Short, ephemeral moments in the vastness of nature. Whispers of moments that disappeared as soon as they were created. “No escape”, he thought again. John felt trapped. He did choose to be here; he did choose his life's path. Just like everyone else. But this world seemed to make so many promises that he never felt like it actually kept. And that left him with nothing. A frightening feeling of emptiness. That vacuum, in turn, spawned a yearning for something. It didn’t have to be a person. In fact, he was unlikely to find a person at this point.

What he wanted was a connection to something greater.

He admired the view for a few more minutes before getting up to prepare his campsite. John had hiked about five miles from the nearest parking area. Now, he wanted to get settled before it got too dark. Out here, when the sun sets fully, only the dim white light of the stars and moon illuminate the earth.

John had all the equipment he needed to survive a few days in the wilderness. It was the exact kind of simple respite he needed, away from the busyness of his never ending work. A tent and a sleeping bag. A portable stove and enough food and water to last him. No need, or desire, for anything more. After he had set everything up, John decided to take a short walk before dinner. He wanted to explore the area a bit and look for an undisturbed spot to just sit amongst the brush and watch the stars. He walked further and further away from his campsite. Suddenly, he heard a rustling sound in the bushes to his left.

He stopped in his tracks. The sound stopped. Then another rustle. John’s breath got very quiet. This was it. This was why he had come out here. His heart beat like a drum in his chest as he slowly, deliberately turned towards the sound. Neither fight, nor flight. Just… a little… closer… And there it was: an enormous stag, wearing a resplendent set of antlers that shone like polished gold in the starlight. It stood in the shadows and stared right into John's soul with its large, dark eyes. They locked eyes. Then, with a snort and a flash of its white tail, the deer jumped away and darted into the darkness. John let out a sigh of relief. “Jesus... just a lame old deer." He turned to walk back to his campsite, heart still pounding in his chest. "At least it wasn’t a mountain lion. Or the yeti monster. What a real adventure that would've been!” As he walked back to his campsite, John couldn't help but reminisce about the experience he just had. He replayed the image of the gold-antlered stag in the darkness. He remembered how his body felt during the surge of raw fear mixed with awe. At least he thought he was walking in the direction of his campsite. John decided to look up. None of his surroundings looked familiar to him. Maybe it was the sudden rush of adrenaline. Maybe it was the pitch-black darkness. It was as if the vegetation and rocks around him had been rearranged without him knowing.

A feeling of dread took over his body. He was lost. “Shit!” John leaned against a nearby tree and took some deep breaths. “Calm down. Breathe.” John sat down onto the ground and attempted to get his bearings. He looked up. None of the constellations he was familiar with appeared in the sky above him. “What the hell is going on... I’ve got to calm down.” Then, he slumped down on the ground, next to the tree. “I need to rest. I'll figure out how to get back tomorrow. What’s the worst that can happen me?”

John took a slow, deep inhale through his nose. Then a long, cathartic exhale through his mouth. He let his pounding heart slow down, beat-by-beat. As he lay there, still. He felt the weight of his entire body pressed softly against the earth. Laying there on the sandy soil of the canyon, amongst the brush and under the stars, John shut his eyes.

--- He heard a beeping sound. Condensation from the hot, humid air tickled his cheeks.

John opened his eyes.

Orange-hued lights illuminated a shadowy room full of rusting, metallic pods. Each pod was placed side-by-side, right next to another one. A bundle of wires connected each pod to the wall and the sustaining digital system beyond. Each pod contained an immobile human body. A room full of humans so close in physical proximity to each other, yet separated by worlds of entirely fabricated realities. Outside the room, hung a sign: "Simulation in progress."

This was one of many such rooms. Rooms where people devoted any and all hours of the day “plugged-into” the system. The system created a controlled, virtual environment optimized for the success, satisfaction, and sense of connection that every player longed for. All for a reasonable price, of course. He couldn’t afford the simulation any longer. His time had run out. John took off his headset, and stood up.


Another pick-up tonight in a bar. How original. Just once I’d like the Boss to send me some place unique. Like the frozen foods aisle at the supermarket, or the drama/theater section of a bookstore. Instead I’m always in places where it’s too dark to see what the person you’re flirting with looks like. It’s where the men that we pick up do their most despicable work. I think they like going back to their roots. Before they were powerful and it was more of a challenge felt like more of a game. The organization got a tip on his location and one of our members has been tailing him for months and giving me detailed reports on his movements and habits. To prepare for the pick-up. This area is the hip city center where the fanciest hotels are located, and for this man it equals a high-class female buffet. Usually how it works is someone will contact the Boss’s partner in the police department, but in really rare cases someone might contact her directly, which is infinitely more difficult since we don’t exactly sprinkle out our business cards like fairy dust. This man’s last girlfriend had nowhere to turn after what he did to her and knew that nobody would believe her if she went public. This man is fairly well-known in contemporary literary circles. I devoured all three of his short story collections before all this happened. Now the books are shoved in the darkest corner of one of my bookshelves collecting dust while I debate on whether or not to keep them. Luckily this woman got into contact with our organization, and it’s times like this I know that what I do is worth the pain it causes. It’s only ten after five, but the sky is colored like a late night and patched with inky clouds. I’ve only got an hour before I have to make contact with Mona who’s in charge of making the drop. The author’s already seated by the enormous champagne fridge when I descend to the basement. Based on the reports, he’s usually got a gaggle of admirers around him to whom he can pontificate - and probably fuck a couple of them afterward - but today he is holding the red-headed bartender hostage in order to impress her with the champagne brands he keeps at his place. Redhead works at a few different bars in the city. We don’t know each other’s names but she’s helped our organization coordinate several pick-ups. Pick-ups are my job in the organization. It means I have to establish contact with men like the author and get him to members like Mona who make drops. I’m only half of the operation, but I have to act, manipulate, and be absolutely precise in my timing. Any mistakes and we lose our target and risk destroying the whole organization. Across the room, I lock eyes with Redhead and she lays a menu in front of the empty stool next to my target. He iss only half-sitting on the stool, one leg touching the floor. It’s supposed to convey confidence, but more likely it’s him trying to elongate himself and conceal how short he really is. I wriggle onto the stool next to the author and slouch into a meek little lump as if I’m chilly. The author likes timid women so I’m told. The ones with no confidence until he convinces them that his attentions are their validation. My symptoms start as soon as I’ve sat down next to him. It begins with a pressure in the upper middle of my chest. The first time it happened I thought it was either an anxiety attack or a stroke. Then a tingling sensation in my fingers and in the back of my neck, the kind everyone has when they pick something up without using their regular five senses. The pressure gets worse and it’s a struggle to draw breath and appear normal. Sometimes there’s a brief wave of nausea - more than passing this time. Luckily my shudders looked like a brief chill in the air. His eyes are locked on to the side of my face.

