( I found this gem in my google drives, must have written it when I was a teen, or at the very least 5 years ago. Totally forgot I had ever written it, but it made me laugh and cringe while rereading - now you all get to see it! ) Born with them, I’d say. “I was born with them. It’s nothing special. It’s nothing, really. Thanks.” I’m referring to, of course, the sticks of menace sticking out just above the fringe of my hair. The twigs of doom. The rods of revenge. The twin wands from hell. Antlers. They’re nothing but a body part to me, but people never understood this. They would always weave back and forth in front of me, eyes affixed on not my eyes but my stubs, mouths endlessly chewing words and spitting them out like soft bubblegum. Personally, I think it’s something to do with genetics. Grandma used to live in the deep woods by herself, a long time ago. Was a bit of a bohemian. Who knows what could have happened then? But nobody wants to hear about that. Instead I get questions, about as stock as cardboard – Are they real? How’d you put those on? They’re not that big, are they. Can I touch ‘em? Ew, what are those? Wow, that’s really weird. Does it hurt? Does the size reflect somethin’ else of yours? Answers to those: Yes, I didn’t, I know, no, thanks, I know, no, and goodbye. The truth is, the infernal sticks are capable of getting real big. When I was younger, my mother let me grow them out for a year or so. In the spring, they started to erupt just like the joints of my wrists and ankles. They bloomed above my head like trees do in spring and they stretched, they yawned, they were alive. But when they began to draw attention just a little too much, it was my father’s responsibility then. I can still remember it, the way he got up from his chair during dinner. The way he opened the small cabinet door, his face hidden by the intricate pattern on the wood. The sound the knife made when he sharpened it, reassuring me, *the sharper it is the less it will hurt.* And oh, it didn’t hurt. But it was terrifying as hell. They stopped growing for a while after. I mean, they did, but I tried to shave them down when I could. I didn’t really want anything like that to happen again. \- That changed when we decided to move to the edge of the city. Away from people. It wasn’t my fault, or so my parents told me, suspiciously often. Then again, it’s not like they had anybody else to tell. After having me, it’s reasonable to think that they’d hold back against having more. Our new house was located on the left side of a small lake and to the front of a big forest. It was so close to Mother Nature that you couldn’t really say it was part of the city anymore. It still was, of course, but our immediate surroundings made it a hard fact to remember. I think that’s what my parents were going for, anyway. They loved it. The forest behind our house was gigantic. I say ‘big’, but from an objective point of view it was bigger than big. From the first day we moved in, I could feel its power emanating like some sort of radiation. There was something about that forest that made it seem like a giant — intimidating. I’d go back there a lot. At my tender teen age I already felt the wanderlust. The forest was my escape for whenever I felt misunderstood (which was a lot). It became my playground whenever I had nothing better to do. Even more than that, the forest gave me a deep sense of belonging. At the time I figured it had something to do with the abominable twins atop my head. Something like a nature sense, if that even makes sense. When I was in that forest, I would feel something twining deep into the corners of my soul, seeding itself there and spreading its roots, grounding me to the place as if I’d been born there. It got to my head, a bit. Sometimes I even fancied that I was Nature’s Gift to Mankind. But whatever – the point here is that I felt totally at home in the forest. Well, it was a rainy day when it happened. The sky had been overcast all day. I’d skipped school that day, mostly because of a test I hadn’t prepared for. My parents never minded when I didn’t go to school. They’d even offered to homeschool for me, but again, I digress. It was a hooky day. The sky was cloudy, my mood was just as turbulent, and I made my way to the forest to unwind. I’d already been wandering for a couple of hours when I realized rain was beginning to drizzle down. And by drizzle, I mean I was getting stupidly wet – no umbrella, to say the least. I had no real defense but to put my hood up. I began to backtrack, carefully going back towards the house through trees I’d marked. As I walked, a fog started to form around me. The forest does that sometimes, when there’s rain. It made things mighty difficult to see. Soon I was walking circles around trees I’d already seen. I was starting to get pretty confused. Well. Lucky for me, that’s when I met a god. In the form of a deer. For a deer, he was extraordinarily handsome. As one would expect, really. Russet brown fur, slicked down by the rain. His chest was painted white. Heavy shoulders. An elegant neck. And on top of his triangular face was a pair of two beautiful, decorated antlers. He strutted up to me like he owned the place. When we met eyes, it was apparent from his expression that the fog had confused him as well. But he made no mention of it when he began to speak. “Human,” he said, without opening his mouth. “You’re new here.” “Nah,” I replied, opening mine. “I’m actually not.” Not a regular phenomenon, talking deer. But I’ll confess, the whole antler thing had left me cynical towards more things than I care to admit. “Are you lost?” he asked. “Probably, but it’s fine.” “I see.” “Yeah.” Long pause. It was more likely that he was the lost one, not me, but I didn’t say that either. Instead we just stared at each other. He at my eyes, and I at his... antlers. Strange, to say the least. I was usually on the opposite end of that spectrum. But I couldn’t stop staring. What the deer lacked for in conversational skill, he more than made up for with his rack. There they were – stemming from the head, two hell sticks, spreading upward like they were flowers licked by the wind. Branches like fingers unfolding from their tops and entwining at their bottoms. They were much bigger than mine. And they were covered in a soft velvety fuzz. I couldn’t move at that moment, I was paralyzed, but I remember thinking that I wanted to touch it, feel it beneath my palms. Under my gaze he became self-conscious, or so I think. He began to fidget and blush. When I didn’t say anything further, he started to deflate. “Human,” he said to me, “You’ll go home now.” And that’s when I attacked him. Or to be precise, I tried to. I couldn’t help myself, really. I lunged forward, hands outstretched for a touch of those antlers. I can’t describe how I felt at that exact moment, but it was chaotic and full of need. He bolted, of course. Before I could even get close, he turned and fled, his hooves kicking up wet soil in my face. Not terribly surprising. He was a god, after all. But where did that leave me? In the rain, muddy, wet. Terrible-looking. My expression must have been weirdly perverted, a mixture of awe and desire, eyes scrunched and mouth open and curved into a smile. But again, not surprising. I felt like I’d just witnessed the crown of an angel. \- I started growing my antlers out from then on. Wearing less hats. They’re still growing, actually. I feel like, no matter how much I let them grow, they’ll never amount to the rack of the one I saw. Not that it matters, really. Human beings are amazed by my tiny ones anyway. But being less ashamed of them, you know? It’s nice. Born with them, I’d say. Not an evasive answer, per say, but a mark of pride. “They’re 100% natural. Give ‘em a touch, they won’t bite.” ‘Course, I still get the stock cardboard questions. And I get a lot of hands up there, rubbing and affirming that they are, in fact, real. But it bothers me less now. I’ve even had a few interviews, but once people start accepting the fact that you’ve accepted it, the thing becomes less of a phenomenon. Too bad, honestly. I was just starting to enjoy the attention. We still live near the forest, but I don’t go near into it anymore. The world’s too busy for that kind of thing once you decide to start living in it. But I still stare back sometimes. It’s kind of a forlorn thing, you know. If you’ve ever felt it, you’ll understand. Part of me isn’t ready to go back, anyway. Until then I’ll probably be answering inane questions in hopes of finding an answer. Like such: Hey, how’d you make these? Who made ‘em? Answer to those: I did. And they are completely, totally mine.