He must have started tingling when he realized there was another vagina in the room. I pretend to scan the cocktail menu and try to ignore a minute throbbing in the back of my head. That’s new. The author’s not bothering to hide his staring so I offer a hesitant smile. The pain in the back of my head gets stronger. “What can I get for you?” Redhead is relieved I’m here. “I don’t know,” I try to sound distressed as I turn to the author. “Do you have a recommendation?” You’d think I’d asked to go down on him right there from the look on his face. “Do you like sweet or spicy?” “Both.” I giggle as if I can’t believe I’m flirting. “I’m sure you like it strong too.” He slid the menu from my hands and tapped something on the list. “Don’t look, it’s more fun when you have to guess.” There’s a procedure when my pick-ups try to ply me with drinks. The accomplice puts in all the ingredients so it looks like a normal cocktail, then floats a layer of alcohol on top. It smells strong, but it’s not enough for me to get soused. If pain was a flashing light; that’s what the back of my head feels like, and the closer he gets the worse the pain. I’m dreading what will happen when his hand makes contact with my bare wrist. But I have to let him. I’m not like the other members in the organization. I can see what the men have done. I’ve had this ability for the last six years but I’m never prepared for that sudden assault on my senses. It’s like watching a grainy 35mm film. It’s feeling it too. Feeling someone’s racing panic and adrenaline, your throat raw with their screams, or feeling your limbs go numb and knowing they weren’t able to fight back when it was happening to them. He couldn’t see the traces of his crimes, lingering behind him. I could see him leaning over his girlfriend. Her face was contorted in fear. She was fighting him off and she was stronger than he’d expected. A strong push had almost knocked him off balance. But before she got to her feet, he jammed both her arms under his knees, seized her head and smacked it three times against the floor until the pain and dizziness made her go limp. It was so efficiently done. With no need for force, he lay across her as if he were stretching out on a sleeping bag. I want to ram my barstool into his miserable face. The Boss tells me I should simply redirect that rage to my job. We’re doing important work. It’s easy for her to say when she only has to read or hear about what these men have done. Until you’re forced to see it, you have no idea how close to impossible it is to even take a breath when your chest feels like it’s splitting in two and you want to crush the man in front of you into dust. But you still have to play a part. So I flutter my eyelashes and thank him for paying. He winks and waves Redhead over to bring me another drink even though I’ve barely made a dent in the first and there’s still forty five minutes before I’ve got to get this scum sucker in the right condition for the drop. Fifteen minutes to go before we’ve got to go outside and I’m leaning on the bar looking tipsy. It’s not hard to fake with the throbbing in the back of my head. He toyed with the edge of my sleeve. He looked relaxed, but I could see him observing me, wondering how many more drinks it would take before I went limp. “Let’s go out for some air.” One of his fingers had found its way under my sleeve. “Should we go somewhere else?” “Forget it, my liquor cabinet at home is better stocked than any other place in the city.” He perked up, pretending to be struck by an idea. “Would you like to come over for a drink? I mix fantastic cocktails.” Some valuable advice for pick-ups that the Boss gave me is to look grateful that the man chose you. It’ll make them all hot and heavy for you and therefore easier to manipulate. “I’d love to.” Too easy. I’m sure both of us are thinking it. He helps me with my coat and threads his fingers through mine as he leads us up the stairs. The symptoms start again. My chest tightens, then I have the sensation that every organ wants to collapse on itself. Something is different. The outline of a broad body over an inert figure on a bed. My knees buckle at the rush of pain, pulsing and raw between my legs. I’d been unconscious when it happened to me and when I woke up the next day my brain had decided that whatever it was still innocent, despite the fact that I’d passed out fully clothed and woken up naked. When I looked behind the figure, I saw a pile of scattered clothes and the bunched undershirt. The one I’d found the next day covered in a white crust that smelled faintly of ammonia. It had been shoved under a table to hide the evidence. Even then I’d done nothing. My heart was going to crack. Explode in two The idea of collapsing on the stairs right there and not moving was suddenly appealing. “Hey there, you alright?” Focus. That’s never happened before. I’ve worked so hard to keep it under control, it

can’t happen now. We’re in the lobby and I’m frozen by the doors. Hopefully my giggle doesn’t sound as pained as I think. “I’m tipsier than I thought.” Oh the hungry look on his face. I could drive an elbow into his gut and drop him to the floor right here. “We’ll get a taxi.” Mona’s car swings a sharp turn past the hotel entrance right on cue. I hurry down the steps and flag her down. “Thirsty girl,” he chuckles as we slide into the back seats. His arm is around me. “Finally!” Mona turns around and hands me a little bag. “What the hell took you so long? I circled the block three times!” The beloved author doesn’t get to respond because I give him an almighty chop to the carotid. He crumbles onto me like an old plaster wall. Mona swings onto a dark street and I fumble the syringe out of the bag she handed me. It’s clumsy work in near darkness. Mona’s my usual point of contact, she’s responsible for delivering the targets and we both take timing very seriously. “Give it some gas! The drop is in ten minutes!” “I can’t get his sleeve up!” “Then use your imagination!” The injection doesn’t go in his arm, but they say it goes into the bloodstream faster when you do it there. He should be out cold for a good five or six hours. “Wonderful. Get out.” I’ve barely shut the door when Mona burns rubber down the street, panicked about missing drop. I wait until there are less people around and walk a few streets before I get into a real cab. I get out two blocks before my apartment and walk the rest of the way back. I need the cool air to clear my spinning head. ~ There’s no clock in at nine, clock out at five in our line of work. At OrgCC You come in after a pick-up to debrief the boss, and you come when there’s a new one to be made. There’s no casual Fridays, or team-building exercises, or company holiday parties. The location is not a secret subterranean lair. It’s off of a main thoroughfare on the third floor of a building. The bottom floor is a deli and the second is the apartment for the deli owner. If some of our pick-ups could see us during debriefs. A group of highly trained women who spend their nights locking wrists and karate chopping throats, hell bent on taking down every predator they can, all sitting around a conference table annihilating pretzel bagel sandwiches squidging with cream cheese. OrgCC sounds like a high-end cosmetic company and some of us used to refer to it as “Creeper Catchers.” We stopped when the Boss finally told us that the Cs were for her daughter whose body was found by the side of a highway one summer night twelve years ago. The crime was never solved, although they always suspected her boyfriend. She and her husband (our police contact) decided to form OrgCC instead. The conference table is already spread with the mixed bagel assortment and spreads from downstairs, plus two giant carafes beside them. The conference room is empty except for Mona. She nurses a black coffee and swings gently back and forth in a rolling chair. “You were supposed to be here at ten.” “I overslept. Where is everyone?” “Boss needs more time. Like you.” “I’m sorry about last night.” “Sorry wouldn’t have been good enough if I’d missed the drop.” “Is he awake?” “Probably. I’m sure he thinks he’s been arrested for tax evasion. They always think it’s for a financial crime.” Mona sets her cup down and peers at the ragged puffs of skin under my eyes. “You’re overworked.” “You’re a vegan.” “You can’t control it when you’re tired. I know you saw yourself, that’s why you didn’t sleep.” “A little milk in your coffee won’t kill your stomach.” “I’m serious! Another mistake like last night could seriously cost us!” “Leave it alone.” Mona is geared up for a fight, but I don’t have the energy. I concentrate on spreading a vegetable cream cheese on my bagel, while Mona glares at me. “What’s the meeting about?” “She’s finishing up some paperwork for the new hire. My favorite second cousin as it happens.” “You have that many?” I ask through a gargantuan bite. Mona takes a slug of coffee and ignores me. “The boss wants to train her to make drops like me.” She must’ve seen my wounded expression through my next bite. “Don’t worry, it’s not the end for us.” After thirty minutes exactly, the boss emerges from the back office followed by another woman holding a stapled bunch of papers. She is medium height with dark brown hair and dusty brown skin like someone who plays in the sun a lot. As they come closer, I see she the tip of her nose is upturned and it makes her look like an antique doll. It’s endearing and very distinctive. Too distinctive to be doing pick-ups like me. The day I was hired, the Boss told me she wanted me to do pick-ups because I looked average. Apparently people are less inclined to stand up for, or notice you if they can’t say “What a shame that happened. She’s so beautiful!” The symptoms hit me all of a sudden. The pressure at the center of my chest. Then a tingling so strong my limbs feel like they’re buzzing. Then wave on wave of nausea. All of my insides feel like they’ve been looped with a string and pulled taut. It gets stronger as she gets closer, and when she looks in my direction, I can see that it was that cute, upward swoop to her nose that triggered the catcalls. Such a tiny detail, but they thought it was hilarious and called her banana beak and asked if her nose was an extra in the ‘Jaws’ movies. She ignored them. They started following her, making bird noises. Then she was running and they pursued, one of them humming the theme to ‘Jaws.’ They ended up in a parking lot where there were only three cars and no other people in sight. It happened under a streetlight, and when both were finished, they ran off, leaving her in a heap where she trembled for hours until she finally had the courage to stand. But she was still too scared to walk to her car. I don’t realize I’ve fallen out of the vision until I look at her again. Her face swims in and out of focus. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Then the girl gives me her hand and as she pulls me up, it’s like a light being switched off. I feel normal again. More than I have in years. She looks at me as if I floated down from the clouds and waved a magic wand at her. “Go home.” My Boss’s low command. She and Mona look 	shaken. “But, the debriefing?” “Go. Now. Rest, eat some real food, call your family, but stay away. I’ll call you next week.” Mona is still staring at me, wide-eyed as I scurry away to grab my coat. “Wait!” Her cousin thuds down the hall after me. “How did you know about everything?” “I didn’t.” “You must have, you told me. And a lot of other things I didn’t understand. But I felt different after you said them. Lighter somehow.” She still has that look of wonder on her face. “I need to go home.” I feel nauseous again. “Yeah get some rest, we can talk another time. We’re working together now.” She manages a smile and pats my arm. This time my senses stay quiet. No feeling except for the brief warmth that comes with concerned, unsullied physical contact. I need sleep. Another day might bring me the explanations I need.


“A toast! To the bride and groom,” the best man bellowed. A cacophony of clanging glasses and cheers of “Here, here” rang out through the hall.            Henry and Elizabeth Wesley, the happy couple, beamed at one another, seated as they were at the head of the massive hall on the Wesley’s similarly massive Hampshire estate. The Wesleys were one of the wealthiest families in England and a regular feature of London society.            As the feast began and the guests’ attentiveness gave way to an atmosphere of general revelry, Edmund, Henry’s younger brother, sat stoically at the far-left end of the bride and groom’s table, already deep in his glass of wine. He shot the occasional glance down the table at his jubilant brother and his beautiful new wife.

I suppose everything’s come easy for him; why not this?

A rotund man in his fifties approached Henry and Elizabeth. “Mr. Patterson, excellent to see you! We’re both ever grateful you could attend,” Henry said.            “I wouldn’t have missed it! Your father would have my hide,” replied Mr. Patterson. Both men chuckled. After a pause, Mr. Patterson continued, “A promising young man such as yourself from a respectable family… We should speak about your future soon. I happen to know a local MP that will be stepping down next election and I can think of few others more suited to run in his place.”            Henry and Elizabeth exchanged excited looks. “I would be honored to be considered by you and your colleagues for the seat. Father has always impressed the importance of a public career for me as future head of the family. I shall call upon you and your wife soon and we can discuss it further.”

Why does everyone reward him?            As the feast dragged on into the evening, the hall became warmer and merrier as more wine and spirits were brought up from the cellars. Edmund had drunk a fair amount himself (he had actually started an hour before the ceremony that morning) and his head was starting to swim in a hot glow. This, combined with the warm light from the candles and chandeliers, caused a thick and heady mist of intoxication seemingly to permeate the room.            Edmund overheard the deep, authoritative voice of his father further down the table, closer to the bride and groom. “One more toast: to my son Henry, a lucky man and the greatest son a father could ask for.”

Greatest…            “He’s made us all proud, but none as proud as I on this happy day. Henry, Elizabeth, may your future together be long and joyful.”            “Here, here!” answered the guests clustered around father and son. Edmund made a point to wait a moment longer than normal before taking another drink from his own glass.            After some time, Edmund could not be sure how long, he slipped away from the table. Henry and his best man – a close friend of his from Oxford – were leaning in close to speak privately. Henry glanced up at Edmund as he departed, then resumed whispering, as if trying to banish the thought and sight of his younger brother.