. And suddenly the village of Reddit was alive with the sounds of hysteria and muffled concern, as townsfolk emerged from their cottage homes, out into the streets and gathered in its centre. Then, almost as soon as it began, the feverish crowd hushed. Footsteps on cobblestone gave way to a gap in the crowd which snaked along; a distraught priest dressed in black robes carried the body of a naked woman, a trail of restrained gasps following him. Somebody cried out, "Murder!" Another, yelled, "Witch!" When he got to the gallows which sat in the town centre, the priest lay the body down on the cold stone and closed its eyes. A smartly-dressed fat man in a top hat was pushing through the swarm of townsfolk, shouting, "Let me through, let me through!" He approached the naked girl until he was looking down at her face. Then his face shone red and began to pulsate. "Alright," he shouted into the crowd, breathing through his nose, "Which one of you degenerates did this?" Nobody answered. He pointed to a random bystander with a judgemental finger: "Was it you?" Then he paraded over to a young peasant boy and grabbed him by the scruff: "Was it you? You filthy peasant, I'll kill y-" "It could be anyone." An intelligent male voice spoke from behind him. Everything fell silent again as the mayor lay off the boy and slowly turned around to face the speaker. It was the town's doctor. He walked up and rested his hand on the gallows, looking up at it with reverence, as though it were judging him and everyone else. "You see these people around you? It could be *any* *one of them*. This town ain't safe no more, mayor." He began to circle the gallows along the ring of the crowd, making eye contact with random people as he spoke. "You wanna know what it is?... You think it's a witch?" He stopped and made claw gestures with his hands: "Or even a werewolf?" Then started walking again. "Hell, maybe it's the Devil himself?" "Mountain troll, probably. Came down from the snowy lands to feast on man's juiciest flesh." The priest muttered to himself loud enough that the fat mayor heard it, who immediately turned and started strangling him. "It was you, wasn't it?" "We don't know *who* it is yet," the doctor resumes, "but I think I just might know *what* it is." Trembling silence. "If it were a mountain troll, well then there wouldn't be nothin' left. Trolls eat to stay alive. We're food to them. Likewise with a werewolf, they kill to eat most of the time, and even when they don't, they leave a nasty bite. With a witch, you get a hex on the back or the forehead. No. Ladies and gentleman, what we're dealing with is far more perverse than that. Whatever killed Jenny, whatever killed Rose, it did it without ever touching them. It pulled their souls from their bodies and dragged them into hell, and it enjoyed it. Now it's gonna do the same to all of us. We could strangle every man and woman in this town and we'd still never know. All *I* know is that we have two young girls dead with no imbalance of humors and no cause of death." He continues: "This thing hides among us. It is your best friend. Your mother. Your son. Your daughter. Your wife. It could be your cobbler, or that baker from down the road. What we got here is a Downvoter." The crowd gasps in terror and a baby starts crying. A woman faints, shortly followed by a man who also faints. A small girl vomits on her younger sister and a bunch of peasants kneel down in prayer. The mayor lets go of the priest's neck and turns toward the doctor; his face, flushed of red and ghostly-absent: "A-a Downvoter? A-are you sure?" A naive peasant boy steps out from the crowd and speaks with squeaky innocence: "What's a downvo'er?" The doctor walks over to the boy and crouches opposite him, as members of the crowd whimper in dread. He puts a sympathetic hand on the boy's shoulder and looks him firmly in the eyes. "Downvoters are snakemen. Some call them skinwalkers. They look just like you and me, but they ain't no man. If the moon shines a certain way, his eyeballs turn to diamonds, and 'is tongue turns green and spiky like a two-pronged fork. Some say they come from over the mountains, in the forest, to steal away our dreams and our souls." Now the mayor is pacing up and down like a madman: "*It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening again*." An old lady announces to the crowd: "We're all screwed!" And a pandemonium of noisy concern breaks out: "Who's gonna protect us?" "I don't feel safe anymore!" "Wiiiiiiitch!" "What about the children? Won't somebody *please* think of the children!" "My leg!" The mayor pipes up: "QUIET. Quiet down!" When the uproar settles to a murmur, the doctor begins speaking again. "This thing thrives on fear and it revels in chaos. It learns through what we say, and what we do. It's probably watching us right now. If I'm right and it is indeed a Downvoter we're dealing with, then the best thing we can do is all go back to our homes and pray God have mercy on us. Lock the doors, close your shutters. Stay in your rooms and don't answer to anyone, not even your mother's voice. If we can last the night and get some good sleep, we'll be in proper form tomorrow to deal with the situation better under light of day. That's all we can hope for." He pauses and looks around at the crowd as if he's searching for someone he knows, then the mayor echoes the doctor's instructions to go back to their homes. The crowd quickly disperses in a paranoid race to their respective front doors. Shutters slam closed like dominos falling one after the other. Door locks clank shut. Just as the mayor steps off in the direction of his house, the doctor taps him on the shoulder. "Do you mind if I have a word with you?" "I'm tired and scared." He replied grumpily. "What is it?" "I was wondering if we might discuss the matter at hand over a cup of tea at my cottage, or we could go to your house. It makes no difference to me." The mayor grunts a sigh. "Alright then. We better had do, hadn't we?" "Yesssss." "What did you say?" "Er, um: yes. Yes we had." The doctor put his arm around the mayor and they both walk into the darkness.


Something considered to be **08/15** is totally normal and nothing of particular importance. If you have **clattered off** a town, you have explored its entirety to the last corner. If you can **make-up something off yourself**, you are definitely not going to do it. You're very surprised, which leads you to believe that **the ape is delousing you** and **your pig whistles**. Thinking you can punish Serbia for the Srebrenica massacre the same way Germany was punished for the Holocaust means **comparing apples to pears**. You have an absolute disadvantage that will have you lose this argument no matter what you say? Well, you've **pulled the asscard**. An **asscrawler**, also referred to as **spitlicker**, does tiny favours for a superior, such as saying what they want to hear, usually to avoid or lighten punishment. Again, you've gotten into trouble and I get to bear the consequences. It's always the same: you do something and I have to **bathe it out**. If you do destructive things all the time, you **behave like the axe inside the forest.** What? I have no idea what you just said. I only understood **train station**. I can see in your eyes that you're lying. Tell me what you want, but I know you're **binding a bear on me**. He told me something magnificent and unbelievable had happened, but - **the labouring mountain gives birth to a mouse** - it's only a small new update for a PC game. If unfortunate events have led to a terrible situation you're in now, **you have the salad now**. Look, you're in a really shitty situation with all the problems you have to face, but I can **build you a golden bridge** to get you out of this mess. You know what? Kiss my ass, **slide down my humpback** and **take a shit on the wall**. Your concerns **pass my ass** right now, I don't give a shit about them! I think this guy is cooperating with you. I don't have proof yet, but I'm pretty sure he's **beneath one cover with you**. Oh great, you've ruined it. Everything was fine, then you came, and now everything is **in the bucket**. To help you remember the conversion better, I might show you a **donkey bridge**: "five tomatoes" sounds like "five two eight O" and a mile has 5280 feet. Things were turning against democracy, and Hitler seized the opportunity, **turning his little fan after the wind**, and established a dictatorship. I have to run away. It was a difficult decision to make, but I have finally decided to **give heel money**. There are many ways to embarass yourself, and if you've done it, you've stepped in a **little bowl of fat**. If a German calls you a **bottle**, a **rag** or a *bag*, they mean you're an idiot. If you get **cold feet** about something, you're sure it's doomed to be a total failure. My **patience thread** is about to break. If you do such a thing again, this won't go unpunished. If someone is overly sensitive, you should talk to them with a lot of caution and empathy, or in other words, **touch them with velvet gloves**. Oh, all those terms for death... - scratching off - passing the spoon - biting the grass - smearing off - crossing the Jordan - hearing the little angels sing - being off the window - looking at the radish from below - being called home - blessing the temporal things If something a person said isn't acceptable according to your customs, it's **below the belt line**. A **joy girl** is a hooker. This theory and its arguments are pretty far fetched, or as Germans call it: **pulled along by the hair**. It **has neither hand nor foot**. **"Broken neck and legs!"** means "Break a leg!", which is a wish for luck upon someone. You've insulted me, and now you'll feel my revenge. I'll **show you what a rake is** and **where the hammer hangs**. If a lot of cold wind rushes through your room, it **pulls like pike soup**. The sentence "What the fuck?" has various translations: - What the devil? - What the hangman? - What the cuckoo? - What the vulture? **Seventh Heaven** is just Cloud Nine. If you have **a little chicken to pluck** with someone, you two have a score to settle. You can't sit still for a second! Do you have **bumblebees in your butt**? This is too much for me, I can't take it anymore, this **goes over my hat string**. If two options yield exactly the same result, they are **jacket like pants**. **Sailor's yarn** and **hunter's Latin** are blatant lies. You have run 100m in 8 seconds? Yeah, **and I'm the emperor of China**. This type of behaviour is outrageous! You've been behaving **beneath every cannon** lately! Another round of beer, this time on my **cap**. Yes, I'm paying this one. If something is **for the cat**, it's hopeless, useless and/or pointless. If you are willing to take a risk, you take what may happen **into purchase**.


I had a dream a few nights ago that I can't stop thinking about, so I wrote it down. I just wanted to share it with people. I'm using a throwaway account because I don't want it on my main account. This is the second time I'm posting it, I deleted the first one for formatting issues. ~~~ The first thing I heard was the cabin door opening in the other room. On the table in front of me, a pink jar sat next to a photo, the faint smell of roses radiating from it. I looked closer at the picture. A young woman, no older than me, wearing sweatpants and t-shirt lay on her bed curled in the fetal position. Something was different about this photo, however; something unsettling. A second picture, an x-ray, it looked like, was overlaid on it. I could faintly see the woman’s skull in her head, her skeletal arms clutching the same jar that sat peacefully in front of me. Large pink splotches dotted the photograph, on her head, chest, and arms. I knew she was dead. Moreover, as I stared at the pink jar in front of me, I knew how it happened. I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around my chest. They squeezed tightly, but gently, and in that moment, I felt completely safe. Whoever this was, I loved them more than anything, I knew that much. “It came,” she observed, her voice smooth and calm. “Yeah, I just… I don’t know,” I replied. She moved next to me, keeping one hand on my shoulder, and I was able to see her for the first time. She was short, just above my eye level even as I was sitting. She was small, but not skinny, which only made the glasses on her face seem even larger. Her hair was wavy, dark brown on top, but transitioned smoothly to blonde by the time it stopped just short of her shoulders. I stopped and stared at her face. I didn’t recognize her; there was no name attached to the face, but it felt familiar. As familiar as the stars I could see twinkling faintly in her eyes, and the warm, hypnotic half smile she wore. I couldn’t feel it, but I was right, I loved her. A comfortable, powerful relationship with my best friend in the world. I suspected that’s why I was so content sharing the small cabin with her. “This is what you want, right?”, she asked. “I think so,” That was I lie. I knew that I wanted this, I had wanted it for years. But now, staring it in the face, it felt different. Not scary enough that I would turn away, but like I was standing on a diving board, waiting to jump. A chaotic non-homogenous mix of fear, excitement, and anticipation. More than any of these, however, I felt sad. It was finally over. The end of a story I hated but was sad to see end anyway. I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing,” The words rang in my skull like a church bell. The were supportive and loving, not spiteful, despite what they entailed. I slowly stood up and walked over to the window, it’s framed filled by an enormous snow-covered mountain. It stood stoically; its blue-gray face highlighted against the pure white snow that filled the rest of the landscape. The sky was a brilliant and vibrant blue; the weather almost deceptively calm. Here I stood, staring the last page of my life in the face. The sadness kept building. I knew I had to do it, I knew I wanted to do it, I knew it was time. But I was sad and scared, the only emotions I had felt for years now stronger than ever. The woman I knew I loved walked over and stood next to me. “What if it doesn’t work?” I asked, my voice trembling. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She smiled. “Then tomorrow I’ll make a roast.” Then I woke up.