He never asked me to be the best man.            Edmund made his way to the washroom to splash some water on his face in an attempt to clear his head and regain his senses. He gazed in the mirror. Edmund had a round, misshapen face that was higher and slightly protruded on one side. His eyes were ever so slightly different colors; people often didn’t immediately notice, but it gave his face an off look that never escaped new acquaintances. His hair was short, thin, and prematurely graying. In essence, “homely” was something of an understatement. Henry, on the other hand, had always been the most dashing boy in any circle he frequented.            Edmund reached into his coat pocket and removed a small phial. It was brass, inlaid with a floral pattern, and had a cap over its mouth. One could not see the contents from without.            When Edmund returned to the hall, the tables and food had been cleared away to make room for music and dancing. Henry and Elizabeth had apparently just begun a most mesmerizing waltz. The bride’s dress flowed and fluttered to the movements, which took on an almost otherworldly appearance in the dimly lit hall.            After the first dance, more couples joined in, and the night sank into ever greater depths of joy and merriment. Edmund, however, found himself alone, milling about one of the tables pushed against the walls, laden with fine wines, liqueurs, sweet fruits, and confections. Edmund had had quite a lot to drink, but alcohol rarely dulled his mind overmuch, and certainly didn’t distract him from the torrent of thoughts racing through his mind.            Edmund grabbed a knife from the table to cut a slice of one of the many cakes laid out. Before he could, Henry came up from behind and clasped Edmund on the shoulder.            “Isn’t she stunning, Edmund?” he said, gazing back at Elizabeth. “Can’t think of what I did to deserve her.”            “Indeed…” replied Edmund in a deadpan.            “Though I’m certainly ready for the festivities to end and for the ‘wedding night’ to begin, eh?” said Henry in a jocular fashion.            Edmund made no reply.            “Ah, I promise I shan’t go on about it. I know you’ve been a bit bereft of feminine company,” Henry said with a knowing, ironic smile.            Edmund still had the knife in his hand.            Henry nudged Edmund playfully in the side a little harder than he would have were he sober. Edmund gave a slightly pained smile, which hid his clenched, grinding teeth. Henry then jaunted off merrily to join a group of his schoolmates from Oxford.            Before Edmund could turn back to the table, Elizabeth approached him. Edmund and Elizabeth had known each other since childhood; her family lived close and Edmund had remained at home when Henry had been sent to London for schooling. This gave them ample time in their adolescence to cross paths and strike up a friendship of sorts.            “There you are! I was looking for you earlier,” said Elizabeth.            Edmund’s heart skipped a beat. “I needed to get a bit of fresh air, sorry,” he replied.            “Don’t apologize, Eddy! Come dance, this is a great waltz!”            Before he could object, Elizabeth grabbed his hand and hauled him to the center of the room. As the music picked up, Edmund struggled to match the ease with which Elizabeth flowed into the dance. Edmund panicked inside as he attempted with every effort to avoid crushing Elizabeth’s feet. Remembering the few dance lessons his mother had given him, he gingerly placed his hand at her hip and the two began to whirl awkwardly around the room.

I should not have had so much to drink…            After a few moments, it was clear that Edmund was at a loss. He had never learned to dance as well as Henry as his parents didn’t see the point in investing the time and energy – or the money for an instructor – for their youngest.            Sensing Edmund’s difficulty, Elizabeth leaned in. “Let me lead,” she whispered with a sly smile.            Edmund felt himself go red at being this close to her. Slowly, they changed the positioning of their arms and Elizabeth began to dominate. Edmund gradually began to relax. Moving in a crowd as they were, and with plenty of chatter and drink still sloshing about, hardly anyone would notice that Elizabeth was leading.            Memories of their shared childhood swam through Edmund’s mind. Remembering those times made him happy, and he smiled at Elizabeth, and she back. For a moment that seemed to last an hour, their eyes met and kept each other’s gaze as they stepped and twirled about. Suddenly, something caught and twisted Edmund’s foot, yanking him out of his daydream. He had strayed too far and hadn’t minded where he was, resulting in his foot catching on that of another dancer behind him.            The next thing Edmund realized; he was on the ground. The dancing and the music had stopped and many of the guests were staring down at him, startled. The woman he had collided with had fallen to the floor as well and was grasping her ankle in pain. Elizabeth stood with her hands over her mouth.            As Edmund recovered himself, a smattering of laughter could be heard from the side of the room - Henry and his Oxford friends. Edmund felt himself grow red hot under the countless piercing eyes.

Stop staring at me! Stop laughing at me!            He started over to the young woman he had injured, hand outstretched to help, but before he could reach her, her partner lifted her to her feet and escorted her away from the center of the hall. Edmund was left in the middle of everyone he knew, and the few he cared about, alone, in silence...            After what felt like a lifetime, the musicians began to play again, ending Edmund’s agonizing horror. Elizabeth was pulled aside by a group of acquaintances and drawn into conversation, appearing to forget all about Edmund. His brother similarly had returned to some comedic banter with his former classmates.            Edmund slinked back toward the table at the head of the hall where the family had sat during dinner. He glanced up and was horrified to see the gray, hard features of his father staring down at him. After being fully appraised by his all-seeing gaze, and as if being found wanting, his father departed with a huff.

Always second, in every regard . Yes, it was always Henry who received your attention and love. You poured money, gifts, and opportunity on him, even though he squanders everything. Everyone simply loves him… Well… perhaps it’s time something changes…            Edmund stepped out onto the back lawn for the rest of the evening, puffing on a cigar, thinking. He was always thinking, considering everything. He rarely smoked, but tonight was a special occasion, though not in the way everyone else thought.            A few minutes later, his brother stumbled out of the house onto the porch where Edmund stood taking in the view of the family’s garden. Henry came up beside Edmund and leaned against the stone rail.            “I-… is this where you’ve been hiding, Eddy? You scampered off quickly after that dance fiasco,” said Henry, slurring his speech slightly. Henry took a deep sip from the wine glass in his hand.

Go on, drink…            “I’d had enough. I needed to clear my head.”            “You never know how to have fun. Always s-… sulking about. Shying away, especially from the ladies. I saw how you looked when you were dancing with Elizabeth. Don’t get any… *urp* untoward ideas.”

You have no clue just what “untoward ideas” I have…            Edmund smiled warmly and placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Speaking of your bride, shouldn’t you be with her now?” asked Edmund, hoping to rid himself of his brother’s company.            Henry stared at Edmund for a moment, almost as if suspecting something. But not quite. Henry gave Edmund a wide, toothy grin and slapped him on the back.            “Right you are! How could I forget? You always had a sharp memory.”

I remember it all… everything .            Henry downed the remaining wine from his glass before setting off inside, swaying as he walked. Edmund watched him go in silence, his expression mute. When Henry had disappeared inside, Edmund descended the stone steps down into the garden. He strolled leisurely to a small pond at the center of the garden, which was ringed by rows of hedges. He remembered when they were children, he and Henry used to play here often. Memories came flooding through Edmund’s mind, including the many times he had served as “entertainment” for Henry and his friends.

Fitting that this is where I’d end up… I suppose it all ends here…

He took a long draw on his cigar and looked up into the flawless night sky. The stars of a clear summer evening were mingling with the faintest hint of predawn light on the horizon. He let the cigar fall to the ground and stamped it out forcefully, then reached inside his coat pocket. In his hand, he held the little brass phial with the cap and inlaid floral pattern, whose contents couldn’t be seen from without. He removed the cap.

Empty, to the last drop.            He thought back on all the drinking his brother had done that evening and how he’d downed his glass on the patio.

Too much, they might say come morning…            Edmund smiled, softly at first, and then deeper and deeper. Deeper than he could ever remember smiling. His teeth were bared and bright in the dark predawn.            He threw the empty phial in the pond, wheeled about, and started back towards the house, a spring in his step and the future on his mind.