“I’m not a fan of online dating”, he said, in between taking a sip of his old fashioned. “I mean, what’s the point, really? In my opinion, online dating has only two purposes: the first being for sex, and the second being for validation.” At the other-end of the table, a skinny brunette sat quietly and listened. With her frayed hair, blue eyes and perky breasts, she wasn’t anything remarkable to look at. In fact, besides these perky breasts, she didn’t have much to offer in terms of beauty. But for the most part it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she was a five or six (*her mother always thought her to be the former*) because middle-aged men, when confronted with the possibility of being alone, always settle for less than their perceived ideal — which was fine by her. For here she was having a drink at one of the finest gin-joints in town free of expense. “How do you figure?” she asked, while gulping down Merlot, staining her teeth with a tinted red. “Well, Maria —" “Theresa” “Huh?”’ “My name is Theresa, not Maria.” “Alright, Theresa, you have Tinder, right?” “Tinder?” “The dating app where you swipe left or right depending on whether or not the person is ugly or not.” “Hey, that’s not very nice —" “I’m not trying to be nice. I’m just stating the truth.” “Well, my mother always said if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say nothing at all.” “Isn’t that from Bambi?” “Honestly, most of the things I’ve learned in life came from my mother or television, so it could be either...” Theresa chuckled and then flicked her hair back. Her split ends radiated in the stenciled brass lighting. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was because of this bar they were in. The place was far busier than usual from what he remembered, and tonight the curved arches, balconies, and balustrades made it impossible to view anything without romantic undertones. He’d like to think that. He’d like to think that the sound of the Atlantic crashing against the rocks was romantic. “Anyways,” Theresa continued, “As you were saying?” “As I was saying,” he went on,” Do you have tinder?” Theresa shifted in her seat a little. “...Yes, I have tinder.” “And why do you have Tinder?” *A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress-shoes. A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes* — yes, this was a man who had made a living understanding the cost of needing to make a living. “Why do you have tinder?” he asked again. His elbows now draped alongside the wooden countertop. “Sorry, I zoned out there for a second,” she apologized. “What did you say?” “Why do you have tinder?” he asked once more. Theresa raised her wine glass and took another gulp; her face was obscured behind a veil of opaque purple. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. As she guzzled down the final few drops, the man with a suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes watched. “I’m looking for the love of my life,” she replied. **…** She reached for the bottle: there was no more wine left to be drunk. Fuck. “You know, why this place is famous right?” he slurred, as he swaggered back and forth in his chair. Theresa took in the view: antique floor and table lamps; a fireplace carved of brilliant marble; palm trees casting luminous shadows against white walls; old and young couples alike hiding their insecurities in twenty to twenty-two-ounce chalices and surface-level conversations. Even with last call announced by the bartender, the place was evocative of a glitz and glamour that even a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel would pale in comparison to. “It’s where they filmed, Casablanca, isn’t it?” she finally spoke. “No, they didn’t film Casablanca *here,*” he said, gesturing around the room, nearly keeling over while doing so. “It’s a recreation of the bar in the movie, you know—" “Rick's Café Américain*.* Yes, I’ve watched Casablanca before,” she interrupted. “…Then would you know that the sculpted bar over there is where Humphrey Bogart first recited, of all — “ *The gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine*. Yes, I’ve seen—" “And that 1930’s Pleyel piano the in-house pianist is playing is the same one Sam played while singing, *As Time Goes By*” “Right now, I *wish* time went by --” “And those oak doors over there is where Ingrid Bergman—" “You really know a lot about this place, huh?” she interjected, coolly. The man with a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes sat in silence for a moment. Then he reached for his old-fashioned: there was nothing left but bitters and a melting ice cube. “Well, I used to come here all the time when I was your age,” he continued. “And how long ago was that?” she asked. “When I was married.” He looked over at the wooden doors again. “…You were married?” It was where Ingrid Berman, the Swedish blonde who painted her face with her eyes, first strolled into Humphrey Bogart’s little gin joint. “Once upon a time”, he replied, raising his drink. He held it in the air for a long moment. Reluctantly, she clinked her glass against his. Then he lurched back into his seat -- which took a great deal of effort -- and she laid her glass back down on the table. After this was all said and done, he reached for his collar and adjusted his “tie”: he wasn’t wearing one. It was a motion he most likely had grown very accustomed to. After all, at the moment, he was too maudlin to notice. Then he said something about working in an office and wanting to hang himself. Why not? Go for it. Who am I to stop you? Wait, she shouldn’t project. “And what is it that you do for a living” Theresa asked, resting the weight of her chin on her arm. “Advertising,” he replied, with a drunken grin. The bar went quiet, or the lack of an ambient murmur seemed to indicate so. Regardless of how many people were in the place, Theresa now sat erect in her chair with her shoulders upright. She was quite-lady-like. “And what is it that you advertise?” she asked with her eyes now locked on his. “Mostly dating apps, ” he answered, “That’s why I asked you if you had tinder earlier. I wanted to know why a girl like you goes out with a guy like me.” Theresa curled her lip inward and bit down hard. A metallic warmth pervaded her pallet, tantalizing her taste buds with the sin of...*.more.* She wanted *more, a*nd this man before her could also be found wanting; for here he was, in one of the finest gin joints in town, wanting what came after an old-fashioned, a decorous bill, and a moonlight escapade through the razor-thin alleyways of Casablanca with the fog rolling in. It shouldn’t be her fault he had already planned the route before they had even met. **…** “I like older men”, Theresa sweetly said, as she wiped her lips with a cocktail napkin. The shade of red where her lipstick found its mark emblazoned on the coarse surface like an autograph given from a Hollywood starlet. “Do you now?” He replied, puffing his chest out in the process. He must be attractive to her. “There’s just something attractive about an older man, wouldn’t you agree?” she said, leaning over the table and sliding his now empty old-fashioned over to her end. Then she pulled out the melting ice cube and examined it. Drop. Drop. Drop. The liquid dribbled over her knuckles and became more and more evaporated as she fingered the cube more and more— “Wouldn’t you agree?” she said once more. The condensation from the ice cube soaked into the wood. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. In the midnight heat, they glistened. “…What, what do you mean?” he squeaked out. Theresa bit her lip and smiled again. Then she took the ice cube and hovered it near her mouth. “There’s just *something* older men possess that younger men do not,” she said, lipping the ice cube. “And, yes, a younger man may be chiseled and confident and charming -- hell, they might even fuck like horse in bed…” Drop. Drop. Drop. Crystalline wetness glistened upon her lips and then fell from them onto the soaked wood. The man with the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes inched to the edge of his seat. “…but there is just *something* about an older man that cannot be beat. There is just *something* about them that is just irresistible, and for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on it.” She held a very long look at him. “Do you know what *it* is?” The man the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes sat at the other end of the table, unmoving. “…is it because they have stature? Theresa nodded her head thoughtfully and wiped off the water that formed on her hands; the ice cube had melted. “…Yeah, that could be *it.”* A moment of silence passed between them. Then Theresa stood up with her purse in hand and walked over to him. Then she began encircling his wrist; it was smooth to touch and heavy to feel, as if you could scratch the color off-- “I’m going to go freshen up before we leave. Is that okay?" she asked, leaning in close, her fingers running along his. “...Would you like me to join you?” Theresa smiled and then stepped away from him. “I don’t need any assistance.” she said, walking away from the table. “Just the bill.” **…** As she maneuvered her way through the tables and toward the restroom, he looked on intently. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was the way she looked at him and smiled. Even now when she eyed the wooden doors, and then the restroom, and then the wooden doors once more, he was floored. It was as if he had a front-row seat at a ping-pong competition, swinging his head back and forth, wondering which thing would capture her attention first; and, as she entered the restroom, she was all the more the spectacle. She knew what she wanted, and he didn’t dare change her mind -- he wasn’t even that drunk. He didn’t dare encumber himself with the fact that he knew she was more than he bargained for because when you’ve been selling nothing for years, you don’t pass up an opportunity for a new product… …that’s advertising 101. You give the customer what they want. And no matter how flawed and fragile that product may be, you give the customer what they *want.* I mean, look at Apple these days: they don’t make quality products. They make iPhones, iPads, and Air Pods -- a bunch of parts loosely strewn together in a Malaysian sweatshop -- and in a few years, you’ll be paying seven hundred dollars for “repairs”, for something that was already broken. He knew what that felt like. He knew what it felt like to purchase something that was meant to last for years but didn’t make it past the warranty. He knew what it felt to like to invest in something that was supposed to take a lot of wear and tear, only for it to break at the first sign of trouble. And he knew what it felt like to love, only for that love to be found in a motel room fucking the brains out of someone who didn’t even know her name. God, she had spent a lot of time in the restroom. **…** He should be embarrassed he should be *embarrassed* to be drunk as a skunk and drool all over the place in front of other people its fucking embarrassing and the worst part is that tomorrow he’ll tell all his corporate pencil pusher buddies that he balled the broad at the bar and then proceed to brag about how good he fucked her Christ why are my eyebrows so lopsided and why are my breasts so perky and why are my cheeks so chubby why is he such a miserable little wretch he has a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes and no heart he is a shallow creature who can’t control himself he can’t hold a conversation he will work in an office from nine to five until the day he dies and he will never know what it’s like to hold the hand of someone he loves and he will never know what it’s like to look at someone and be totally vulnerable and he will always be the one who sits down at a table and have no one look up and he will always be the joint that people pass around take a hit of and then exhale and he will always be a whoring wanting human piece of trash that no one dared to love because there wasn’t much to love. …God, why am I looking into a restroom mirror? **…** By the time she finally returned from the restroom, the bar had all but cleared out. The table lamps were extinguished. The terracotta tile, once carnelian and gleaming -- set in the floor by hand -- lay waste to footprints. Even the bus boy, who wouldn’t fool a soul if he asked for a drink, had already wiped the sweat off his brow and bussed his last table. There was no left in the place, except for him and her. There was not a human noise to be heard, nor a person seen moving. Everyone had left for what came after a drink and dinner. “That took awhile” he said, reaching for his old-fashioned: it wasn’t there. One of the bus-boys must’ve taken it earlier. Theresa bore over him silently, watching him grasp blindly for what was already lone gone. "There was a long line at the cue.” she finally replied. “…I’m sure there was.” Theresa’s eyes darted across the room towards the rest room and the wooden doors. There was no one at either. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his eyes fixated on where she was looking. Theresa stood there for a moment, silent. “…Are you sure you don’t want to get another drink? The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes tapped a black leather envelope that lay next to him. “The cheque’s already here.” Theresa stood there for a moment once more, silent. “…You sure, you don’t want another drink? The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes shook his head. “ I’ve had enough to drink.” he replied. Theresa looked over to the other end of the table. Sure enough, the cheque was there, flat on the table. Next to the cheque, a gold watch wrung around a plump wrist. On the floor, wingtip dress shoes planted into the ground. Before her, a suede jacket that looked about two sizes too large wrapped around an equally too large torso; and above that… *blue eyes.* They were such flawed and fragile and vulnerable and harrowed and broken and tormented and lonely and greedy and guilty and unworthy and pitiful and beautiful, blue eyes. “…So, what’s the damage?” she said, her eyes glued on his, unmoving. The man with the beautiful, blue eyes smiled. "I’ll pay,” he answered.


Air slammed through Stella’s throat like an ice pick as she shot up in bed. “Where am I? What’s going on?” She thought, mind scrambled. She caught a blinking out of the corner of her eye. A red blink—what? Oh. She knew where she was. Levi’s room. Of course. His smoke detector‘s bright light might be annoying, but it always reminded her she was right where she was supposed to be. She’d been having another anxiety dream. So intense she probably wouldn’t have recognized even her own room if she’d woken up there. She wanted to get up and walk around. Call someone. Turn on the TV. But the futon was pressed against the wall and she’d fought Levi to get the inside half. She couldn’t risk waking him up now. Besides, he had a test early in the morning. Stella dabbed at the cold sweat on her forehead with the soft edge of her shirt. She tried to steady her breathing. She was disappointed her mind could conjure up images as horrible as what she’d just seen in that dream. That’s when she felt it. He was looking at her. In an instant Levi knew what he was seeing. He was worried it had been happening more frequently, but he couldn’t tell if the thoughts were getting worse or Stella was just staying over more. Right now, that didn’t matter. “Hi” Levi smiled, repressing his intense desire to pretend he’d fallen back asleep. Stella fixed her lips to respond but whatever she meant to say was sucked into the blackness only she saw. Levi recognized her expression. He sensed hollowness taking hold of her. “Alright.” He croaked, shaking the outer crust of sleep off. “Here’s what we’re doing. We’re going to turn this light on.” Levi leaned over and powered up the ceiling lamp. He wished he had a dimmer switch, but for the rent he was paying, he was just glad this apartment had any light at all. “Now we’re gonna sit up.” He placed a hand gingerly behind her back and propped her up with his pillow, knowing full well he probably wouldn’t get it back for the rest of the night. “Ok. Good, you’re doing so good. Water or milk?” Stella shook her head. “Not a yes or no question. You‘re drenched, you lost a lot of fluid. Water or milk?” Stella realized she’d turned this poor boy’s bed into a gym mat. “Water please” her voice cracked, not breaking the thousand mile stare into the distance. Levi slid out of the warmth of the covers and steeled himself against the shock of the frigid bathroom tile. He filled a cup and brought it to her, rubbing her back as she took small sips. She swept a dismal hand over the perspiration puddling around her. “Fuck, I’m sorry I—“ “No apology necessary Stel, I threw up all over your new couch.” Stella didn’t have a rebuttal. She thought she’d done a better job pretending she wasn’t mad about that. “Do you want to talk about it?” “I want to forget it.” “But can you?” “I don’t know.” Levi felt the inertia draining from his body and with it the chances of his falling back to sleep. “What will help you feel most at peace right now?” He asked, pressing the tense spots in her shoulder blades, admiring the gentle curves of her face. He felt cursed in the short term and blessed in the long term all at once. “Just, I—can you do something?” Stella asked, gaze unbroken still. “Sure can.” “Be here when I wake up?” Levi couldn’t protest. He knew how it felt to not want to fall asleep because you dreaded waking up alone. So he didn’t bother mentioning it. “I’ll be right here. Dreaming of you... Or eating pizza, it depends when you wake up” he winked. Stella said something that felt right, but she was so relieved and tired, she would never remember exactly what it was. Levi waited until he was sure she was asleep and reached over to email his professor he’d need a re-test, because he wasn’t coming in that morning. He turned to Stella and wrapped a possessive arm over her trembling torso. Even though his eyes were lead-heavy, he fought to keep them open just to look at her a moment more. He drifted back to sleep, without his pillow as he suspected, to the tempo of Stella’s breath as she finally got a real rest. “Mission accomplished” he congratulated himself as he slipped out of consciousness. There was nothing that could put Stella more at ease than companionship. Although she’d fly into a frenzy of remorse when she finally remembered about his test, almost a week after the fact. And wake him up to tell him so. He would think often of the night, but not twice about the sacrifice. There was no grade more rewarding for Levi than feeling needed.