The town is named "Yellow Town" because there is not one single upstanding citizen within earshot. Dirt streets and tumbleweeds spin yarns of "would of" and "should have been" but never "proud of." Any shaky-kneed varmint that crosses the street will not face up to danger or principle. Courage and friendship are replaced by shaky knees and perspiration. A Sheriff's Star is a symbol of courage but the man behind the star is a paper hero. He looks like a sheriff, walks like a sheriff but when the going gets rough and tumble, you might as well give up and call yourself yellow because you can't make a hero out of a fool. You look around Yellow town and see clearly that it could have been quite different. The Fourth of July Parade brings tears to the eyes of citizens. They reminisce about the brave souls that stood up for the honor of Yellow Town. Alas, only a bitter few stepped up and many lost in the shuffle of fear. The old time Civil War Veterans march down the street to the beat of the volunteer band and they hold their heads up high and smile and wave at the crowd. The crowd cheers and jumps up and down in happiness until one lone shot sends the crowd in all directions. The parade stops. Sheer pandemonium takes over.  The band drops their instruments and scatter to their usual hiding places. One shot and a line of five rogue cowboys. The Silver Gang is back. Fear is so thick you can smell it. If you can spell bravery, you don't belong here. This is Yellow Town. Yellow town is yellower than a bucket of corn. A town of blithering cowards. Cowards that like to gossip and point fingers in shame. Mrs. O'Brien is a dressmaker and she wears the finest clothing shipped all the way from Philadelphia. She wears fine silk dresses and only rides in the finest coaches. Her husband is the Hanging Judge O'Brien. He hasn't had a case in years. It has been so very long that even the Courtroom is a whirlwind of dust and bitter memories of better days gone by. The of bitter regret fills the air of the shameful courthouse. Hanging Judge O"Brian is a joke. He is fearful of hanging the outlaws. He often pardons them before the day of their sentencing. The townsfolk refuse to see anyone hurt because that would upset their peace and quiet. Any kind of hootin' and hollerin' is upsetting to yellow belly fools in this town. They only want quiet and hushed voices that say hello and have a nice day. Casey Edwards is not what you would call a brave soul, but he does like Yellow Town. His Daddy and his Grand Daddy Edwards lived here and if it is good enough for them, it is good enough for old Casey. Not much for ambition, but a bucket full of pend up family pride. Casey Edwards has a star on his chest that says "Sheriff", but he never stood up for anything but a whiskey at the local saloon. "Sheriff" Casey Edwards could have been a hero. He spends hours telling anyone who will care to listen a very long-winded,  tiresome yard about the Silver Gang. In the summer of 1898, the Silver Gang rides into Yellow Town and wants to see what kind of trouble they could stir up. First, they "mosey" into the mercantile store and harass the storekeeper Mr. Riley. The Gang holds up the store and load up their wagons with goods. Mr. Riley shouts out for help but his voice is so soft, it comes out like a whisper. He kneels down and hides his face in shame. The wagon rides away with a huge haul of stolen goods. "What a Yellow Belly! Too easy! This town is a bore!" The Silver gang laughs at Mr. Riley and celebrates at the Good Times Saloon. The good times are rolling because the Silver Gang comes in firing shots into the air and shouting, " Give us drinks!" Half of the regulars hide under the tables and the bar keep puts out a dozen bottles of whiskey and ale on the counter and hides underneath. The barkeep shivers and shakes. He wipes the cold sweat off his brow and hangs his head in shame. He is too yellow to save his saloon from the Silver Gang He stoops down and crawls on the dirt floor like a mouse. He just about reaches the swinging doors when one of the gang grabs him by his belt and throws him into the street. This rouses the interest of the Sheriff, Casey Edwards. He puffs out his chest like an arrogant fool. The townsfolk stand behind him, shivering and shaking, for fear of what may come next. They do not want any trouble, only calm and liquor. Casey's boots jingle as he walks with trepidation toward the saloon. He timidly puts one hand on the swinging door and pushes forward, entering. He faces five guns with faces. Angry, daring, arrogant faces. The guns are cocked. The air is tense. Casey scratches his head. He forgot his gun! His knees start shaking, his brow starts sweating. He stares into the eyes of the guns and opens his arms, pleading . He runs left, then right. The Silver gang takes turns shooting around him and laughing at his cowardice. The sheriff is a yellow belly! The town is all Yellow! We might as well be the law because the law has no spine in Yellow town. The townsfolk are "fraidy" cats! They take a step toward the crowd of townspeople and they scatter about like fleas on a dog. _____ Years later, Sheriff Casey spends his days regretting his shaky knees and loss of memory. He sits in an old, beat up rocking chair on his front porch, gazing out at the horizon, playing the scene over and over inside his head. "If I only remembered to bring a gun that day. I could have shot the fools that took over Yellow Town. If only I had a spine, Yellow Town could have lived in peace. Did I really love Yellow Town enough to defend her honor? I am ashamed that I turned yellow and allowed a the Silver Gang to take over our peace and tranquility!" A town like Yellow Town can't have peace without strength. There is no tranquility without the ability to create boundaries for law and order. Yellow Town had cowards and no law and order. Just a lot of shaky knees, tears, bumbling fools and cowards that wear the badge of shame.