You know that strange feeling when you see the name **Al Pacino** in a sentence and without your consent, you just start adjusting your reading? It’s kinda like you are leaning back on the front seat of your car when you are waiting for someone or something. It’s not that you read it in his voice. It is just… different… Ahh… Nevermind. ### So anyway. I took the subway the other day and saw an ad for **KingNugets**. Just a nice, big, tasty and very juicy bucket of nuggets. I don’t even know if it is chicken but it was looking mighty tasty. Since my bank was closed and I don’t trust those God damn machines that create money out of plastic, I just went home and forgot about it. **You should know that I am at that age where time is just a linear path towards your death bed, so I was firmly asleep by 10.** My mornings usually start at 6 because I feel like I would be missing out on something even though every morning is exactly the same. It’s like life is pulling a cheap FOMO prank on me. **_It’s a tragedy when you think about it._** My next morning would also start at the usual time if that friendly-looking Chinese guy didn’t convince me that those batteries are super-durable. He was very specific about it. _See? It says super-durable on the package. Very good price._ You don’t have to be Albert Einstein to figure out that the alarm clock didn’t go off and my morning was ruined. At least that’s how I felt when I woke up at 9. ### Boy, do I hate false advertisement… It wasn’t anger, it was just that I am missing out on that thing that I like and I honestly don’t know how many more chances I will be getting. A logical chain of events occurred after that realization. My fear of missing out signaled my brain that we should do something about it and my brain took a while but it eventually signaled me that we should do something about it. **And so we did.** I went straight to the bank with the batteries in my pocket. I also have the receipt because old people anticipate these things. It is pointless trying to explain why. You are just not ready for that information yet. My trip to the bank was refreshing. The air felt different at 9 o'clock. I forgot about that... The bank door opens, I am greeted and served as a gentleman and no one is asking for plastic. **_You should try it sometimes, it is a rather pleasant experience._** On my way out I see another **KingNugets** ad. This time it was bigger and I could smell the taste because I was hungry like a wolf. I felt like running after that bus but my logic reassured me that there is no prize at the end of that marathon. Only a stroke after an exhausting 15-meter dash. Luckily, a window of opportunity for a detour has just opened up. Time to get that bucket and to hell with my cholesterol. I go for the drive-through at **MrKingNugget** and a kid stops me to ask for the time. I look at my watch, pass on the information to this unsupervised minor and continue my journey. **My mood was getting better and I was seconds away from picking up my order.** After I am done with that bucket I will have more energy to fight for my consumer rights than those batteries had in mint state. Who will stand up for the people if not me? “**It all starts with an idea**”, that’s what they always told me. ### **But a strange turn of events would soon unfold that will baffle me to this day.** I hear a knock on my window, I turn my head to the right and it’s that Chinese guy from the store. He recognized me and before I could say anything he started apologizing for giving me the wrong batteries. **I didn’t know how to react.** I was pleased because someone recognizes me and I was also pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Not many sales people posses that ability. I had all of those complaints lined up in my mind and rehearsed at least 20 times. Am I just going to let it slide? **Eh… I guess we can use it another time.** Waking up at 9 didn’t turn out so bad after all. The only thing that is missing is that bucket of **KingNugets** and a pissed off kid that just threw a rock at my windshield. > Where did he even find a rock that big? At this point, you just have to ask yourself, what the fuck is going on here? The kid was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was properly pissed like someone stole his lunch or something. For some reason, I was labeled as a liar and the noise was becoming a bit irritating. > What are we doing here? This is not the school, I’m not the nerd and you broke my damn windshield kid! I was thinking about getting out of the car and punting him across the parking lot but there was his mother running in the distance like this was some dramatic Hollywood scene. **I couldn’t hear her, obviously, because her triggered offspring had no plans of shutting up. ** A lot of screaming and shouting followed. She shouted at me, I shouted at her, the kid shouted at the Chinese guy and I had another reason to shout back at him… It took a while but a civilized level of conversation was eventually established. As it turns out, the kid has “**anger management issues**” (whatever that may be) and he doesn’t like to be lied to. Since the watch I was wearing came from the same shop that I visited yesterday, the kid somehow figured out that I didn’t give him the correct answer. How come he didn’t figure out that I was limited by this piece of technology that was made who knows where and doesn’t perform the task it is made for in the first place? And why would he even think that I lied to him? What’s with the fact-checking kid? >It says “marketing expert” on your car sir. He has anger management issues, not brain damage. That’s what his mother said right before all three of them took off leaving me with a lot of questions about my ego and a broken windshield. **It was an awkward moment…** This whole mess lasted for about 5 minutes. Maybe less. How can I know? That thing still doesn’t work... After a brief pause, I handed over the money, took that bucket and put it on my lap. > I was never more disappointed in my life… Did you know they photoshop those ads to make the nuggets look bigger? The things these kids can do with technology… My day was officially ruined once more, my breakfast was way below my lowest expectations and there was no one left to pay for that windshield. I think I read once in a very old book that there are these tiny moments of honesty every once in a while. They are time-limited but they are strong enough to get the best out of you and make you do the thing you really want to do. If you ever saw the movie **Scent of a Woman** and got all the way to the scene where they are all arguing at the table, you would know that I am having the same look on my face as **Al Pacino** did in that scene. I think I even went blind for a second or two. **So… I did the the only logical thing I could think of.


This is part one of a two part short story. Looking for any and all valid critiques about any aspect of the story. **Memories of Darla** Norris Reight’s knee surgery six years ago had converted his enthusiastic morning jogs into spirited walks. At seventy-six, it was a disappointing concession to age, this immobility. As he attempted to stretch he felt a sliver of pain pierce the back of his left knee for a moment, then disappear. He spewed a few mild invectives into the sleepy morning air and set out in search of Darla. He’d first seen her two days ago near the end of his street. She’d been leaning against a telephone pole like the cutout silhouette of a cowboy he saw on front lawns, one leg straight down, one bent at the knee. He’d crossed the street to avoid her. He looked back after he’d gotten past her, but she was gone. Just like that. Poof. Two steps later his head felt like he’d been pummeled by the round end of a ball peen hammer. The next day he saw her again. Her head popped up over a long length of square cut forsythia farther along on his route. He avoided her then too, and was left with another thunderous headache. He thought if he saw her again this morning he would walk right up to her and say, “Are you Darla?” Just like that. Maybe just confronting her would ward off another one of those cranial assaults. He hadn’t actually seen Darla in nearly fifty years. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing here all of a sudden. With the exception of an occasional dream now and then he thought he’d finally expunged her from his life. No such luck, apparently. It seemed like she was back, and inflicting a different kind of pain this time around. He and Darla had been like a chemical compound through two years of high school and four years of college. They were so nearly inseparable that their friends would often refer to Norris as Darla, or Darla as Norris. One time, in college, on the first day of class in the one class they shared, Social Injustice in Medieval Europe, they both responded “Here,” when the professor called Norris’s name. Professor Chavez, tall and thin as a coat hanger looked at them over black, square topped reading glasses. “Will the real Norris Reight please stand up,” he said like a game show host. Norris and Darla looked at each other, each starting to rise before sitting back down, until Norris finally shot up straight and tall. “I’m Norris Reight,” Norris said. He smiled down at Darla. “Are you sure?” the professor said to a smattering of laughs. After college they’d bought a house together. The money came from a trust fund his father had set up for him from a lottery windfall. Norris had gotten a job as an English teacher at the same middle school he was a student at ten years before. Darla continued with her schooling, aiming at a Masters in Engineering, working part time at an electrical supply house two miles away from their home. Norris thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. They were a perfect couple. Every one said so. Darla’s best friend Octavia, a rotund, sweaty woman, once said she would have been willing to go on a diet if it would guarantee her the kind of relationship he and Darla had. “I’d like to see that,” Norris had said. Stupid thing to say. Norris knew that before he’d a chance to slap his hand over his mouth. “Did I say that out loud?” he asked sheepishly. Both Darla and Octavia glared at him. Octavia, finally relenting, said, “Really, you guys make a perfect couple, even if one of you is a jerk.” Then suddenly they were not so perfect a couple. If fact they were not a couple at all. They were nothing. Darla had gone. He remembered he’d left Darla under a mountain of covers that morning before he went out for his morning jog. She’d told him to turn the heat up before he left. He said roger that, and pushed the little metal slide switch on the thermostat outside the bedroom to 68 as he headed for the front door. He’d had exceptional legs that morning. His outward bound route took him to the center of Hazardville by way of a hill that sometimes seemed nearly vertical, but this morning seemed like little more than a gradual incline. He felt like he could’ve pumped his way up a hill twice as high. At the top of the hill he’d stood in the center of the empty road beneath the amber winking of a street light. He’d rose on his toes, stretching his calf muscles. A motorcycle screamed out of the darkness and sped around him, blaring at him in annoyance as it did so. Norris turned, saluted the single red light that blinked off as it veered to the left behind a line of houses, and pounded his way back home. He’d expected Darla to be up, the house warming, the coffee brewing when he got back. When he closed the front door, however, the house was as silent as when he’d left. In the kitchen, a single fluorescent light was on over the sink. Through the kitchen, down the hallway to the bedroom Norris had seen a sliver of light peeking out from a nearly closed door. He’d walked toward the light calling to Darla as he did so. He’d pushed the door open and saw an empty bed, the covers on it made to Darla’s usual anal requirements, so taught they felt like a plank of wood. On the bed, on her pillow, was an envelope so white against the deep red bedspread that it looked like someone had cut a hole in the cloth to expose the white pillowcase beneath. Norris suddenly felt like he was sitting on the sun. He unzipped his sweatshirt and tugged the hood from his head. He pulled a paper towel from a pocket in his sweatpants and wiped it across his forehead. He stared at the envelope, positioned exactly in the center of her pillow. NORRIS in large block letters was printed in the exact center of the envelope. Norris reached a hand out to the envelope. He traced its crisp edges with the tip of an index finger. He picked it up and stared at it for a long, agonizing minute before tearing at the flap and pulling out a single square of paper inside. On the square of paper Darla had printed, in perfect block letters, seven words. Norris looked at the words, mouthed them silently, and finally spoke them aloud. He read, “PLEASE DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME.” By the time he was done the house they’d lived in together for six years looked like it’d been the victim of a home invasion. In his desperate effort to find some reason for Darla’s disappearance he’d yanked open all the drawers of the bureau they’d shared, his lower drawers, her upper ones. He’d upended their contents on the bed, spilling out everything Darla had left behind. He’d run his hands over her things; panties, bras, sweaters, jewelry, winter gloves, socks, nylons. He’d felt their varied textures, had recognized some as birthday or anniversary gifts he’d given her. He’d strewn the clothes he tore from closets across the floor where they covered the oak hardwood like a madman’s idea of a rug. He’d pulled every book off every shelf, opened them, had fluttered their pages and let the books fly across the room to land where they may. He’d pulled unpacked boxes from the attic and upended them where he stood and watched their contents spill to the floor in small heaps. He’d called their friends, who were as surprised as he was that she’d left. Octavia had said, “No! You two were so perfect together.” “Apparently not,” Norris had said. The police were no help. They couldn’t do anything unless Norris suspected some kind of foul play. Did he expect foul play? No, he didn’t. “Well,” a woman’s lazy voice had said, “since you two weren’t married, she’s really free to do what she wants.” “I understand,” Norris said. “I guess I’ll have to wait until she turns up dead.” The private detective he’d hired was no better. After taking Norris’ money for three years all he could offer him was a reluctant admiration for her talents. “She obviously knows what she’s doing,” he’d said shrugging. “Where do you suppose she learned that?” Norris had glared at him. “You’re the detective!” he’d snapped. “You tell me!” In the end, after all the time, money, and effort Norris had spent to find Darla, he’d discovered only one thing for sure. There was not a trace of her anywhere. Darla was truly gone. For the next three years Norris tried to get his life back. His obsession with finding Darla had cost him his position at Hazardville Elementary. They were indulgent there for a time, sympathetic even. But he wasn’t being paid to hunt down an ex-girlfriend. Norris began accepting various substitute teaching positions. He gradually began jogging again and quickly lost the ugly fat he’d gained since Darla’s disappearance. He dusted off a cellar full of woodworking tools and lost himself in a swirl of dust long into an endless stretch of nights. He re-filled the five handcrafted bird feeders he’d made to Darla’s meticulous specifications and watched as the poor neglected darlings came back to feed once again. Still, Norris found that he couldn’t stay in his house. He tried. Even though there wasn’t the faintest hint of Darla to be found anywhere in the house, she still seemed to be everywhere. It was like she’d become a ghost, a haunting presence that the floors, walls, and ceilings absorbed and exuded, a breathing essence that infiltrated his dreams and shocked him awake each morning asking the same maddening question. Where was Darla? He didn’t know. It looked like he would never know. And staying here would only constantly remind him of that. So he decided it was time to go. He didn’t know where. He didn’t think he really cared. Anyplace that wasn’t here would be fine. In the end he’d simply opened up an Atlas of the United States, had covered his eyes with one hand and had stuck a pin in the map with the other. When he’d removed his hand from his eyes and had seen where the pin had landed, he’d smiled for the first time in what had seemed like a very long time. He’d stuck a pin in Dacula, Georgia and could not help but imagine the delightful possibilities of a misplaced ‘r’. **Starting Over** He met Sylvia while jogging, a little over two years after moving to Dacula. He hadn’t actually been jogging when they *met*. He’d been jogging, but had twisted his ankle in a dip in the road he’d navigated successfully hundreds of times since moving there. Sylvia jogged slowly past him, She looked like a spilled bag of M&M’s; red sneakers, blue shorts, green top, and gray blond hair clipped just past delicate ears and secured with a yellow sweatband. She stopped just past him and turned and waited as Norris limped toward her. “Are you hurt?” she asked. She looked down at Norris’s ankle. “You’re limping.” Norris shifted a little of his weight onto his ankle, testing it. “Not really,” he said. “I twisted the ankle a bit, I think, but I don’t think there’s any real damage.” He gave her a weak smile and noticed that her left eye seemed to shift in color from gray, to almost blue, then back to gray. It was disconcerting, hypnotic, and he found he was staring at her. She butted the side of her head with the heel of her hand. She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Her left eye was now as gray as the right eye. “It does that sometimes,” she said, smiling. “Don’t know why. I have to reset my head to bring everything back into sync.” Norris felt an overwhelming desire to smile stupidly, and did so for just a moment before he could stop himself. Sylvia smiled back at him. “I have that effect on people,” she said. “I don’t doubt that for an instant,” Norris said. A car rolled by just then, a tap of the horn, the spell broken. The two of them moved closer to the curb, Norris carefully steering Sylvia to safety, the tips of his fingers pressing lightly into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “My name is Norris,” Norris said. “Sylvia,” Sylvia said. She added, “Do you live around here?” Norris looked at her. “I do,” he said. Sylvia smiled. “Maybe we’re neighbors,” she said. “Maybe we are,” Norris said. **Ravaging Sylvia** Two months later Norris met Sylvia’s family. At a party Sylvia held every 4th of July he shook the slender hands of her twin daughters who wore matching blue jumpsuits, each with long, luxuriant tresses of shimmering hair, Dana’s white, Diana’s red. He said, “Nice to meet you Darla,” when he shook Dana’s hand. “Dana,” Dana said. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry,” Norris said. “I’ll get over it,” Dana said. Norris wasn’t so sure he would. He worried the way Darla just popped up sometimes - like a wack-a-mole. Daniel, Sylvia’s doctor son, eyed Norris from beneath the lone spot of shade in Sylvia’s barren back yard. He plucked him with vampiric swiftness from the searing sun where he stood with Sylvia to the relative cool beneath the withering canopy of a dying sycamore tree. Norris could have hugged him. He was beginning to melt. Daniel stared at Norris and took a long swig of dark beer. He swallowed the bitter brew, and leaned unsteadily forward until his lips brushed Norris’s left ear. “What are your intentions toward my mother?” he whispered. Norris peered into dark eyes hidden beneath a ridge of bone so pronounced it looked like the brim of a baseball cap. He wasn’t sure he’d any intentions toward Sylvia, if he was ready for that sort of thing yet. “I plan to ravage her on the kitchen table as soon as everyone leaves,” Norris said. The beer Daniel had just swallowed erupted in a brown, frothy geyser from his nose and mouth. Norris caught Sylvia giving him a worried look. He shook his head. *It’s O.K*. Norris leaned in as Daniel was bent over, sputtering and coughing. “Calm down, Daniel,” he said. He tapped him lightly on the back until the coughing subsided. “We’re just friends, nothing more.” Daniel straightened. “You couldn’t just say that?” he said, still coughing, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Norris smiled. “What fun would that be?” he said. **Is That What You Kids Are Calling It These Days** One morning, six months later, Dana and Diana were startled to find Norris, barefoot, in a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweat shorts, heading toward their mother’s front porch, a newspaper tucked under his arm. They looked at each other across the front seat of Dana’s car. Norris heard the car. When he turned and saw Dana and Diana he gave them a short wave, pulling the folded paper from under his arm and holding it modestly in front of him. “Tell me you’re delivering that paper,” Dana said as she got out of the car. She was bundled in a thick sweater, puffy mittens and a stretchy yellow cap tugged down past her ears. White hair, cut short now, poked out of the cap like sparks of lightning. “Would you believe I was out for a jog,” Norris asked. “Is that what you kids are calling it nowadays,” Diana snorted over the car’s roof. She rubbed her nylon gloved hands on the nylon fabric of her short, puffy coat until the two squeaked. Norris smiled. “Good morning to you too,” he said. “Mom about ready?” Diana asked. “Atlanta awaits.” It was a shopping, dining excursion that Sylvia referred to as their January jaunt. “Pretty much,” Norris said. She’d actually been ready for over an hour and had quickly been losing patience at her daughters’ tardiness. Dana walked up the driveway to the porch. “Maybe we should go inside so the neighbors don’t see you standing around half naked in my mother’s driveway, in the middle of winter,” she suggested. She edged around Norris and started toward the front door. “Good idea,” Norris agreed. He waited for Diana who sprinted across the driveway and scurried into the house behind her sister, giving Norris an exaggerated wink as she did so. **Norris Steps In** That summer, Norris gave Diana away. Dan, who was scheduled to escort her down the aisle, got an emergency call from the hospital an hour before the wedding was to start. A woman had sped her car into a bridge abutment doing sixty. “Can’t someone else do *that*?” Diana whimpered. “You have to do *this*.” She looked up at her intended, Greg, a tall, square, implacable man who smiled and shrugged. “I’m on call,” Dan explained, holding his