I awoke with a startle. I was three minutes early to my alarm waking me up with it's normal, yet awfully loud ring. Looking at my calendar across the room I noticed it was the day I got to go out. Every third Monday of each month is the designated day. I used to be excited every time I got up in the morning and knew that at 10:15 A.M. I could open my door and see the sun. But that feeling soon faltered. After 12 years of a pandemic, and living on the same schedule each day, I practically forgot what it felt like to live. I hadn't seen friends, coworkers, teachers, or fellow peers since the 9th grade. I'm 27 now. There isn't anyone that is allowed to go anywhere anymore, unless they're some sort of authorized government official. I used to say that we should fight against what they were doing, but at this point it isn't worth it. There isn't anything we can get back now. They've taken everything from us. We don't have anything. They took our freedom. They decide what we can and can't have. They assign uniforms. They do everything to prevent us from being any different or being anything that is seemingly out of the ordinary. Although there is nearly 2/3 of the population that was wiped out, the pollution from factory made food, clothing, and the special suits we have to wear to go out has completely changed the environment. The sky that was once a beautiful blue is now an awful, dark purple. The grass is all dead, and I don't think the actual sun has come out at all in the last few months. Everything is created by the government now. I walked down the stairs, the silence of the apartment has become almost calming. I haven't had any kind of interaction with anyone since the pandemic began. I guess that's just the price you pay of living in New York nowadays. I turned on the coffee maker, and searched through my freezer in an attempt to find something that sounded even the least bit appealing. The clock struck 9:30, I rushed upstairs and got ready to gear up. First I put on my form-fitted, blue body suit. I heard that everyone has a different color that they are assigned. Of course, I've never seen any so I wouldn't know. I picked through to the back of my closet and grabbed the oh-so-attractive plastic hazmat suit. I put it on, grabbed an N-95 mask and a face shield, zipped up the hood and got ready to leave. The clock hit 10:15 and I went to my front door. I turned the lock and as the door opened I saw the bus. I got on and closed my eyes as I listened to the sound of the wheels turning. Finally the bus came to it's final stop. The person on the front row got up, walked through the door, and was greeted by a woman taking temperatures. I was in the very back, so I knew I had some time. Eventually it got to the person ahead of me, the woman taking her temperature paused. She took her temp again, and slowly reached up to her walkie-talkie. The woman who was presumably sick took off running as fast as she could. She didn't make it far before she was tackled and thrown in the back of a government van. I got up hesitantly, I walked off the bus and held my breath as the thermometer was held to my forehead. I waited for the beep to go through, the time felt as if it went by slower and slower each second. At last I heard the woman's voice through the ringing in my ears "...not clear, sorry" I tried to walk forward but suddenly my brain processed what she had said. I heard another van come up behind me, I tried to run but my feet felt like concrete. Finally I felt my foot come up. I started in a dead sprint in the other direction. I rounded a corner and threw off my suit. Today was the perfect day for wearing my running shoes. I heard the rumble of the van. I took a quick right and ran through a field. I saw the tree line creeping closer and closer. Finally I could feel my feet hitting the brush underneath me. I was free. I felt more alive in this moment than I ever had. A rush of memories came pummeling back. I first remembered how when I was in Grade 4 me and my best friend, Elaine were first learning to skateboard. We would push ourselves with our feet so hard that they were covered in blisters by the time the sun went down. I remembered how when me and my first boyfriend went to see a movie. We only payed for one ticket, but we would sneak out of one theater and into another. Half the time we didn't even know what was playing, but we did it because we could. I remembered how right before everything changed, me and my friend group of 7 all took a trip to Tennessee. The mountains were beautiful, the air smelled of trees and fresh water. Suddenly I tripped. I hit the ground and every bit of air was knocked out of my lungs. Two men came up behind me. I was hoisted by the shoulders and thrown into the back of the van. I felt them sticking needles into my arm, my body started to feel like it was floating. I knew it was over. I wouldn't wake up to hear my alarm. I wouldn't sit up and see my calendar ever again. I wouldn't put on my hazmat suit. Which wasn't all that terrible. I didn't know what was going to happen next, all I knew is that I wasn't going to live normally ever again. All I know is that I was just trying to get groceries.


Odzi Country Lodge faces the beautiful Odzi River. Terry and Rose sit at the balcony of their room facing the open night. They quietly watch the beautiful moon shining on the river. A creepy sound of night creatures can be heard from their back ground; the two seem not bothered by the sounds anyway. Something draws the attention of the two and they turn to look at each other with questioning eyes. Two shadows pass by the building to their right. A loud noise comes from some buildings behind the lodge. It is a strange noise unfamiliar to the two, then someone screaming can be heard, followed by shouting and all of a sudden the noises come to an end, followed by dead silence. “Do you think we are safe here Terry?” Rose asked. “It’s just fun noises, remember we are in the forest,” answers Terry. The two walk back into their room, Terry holding Rose to him. He careful lays her on the bed. “Everything is going to be fine, “Terry assures her. “We got to go; this place is making me sick.” “Yah but we can only do that in the morning. It is late to drive out of the park,” Terry responds. “I wish I have never come to this place it is haunted,” complains Rose. “Those are just fairy tales Rose. A lot of people come here and no one died here.” “No, didn’t you see those shadows on the walls they are ghosts?” Terry burst into laughter. “Oh my God! They were just two people passing by and you saw shadows you think they are ghosts?” “Did you see the people?” “Yes,” Terry lied. “Let us sleep and we leave tomorrow early in the morning” “And the terrifying noises, it’s something else,” “There you are, don’t be negative please! We are leaving tomorrow, okay?” Terry and Rose pull their luggage from the room. The sun is already shining high when the two takes to leave. They pack their luggage at the back of their pickup truck and Rose goes around the car to the passenger seat. There is khaki paper on the car handle. Rose slowly stretches her hand to remove the paper but hesitates for a moment. “Get in Rose we got to go!” calls Terry who is already on the driver’s seat. Rose hesitates to open the door again. “Hey Rose let’s go!” terry calls again. Rose doesn’t say anything she simply signals Terry to come the other side of the car. They look at the paper for some time and Terry finally stretches his hand to take the paper, but Rose holds him back, “You have to be careful,” she cautions him. “Maybe it’s a bomb,” she continues “Or just a paper, why are you so nervous Rose?” Terry unfolds the paper, it is a letter. The letter reads: Dear Lovebirds I have been following you on your journey and you seem to be in the seventh heaven. Remember one of you owes me LOVE. Yours Good friend “I sensed it all this time that we are not safe here,” Rose reacts “So we are being followed? Who is that person following us? What about yesterday’s shadows? What are we going to do? What are we going to do now?” Rose laments, going forth and back. “Calm down Rose everything is going to be fine,” Terry assures Rose caressing her hair. “We are not safe Terry,” whimpers Rose. “Oh my God why does this have to happen to me?” she continues “Don’t worry Rose, maybe it’s just someone who wants to scare the butt out of us,” says Terry getting back into the car. Rose throws herself into the passenger seat. “I’m scared to death. Who is this person following us? So after all it’s not ghosts but someone actually following us? We should report this to this police.” “Do you think the police will help? We don’t have enough evidence we are being followed let’s just leave the place.” “Terry! You are not serious! Our lives are in danger here and you don’t want to report and pretend everything is okay? Maybe you know who the person is. Is it your ex?” “I have ex-girlfriends, you also have ex-boyfriends, and a whole lot of them how am I supposed to know who sent the letter? This pointing of fingers won’t help let’s leave this place first and we can then investigate the issue later.” The Isuzu KB truck drives past vast country side in a large big city and finally to a quiet low density suburb. Rose and Terry pulls up their luggage along a driveway to a large mahogany door. There is another paper that looks exactly the same as the one they saw at the lodge earlier in the morning. “Another letter!” exclaims Rose. “What on earth does this person want from us?” The second letter read: Dear T & R Welcome back home. Remember to give back to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and enjoy life. From your Good friend. “Where are we going to stay now? The person followed us home. We have to report this to the police, or if you don’t want I will go alone I cannot afford to risk my one and only life,” say Rose walking towards the gate. Terry follows her quietly. Terry and Rose walk out of the police station with some papers in their hands. Terry walks in the garden, it is almost dark now. Rose walks up to him. “Can you come inside now, dinner is almost ready,” she calls “Let’s stay out a bit, you know I like to spend nights outside” responds Terry. Terry sits on a large armchair with Rose on his lap and he begins to sing.