hands out, palms up, like a penitent. “But what about *me*?” Diana moaned. “This is my *wedding*.” Norris, who was standing behind Sylvia with his hands on her shoulders, bent forward and whispered something into her ear. Sylvia nodded. He detached himself from Sylvia and walked over to stand beside Dan. “I know I’m not your father, Diana,” Norris said, “But I would consider it an honor if you would let *me* give you away.” Diana looked at him. Her eyes began to glisten with tears. She stepped forward and buried her face in Norris’s chest, mumbling something and nodding her head. Raising her head she dabbed at her eyes with the back of a finger. “If you make my mascara run, Norris,” she said. “Your mother already told me I’d better not screw this up,” Norris said. “Do you need a minute?” Diana barked a laugh. She looked at Greg. “Do *you* need a minute?” she asked. “No, I’m good,” Greg said. Dan gave Diana a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry Di,” he said. “It’s not your fault,” Diana said. She hugged her little brother. “Go. Go save a life. ” Dan hugged Diana again. He gave Greg a fist bump. To Norris he said, “If it can’t be me, Norris, I’m glad it’s you giving my sister away.” “Thank you,” Norris said. “Now go.” “Going,” Dan said. He kissed his mother and threw an unseen wave to Dana who was whispering into the ear of her latest concubine on the other side of the room. After the wedding Sylvia sighed into Norris’s shoulder. They were resting on a cozy loveseat that faced a large bay window, “It was a lovely wedding,” she said. “It was that,” Norris agreed. They were silent a moment. Sylvia finally said, “I’ve only got one more wedding in me, Norris.” “Dana?” Norris asked. Sylvia pulled away from Norris’s shoulder, turning to look at him. “No, not Dana,” she frowned. “Dana will never get married.” Norris thought for a long second. Finally understanding she meant she planned to get *married* only one more time, he said. “I see.” He suddenly imagined himself standing at the end of a long isle, Darla slowly gliding toward him in a long flowing white gown. He turned to Sylvia. “Well, maybe one more is all you’ll need,” he offered, coaxing her back into his shoulder. Sylvia let herself be drawn back in. “One more is all I’ll be able to handle,” she said. “And keep in mind, I’m not a woman of infinite patience.” **The Muse** Two years after Norris and Sylvia consolidated residences (she hated the way Norris referred to their arrangement as shacking up) Dana decided to move to Arizona. Her seniority with the Post Office allowed her to bid on a letter carrier position in Flagstaff. Grace, her friend, companion, lover, would be coming along to paint in the desert. “Paint. In the desert?” Sylvia said, when Dana called. “Isn’t that…interesting.” “She’s following her passion,” Dana explained. “I admire that.” “But you’re paying her way,” Sylvia observed. “That’s not the way I see it.” “Oh? And how do you see it?” Sylvia asked. “Think of me as her Muse,” Dana said. She could feel Sylvia’s eyes rolling. “Don’t say it mom,” Dana said. “Far be it from me to say a thing,” Sylvia said. “That would be a first,” Dana said. When Sylvia and Norris came to visit for the first time, a little over a year after Dana had moved to Arizona, they discovered that her role as Muse had been transferred to a local businessman. He spent most of his time with his business, giving Dana’s ex even more of the time, and money, apparently, she needed to pursue her passion. “She said I was getting too clingy,” Dana told her mother. “Clingy,right!” Sylvia said to Norris that night. They were in a small bedroom the size of their bathroom at home. They could hear the faint mumbling of a TV from Dana’s room next door. It was a little after one in the morning. “She could have been as clingy as she’d wanted if she’s had a little more of this,” Sylvia said, rubbing her middle finger and thumb together, indicating cash. “You can be so jaded sometimes, Syl” Norris said. “Am I wrong?” Sylvia asked. “Probably not,” Norris admitted. “So?” Sylvia said. “So nothing,” Norris said. “It’s just that you seem to think she invited this upon herself.” “Do I need to remind you of the number of failed relationships she’s had?” Sylvia said. “We all make mistakes in love, Sylvia,” Norris said. He turned his head on his pillow and ran his eyes along the lines of her profile, from her squarish chin, to the flattened tip of her nose, to the small red mark the size of a dull pencil tip just below her right eye that he’d once tried to remove with a tongue moistened napkin. Sylvia could feel him looking at her. “Have you?” she asked. “Have I…?” “Made mistakes in love,” she said. “I’m sure I have,” Norris said. Turning on her side Sylvia said, “Give me an example.” She raised her head, supporting it with the palm of her hand, her upper arm wedged into her pillow. “I can’t give you any specifics,” Norris said. “I just know you can’t get to the age we are without having made some mistakes, somewhere along the line.” Sylvia looked at Norris a moment longer before settling back into her pillow. “If you say so,” she said to the ceiling. “But she makes more than her fair share of these alleged mistakes.” “All the more reason to give her the occasional benefit of the doubt,” Norris said. “I suppose,” Sylvia said. “Really, you just need to give her a break,” Norris said. **The Ultimatum** Dan didn’t even have a chance to have a drink on the plane. From the time he took his seat in Flagstaff after visiting his sister, until his plane landed in Los Angeles three hours later, all he did was sleep. He was picked up at the airport by a hospital shuttle and was in an operating room twenty minutes later. When the operation was over, he rushed through the gleaming tiled hallways on the second floor of Mercy hospital to his office on the fourth floor clasping his hands together as he did so to stop them from shaking. Once in his office he wasted no time in pulling a very expensive bottle of British whiskey from the sliding doors of a credenza behind his desk. He managed to get two quick shots down and put the bottle away before nurse Wilson opened his door unannounced. She stood in the doorway like a Viking wench, pointing a thick index finger with a cobalt blue nail at him. She told him that would be the last time he ever, ever! performed a surgery in that condition. What condition would that be, he wanted to know? She gave him a tired smirk. Do I really have to say it? she asked him. I wish you would, he said. O.K. then. Drunk, she said. Satisfied? Not really, Dan said. Dan thought it ironic that he should be called to task for being drunk during a surgical procedure when, for the first time in he couldn’t really say how long, he’d actually been sober. If only the patient had lived. He looked at the nurse. She *was* like a Viking. Her thick hands were planted on her narrow, boyish hips. A wild electrified mane of strawberry blond corkscrews that seemed to sputter with untamed energy framed her long bony face. “No one could have saved him,” he said. “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “We’ll never know. I just know that was your last surgery. I’ve been keeping records. If you’re not out of here in a week I’ll give them to HR.” Dan didn’t know what kind of records she might have. She was a bit of a techy. He imagined a miniature camera clipped to her lapel or secured to the inner sleeves of her scrubs, recording his every unsteady move since who knows when. He wanted to argue with her, but he knew she was right. The chorus of disparaging voices he heard, or maybe only imagined he heard, in his operating room would probably back her up. The nurse pointed her finger at him again. “I mean it,” she said. “Records.” Dan watched as she did a crisp military about face and squeaked down the hallway to some Viking retreat in the bowels of the building somewhere. He pulled the expensive bottle of British whiskey back out of the credenza and did two more quick shots before getting up and slamming his office door shut. **A Rainbow of Possibilities** Norris took Dan to a woodworking show in Atlanta a month after Dan left Mercy Hospital. He told Dan it might give him a different perspective on things. He took him down cluttered aisles full of woodworking tools, jigs and bewhiskered hawkers. “This is my version of your medical convention,” Norris explained. “Minus the sex,” Dan said. “Minus the booze. Minus the blow.” “That’s tomorrow,” Norris said. “Make sure you get your hand stamped before we leave.” At dinner that night, at a karaoke club in the Sweet Auburn Historic District of Atlanta, Norris watched as Dan finished two thirds of a bottle of wine. He played more with his food than he ate it, going so far as to construct a fairly precise replica of the Arc de Triomphe with his stiff mashed potatoes. As he carefully sculpted that edifice Dan confessed that he felt like an imposter. “An imposter?” Norris had asked. “An imposter,” Dan had confirmed. For eleven years, he said, he’d been pretending to be a doctor. Norris had told him he hadn’t been pretending anything. He’d been a doctor, and a good one at that. Dan shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. He told Norris about the voices he heard in his operating room, his nurses snickering at him, second guessing his every decision. Did he really want to make that incision there? Shouldn’t it be six inches lower? Does he even know where the abdomen was? He said he even half expected his patients to sit up on the operating table to plead that he not work on them. ‘He’s not a real doctor,’ he would imagine them crying. ‘Can’t anybody see that!?’ He said he started drinking to shut them up. Norris asked Dan why he’d bothered becoming a doctor at all, or why he hadn’t tried some other profession, if he felt that way. Dan had shrugged. “I don’t know, Norris,” he’d said. “I really don’t. I guess I always thought it would get better. It never did.” He said being confronted by Nurse Wilson would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Now he could stop pretending. He said he could have fought the accusations. The hospital would have sided with him he was sure, but then what? More voices, more lies, more pretension? No, this was an opportunity, one he didn’t see how he could refuse. “An opportunity for what?” Norris had asked. Dan stared down at his plate. Norris wondered if he’d heard him. Just then, on an isolated stage on the far side of the dining room, a small, blond woman tapped the perforated surface of a silver microphone. She adjusted a long silver stand to accommodate her height and said softly, “This is for August.” Then, in a voice so clear and pure it could have broken the hearts of angels she sang a plaintive song of a land she once knew in a lullaby. Norris and Dan watched her as her face contorted around the lyrics and she softly swayed to the flight of bluebirds and the images of rainbows. When she was done Dan rose from his seat and gave her a thunderous applause. “You go girl!” he yelled. The girl turned and smiled at him. “Thank you, thank you very much,” she intoned, like Elvis. Dan sat back down. “I don’t know what’s next Norris,” he said. He poured enough wine into his round bottomed goblet for a toast and held it aloft. “Here’s to whatever that might be,” he offered. “Roger that,” Norris said. He lifted his glass of dark beer. Clinking it against Dan’s goblet, he added, “To a rainbow of possibilities.