What do you do if the past follows you?     What do you do if the past haunts you?            You go where your love is.            Follow your love            Follow your passion Turn the back on your past And never turn back again You look at your past and your joy is gone Never let fear rule your life Never let fear stay in your heart Where love is supposed to stay. Let love rule Rose claps her hands joyfully. “Well, I never knew you are such a good singer. I wish we could record and sing to all those in love at Valentine’s Day “My father always taught me that where there is love there is no fear.” explains Terry. “Yes but sometimes your enemies terrify you,” responds Rose. “What matters in life is not the absence of enemies but how you react when they attack you. Freak out and they will dance and attack you more. Ignore your enemies and look at your love and your life will be superb. Let love rule. Do you know enemies are also afraid of us?” “Really?” “Of course why would someone write an anonymous letters instead of approaching you on your face and make his or her demands? Personally I don’t give a damn when people gossip about me; I know they admire my life. I just live my normal life,” Terry explains. “I’m glad to have you in my life, what was I going to do without you?” Terry and Rose are riding horses side by side along a path that has tall grass on both sides. They admire the beauty of nature as they stroll along the path. The horses come to a sudden stop, freaking out. Some distance of about fifty metres away is a horse far bigger than the two. The person riding the horse wears black attire that covers the face. Rose raises her head and notices the black horse ahead, she screams out loud turning her horse to look back. “What is it?” Terry asks in shock. “A black man on a horse!” answers terrified Rose “Where is the man?” “He disappeared but I swear I saw the man. The horses must have seen him also.” “Hold on to the horse and make sure you don’t fall!” Shouts Terry, as he turns the horses to looks back where they are coming from. He lets Rose’s horse gallop in front and he follows closely. The horses took it to their heels with Terry and Rose lying flat on their backs. Terry and Rose knock on a green door. “Come in,” a voice answers from inside. The Hostler’s office is a small room with very old furniture. The young man sits on the armchair with only one arm and is the only chair in the office. Terry and Rose relate their story while standing. “The animals’ sensed danger that’s why they turned back,” explained the hostler. “How is it possible for intruders to enter the park, we thought we were safe in here” Rose complains “I’m really sorry for this unfortunate event. We will carry out investigations” answers the hostler. “This is why I wanted a tour guide, they know the place very well,” Rose complains. “It’s best to explore nature on your own, you know I love nature,” responds Terry. “No more picnics in these mysterious forests, I’m sick and tired of being frightened each time I want to enjoy myself outside,” mumbled Rose Terry and Rose are the last to join other visitors for dinner. They eat their dinner quietly. “Do you think this is the works of our enemies again,” Rose breaks the silence. Terry doesn’t answer. A group of musician takes up the stage and begin to play music. Terry slowly gets up from his chair and begins to sing:

What do you do if the past follows you?     What do you do if the past haunts you?            You go where your love is.            Follow your love            Follow your passion Turn the back on your past And never turn back again. You look at your past and your joy is gone Never let fear rule your life Never let fear stay in your heart Where love is supposed to stay. Let love rule*3 In a few minutes the stage is full of people dancing and singing along the music. Rose watches from her chair for some time. She finally gets up from her chair to join the madness. Terry and Rose walk out of the dining hall with camera capturing their photos from all angles and a bunch of people trying to get Terry’s contact for they loved his talent.


FRIDAY!! It was finally Friday, the end of the week, the start of the weekend, and most importantly the day I was having a party. Everything is going to be perfect, it will be the best party of the whole school year! I had a swimming pool, lots of food, games, and music! All I had to do was get through this one last day of school, the 8 hour long school day. Sounds easy? Well, it's not. I could not focus at all today, but it was worth sitting through all those boring classes because it was finally party time. I wanted my party to last extra long so I asked my mom to decorate, set up the food, and set up the music for me. All of my friends and I went straight to my house after school. We were all excited and knew how perfect it was going to be...until we arrived at my house. The front of my house was covered in eggs and there were forks all in the front lawn. We were astonished, who would have done this? We decided it was just a joke and left it to go in the back, where the party was. My mom stopped us when we were walking through the house and told us to not go into the backyard because she heard something out there. We thought she was joking so we went out anyways. The only thing I have to say about that is how much of a mistake he had just made. The pool's toys were on the roof and the pool was only half full with water. If you think that's crazy just wait there's more. The water that was left in the pool was a disgusting green and it was slimy. The speaker was no longer here and nobody knew where it was at. The worst part of all is that the food was almost completely gone. Empty pizza boxes thrown everywhere, bags of chips all over the ground, every bottle of drink was spilled. There were leftovers left all over the ground and mashed up. I was so embarrassed and could not have thought of anything worse that could have happened. My party was ruined. I started crying and ran up to my room. My friends followed me up and they comforted me. We all really wanted to know who did this. We decided to set out for a mission to discover who this awful party crasher is. We got all the materials we needed and set out. We each grabbed a flashlight and a notepad to write down clues. Oh and If I haven't mentioned it my house is right by the woods, so that's where we looked first. We saw nothing for a while, but then we found a napkin that looked exactly like the ones I had. We picked it up and found some chips that I also had at my party! We got so excited, but it was also nerve wracking at the same time. There was a trail of a bunch of items from my party. We continued to follow this trail for hours. We were finding more and more clues getting closer to solving a mystery. Until the trail ended and led us to absolutely nowhere. We hit the end of the road, nowhere else to go. We decided to take a break and sit down for a while because our feet hurt from all the walking. While we were sitting it turned dark and got kind of scary. We then heard footsteps. They started off quiet and slowly got louder and bigger. it sounded like they were coming towards us! They were happening faster and faster and faster. Then music started playing and the footsteps got louder. The longer we waited the clearer the music got and the louder the crunches of footsteps got. We were terrified. You will never believe what we saw. A BEAR! The footsteps came from the bear and it was holding MY radio, eating the food from MY party, and the bear was dripping wet. The bear WAS the party crasher!!! He must have smelt the hot pizza and came out of the woods to find it. When he got to my house he fell into the pool and splashed out all the water. When he tried to climb out he freaked out and threw all the pool toys into the air and then they landed on the roof. Then by the time he got to the food he ate it all and was mad from falling in the pool that he threw the extras everywhere. I guess he liked our music and took the speaker too. That explains everything that happened in the backyard. But a bear can not put forks in the lawn and throw eggs all over the front of my house. If he did not do that, then who did? Fun Facts about me and this story: I do not know what else to write but I thought the story was funny. I came up with it on my own. I wrote this kind of fast but I enjoyed it. I do not usually enjoy writing; it is super boring to me and I tend to struggle but this came to me quite easy. I hope you enjoyed my story. It is fictional of course. I based it off of things I enjoy. I always enjoyed a mystery to solve. They just seem super fun to me. I also like being a little bit scared. I also love comedies so I figured if I am going to write, it has to be about something I am interested in. I am right below my word minimum which is 1000 words and I honestly think that is kind of a lot for the type of story I wrote. It is supposed to be short, sweet, and to the point. I do not like when things are over explained and you can tell it is just so people can reach more words because it looks good for them. I am at minimum word count now though so have a great day and I hope you enjoyed my story.


On Antarctica, a man was listening to his radio before the daughter was yelling. He was frustrated with no place of quiet to himself. The place was a chamber and his entire family lived there. Sure, it was cold out there, and it became very boring for his wife and the kids on some days but his job paid well. He was getting five-hundreds thousand for a year in Antarctica on research.

“Dad, look at this!” Andalusia said, wiping the frost off the window.

Outside, they saw the snowland, and the penguins sliding down some plains.

“Yeah, I see it. They’re having fun out there.” “No, no not that. Look here, to your right.” She said.

“The melting ice?”

She went past him and pulled up the thermistor. “Look at this! It’s thirteen degrees warmer than before. So, it’s real. All of this global warming thing is! Please, dad.” She wouldn’t quit. “Kid, listen to me. I know it is real, okay? It’s not what I’m here for, though. I’m just the penguin guy. You know that.”

She widened her eyes, “Dad, why can’t you listen to me? We got to do something. There’s so much carbon emission that the levels are rising. Fast.”

“Sweetie, stop. It’s enough. I know this is bad, but what can we do, really?”

She leaned forward, “Are you serious? We can plant trees, cut the economy on factories, and try to convert most of the electronics used to solar energy. This solar energy could make some big differences in how we live.”

“I love that you care about the environment, but I really have to work, okay?”

“Forget it. Enjoy your papers.” She scoffed and went to her bed, picking up a hardback.

Dad slumped in his desk and went through some files. The one on the penguin's tag was missing… He pushed the chair apart, looked under the desk. Dad tried the drawers, and another drawer on the bottom that was stuck out jammed. He fiddled with it, pushing it shut. Something glowed caught his eyes.

What was that? He knelt down and lowered his head.

There was a small circle of swirling colors. It is loose, taking a little space as possible on the floor. “What the heck?” He murmured quietly to himself.

His hands trembled, and he slowly reached for it. His index finger felt the cool air whooshed before it touched the thing. Immediately, all of his life forms vanished, leaving the pen that was behind his ear on the floor. He felt the sweats dripping on his forehead, becoming dizzy and dizzier. His hands couldn’t take grasp of anything, losing himself unbalanced, in this- A gray room?

Dad took a deep breath, nervously beating his heart rapidly. He looked at the glass wall that looked like a movie was playing. Some kind of space film. He pushed himself off the ground, leveled with the movie. “Wow. Is this high definition? Amazing.”

The movie showed the Moon insight, along with millions of stars. It didn’t play anything else, just this clip. The door clicked, and a little boy came in. He gasped, “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” He looked scared, but his face scrunched up, “What are you using?”

“I- 'm Dave. I really don’t know what happened… I was at my desk but then now I’m here. I really don’t know. Could I talk to someone, your dad, maybe?”

“They all are gone. Where have you been all along! I thought there was no one left.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Gone, that’s what I mean. It’s only me here. It was three of us for seven years. Before that, there were about three hundred of us.”

“Please, kid, can you take me to your mom?” He pleaded.

“You’re not listening to me. They’re gone.”

Dave sighed, and shuffled his way past the kid, out of the room. “What the hell? Where are we? Those look a lot like a spaceship hallway in the movies, all gray and beeping lights, and all that stuff.” He addressed the kid, “Wait, is that your window in the room? Are we in space?” He stammered.

“Yes, why?”

“So we are in space? Oh God, I must be dreaming. How is this possible?”

“I want to know where you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? I was tired of making food myself! Mom said nobody would.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twelve. Thirteen three months from now!”

“Oh, I thought you were like nine.” He observed the kid, in his tight suit who seemed to be thin to the bone.

“Twelve. Now tell me who you are.”

Dave ignored him, running away in the hall. “Where are everyone!!” He screamed. “Tell me now, please! I can’t be here. I can’t… this is crazy.”

“Calm down, I got food that can last us a lifetime. Then there would be nothing left. It’s all right. Mom said she’s proud of me. I’m the last boy there is. Maybe not, if you’re here.”

Dave rubbed his eyes, “Last boy… Jesus, I don’t understand… What- Could you explain it to me? All of this?” He teared up a little.

“How do you not know? Did they not teach this to you in history class?”

“The space stuff? I knew Neil Armstrong was the first one to Moon.” “Who’s Neil? No. I’m talking about the place called Earth? You have heard of it before, right?”

Dave chuckled, “Yes, I live there.”

The boy frowned, “Haha you can’t fool me with that joke! Earth has been gone for almost eight hundred years. Something like that, I think.”

“Don’t play with me.” Dave was pissed off. “Tell me the truth. Not this nonsense.”

“I can’t tell you if you don’t listen! Stop yelling! Come on, here.” The boy went back to his room and showed Dave the stack of papers. “This is today.”

There were tallies, the number of days he assumed. “And what is today?”

The boy was quiet, looking at the paper then replied, “2109.”

“What month? Day?”

“No use of that here. We do it yearly because time goes by slowly. But if you want to know… three.. Five, it’s July Fourth.”

“No, no. 2109? That’s like nine hundred years in the future!”

“Are you dumb? No, it’s today.”

Dave realized, the boy might be serious and all of this was real. He never felt more scared than at this moment than ever. “Okay, could you explain?”

“Alright. People said Earth died because people didn’t take care of it very well. That’s why all of us went into space. Then some ships broke down. Some were destroyed, and some others… I don’t know where. This is the last ship still running. My mom taught me everything I had to know. There’s a little garden here, and I check the engines daily. Mostly, it’s automatic stuff but mom said to check every day.”

“So, have been you here for a while? Alone?”

“Yes. I asked my mom why she was explaining all of this to me- she didn’t say. I just found her dead one day. It’s me now. Why don’t you know all this?” “I know this might be hard to believe but I’m from the year 2020. I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s okay.” The kid gave Dave his hand and brought him to the long window. “That” he pointed, “Is the Planet Earth.”

Earth he knew through the satellite photos, through NASA websites doesn’t look like this. It was brown, and there was barely any water to be seen. Most of it was just dirt. “This is Earth?” Dave asked, speechless.

“Yes. Was this your home?”

“Yes. My home. Andalusia was right.”

The kid looked up, “Who’s that?”

“My daughter. She said we got to do something about this… I didn’t listen.”

He turned around, pressed himself against the wall, and sat down. “Oh god, what have we done? God help us all.”