General Thomas Smith sat in his office with his leg bouncing, a response to the anxiety this letter gave him. He was a general of the United States of Eurasia. It was August 3rd, 1970. The Eurasian Marine Corps had been ordered to start making plans for an invasion of the United Socialists of North America. Smith had been given orders to make land fall in Greenland from Iceland. He breathed out a sigh and covered his face. Smith was born in what was the UK before the Soviets invaded in ‘55. But during that war he lived in Canada. The USNA invaded Canada the following year which forced him to move to Iceland who were threatened into joining the rest of Eurasia. In ‘59 there was Civil War in the Eurasian Commune and Democratic People’s Republic of Africa that lead to them becoming democracies. The only Democracy up to that point was the Kingdom of Oceania. Oceania, Africa and Eurasia formed an alliance called the Last Bastions of Democracy. The LBD were weaker than their North and South American counterparts. South America was ruled by the People’s Republic of South America who had split Central America at Lake Nicaragua with North America in 1953. The USNA gave the PRSA the Panama Canal in 1954 But that was then, this was now. Smith, with shaking hands, put the letter down. “Alright, t-time to get to work.” 1975, on Moon Base Kiev Eurasian space marines loaded their weapons and looked to their commander. A young Turkish man named Oray Cimen was their commander. He looks to his subordinates and put the mag in his gun. “Today we take the Moon, or we die for Eurasia! For freedom!” He says before his men started cheering. 18th Marine Division Base in Vladivostok Marines loaded onto their transports, nervous, hoping the great fleets could get them across. Aboard the ASV Rida el-Tariq, a Dhaakir el-Barakta class Aircraft Carrier Rakin got in his MiG-23, leased from the Eurasians, and slid the canopy over his head. It was officially the first day of war, the war that would be called the Last Great War. North Atlantic, many kilometers off the coast of Greenland General Smith stood on top of a tank, facing his men. “Soldiers of the Eurasian Marines female, male or other, today we embark on the greatest war the world has ever seen. Today marks the day that Communism starts it’s fall, today marks the day that will forever be known as the day we begin our liberation! Many of you will die in this invasion, or see your friends fall dead on the beaches. But that must be a sacrifice you are willing to make. Together we will breath back the communists and liberate the Americas! For Eurasia! For Liberty!” The soldiers cheered as they loaded their guns and put their helmets on. They loaded into their vehicles. Four hours later, shells from Eurasian Battlecruisers and battleships bombarded the coast of Greenland. Bombs, ballistic missiles and anti-tank missiles rained down on the American soldiers, completely taken by surprise. Thousands of amphibious assault craft approached the shore, weapons blazing. This was the beginning of the war to end wars.


It was a cold and stormy night. Okay, not like the one in that Edgar Allen Poe dude whatever story, and this isn’t some kind of metaphorical thing either. Alright? It was literally cold and stormy. You know? It was like 50 degrees or something. And outside it was windy and thundering and stuff. Oh, and by the way, it’s Minnesota so it can be any season. And by that, I mean it’s any season you want it to be so you can imagine this short piece, and it’s any season in this piece itself. That’s not specified. But if you want me to specify it, let’s just say it’s fall. Late September. Or early October. The year? 2020. Alright, back to it. It’s a cold and stormy night—we’ll stick with present tense from now on—it’s a cold and stormy night. And this guy- his name is Link- Link is sitting at the library, reading off the screen of his laptop that he bought with his graduation money he received earlier in the summer this year. Which means he’s a freshman. Poor freshy. I remember those days. He’s not partying, which you might expect a freshman to do on a Friday night at 11pm. He’s studying and being a good student, like he should be. Link’s eyes scroll through, word for word, the passage of his digital Biology 112 Textbook. Every word he reads is set into his working memory, and he hopes he can go to sleep before midnight and get enough hours in bed so that working memory is cemented into long term memory. He’s also listening to some music to help whet his mind. Beethoven. A classic. A beautiful classic. Seventh Symphony Allegretto. While the rest of the tables are desperately empty, another young Freshmen by the name of Oscar sits in a chair a few tables behind Link. Oscar twirls a deck of cards, maneuvering several split sections between the thumb and index and middle and ring finger of both his hands. If he was doing this sleight-of-hand trick any faster, he would look like fucking David Copperfield. But he’s not. He’s a fucking nerd. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s what his best friends call him: a straight-up nerd who watches anime and hentai and hasn’t gotten any action because he’s just too damn shy to talk to the girls who might have been interested in him. Oh, and yes there were a few. Oscar never forgets the night he could’ve gotten some from that girl at the bar, when he and his friends all snuck in underaged. That stupid bouncer. What a joke. Oscar looks up from his deck when he quietly slams the deck flat between his palms. He sees Link. But he’s not looking at Link. He’s looking at Link’s laptop. It’s a MacBook Pro, retail price of over two-thousand dollars. He’s always wanted one. He still does. In his backpack is that boring, four-year old hand-me-down HP laptop from his older brother who just graduated college. It’s not even Full-HD and it only boasts 4 Gigs of memory. The damn guy can’t even play a good game of League with his buddies. He glides his poor 12/20, glasses-assisted eyesight over the thin bezel and the sleek touch-bar. The quality of the screen is so clear, almost so clear, that Oscar could read the words on the screen from thirty feet away. Okay maybe not that good, but a hyperbole is needed here. Oscar knows what he must do. He stares at the back of Link’s head, his vision piercing through to the other side and locking onto Link’s eyes. Link takes a sip of his water. Sorry, forgot to mention earlier that he has his water bottle next to him. He presses his chapped lips against the bottle’s crown and lifts it just enough to let the stream of cool, vacuum-sealed water trickle over his tongue. It’s so quiet in the library that even the reference desk attendant can hear the relieved sigh of Link’s quenched thirst. Link sets the bottle down and behind him approaches the enemy. A black sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans sits up from its seat. Oscar takes a brave journey forward, the deck still in his hand, and stops at the opposite side of the desk of Link. He plants his midnight blue shoes into the carpet flooring. He clears his throat. He licks his lips. Link looks up and his resting-bitch face says hello to Oscar. “Wanna, wanna see a trick?” Oscar says, his heart beating through his chest. Link looks at the deck of Bicycle cards, noticing the glaze of light that reflects from the card’s coat. He looks back up at Oscar and says nothing as he returns to his studying. “Uh, o-o-Okay.” Oscar clears his throat again. Loudly. Very Loud? Very Loudly? Which one… Damn. I dunno, I’m not Reed Richards. And Microsoft Word isn’t putting that blue line under any of them. Whatever. Something more important is happening. Oscar fans out the deck with his left hand, sparing equal room for each of the fifty-two cards. Then, with his right, he pulls one straight out from the deck and sharply reveals it. It’s a Jack of Diamonds. “You see this card.” It’s not an interrogative statement; he’s not asking Link if he sees the card. It’s declarative. “Commit this card to memory.” He brings the card in front of Link’s screen and slowly waves it in a circular motion, as if attempting to hypnotize him. It doesn’t work, but it steals his attention. “Commit it,” he repeats. Link looks up at Oscar, his face still unamused. Instinct then draws his eyes to the card, and they bore over the glazing coat. Cool white and hot red. Jack. Diamond. “Okay. I’m gonna make this card reappear somewhere.” Oscar takes a pause and then whispers. “Somewhere you won’t expect.” All of a sudden, and I mean really all of a sudden, Oscar flicks the entire deck of cards into Link’s face. The cloud of white, black and red disappears just as Oscar grabs the MacBook Pro off the desk. He takes off, but not quick enough, as Link jumps up from his seat. He’s right behind him, stride for stride, even as Oscar begins pulling down chairs as obstacles. The pursuing Link leaps over the first chair, and then the second, but stumbles as the momentum of his jump brings him too close to the third. He presses on and locks his eyes on poor Oscar, who has been running in the wrong direction and only now notices the wall and its windows from fifty feet out. Outside, the storm continues to batter the sky with Zeus’ rage. Inside, however, Oscar faces Link’s rage. Link catches up to Oscar just before Oscar can attempt to cut the corner of a table and gives his best Muhamad Ali impression. The towel flies in. Oscar, absolutely rocked, stumbles back and then falls. There’s a crack heard, but it’s not Oscar’s body or Link’s MacBook Pro that is still clutched to his chest. It’s his own laptop. The pathetic HP has met its defeat. There goes twenty-four gigabytes of high-quality porn and an entire summer’s worth of Minecraft mods. Oscar, still conscious but barely, lies on his backpack, his arms unfolding and relinquishing the two-thousand-dollar beauty. Link leans over, his fist shaken but ready to deliver another blow. Instead, he reaches for his MacBook and opens it. The screen is intact, the buttons still in place and the reading still as boring as it was before. Link looks at Oscar in disgust and turns around. “Wait!” Oscar shouts with a groan, barely audible. “Hold on!” His words turn Link around, somehow, and he slowly and dramatically, I might add, lifts a hand up. It’s shaking in pain, but he’s able to extend his index finger to Link’s hips. “Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal… Oh. It’s just a stupid card from the tech desk. Link looks at Oscar and shakes his head in disgust. He returns to his desk and begins packing his belongings. He looks around to see if anyone might have seen the commotion, but the only other person there is the reference desk lady, who is too far away and too focused on her own homework. Link prepares to leave but glances one last time at Oscar. He’s is still pointing at Link. His eyes are weak and the strength in his hand is brittle, but his glare and index finger is intense. Link turns around and leaves the library. Fast-forward! Link arrives and stops at the door to his four-bedroom apartment, only to hear music coming from inside his living room. And moaning from upstairs. And a bed banging up against the wall to the beat of Queen’s “Another one bites the dust.” He shakes his head, sighs, and relieves the keys from his backpack. He unlocks the door and then opens it, welcoming himself inside to royal red Hue lights and Gavin DeGraw’s “Finest Hour.” Eyes turn to him and as he closes the door. “Yo, let’s get this guy a shot,” David, one of Link’s three roommates, says. Link barely takes a step inside and David approaches him with a shot glass in one hand and a bottle of Hennessey in the other. “What’s all this?” Link asks. “My sister Lisa. You remember her. She got pregnant, and so we’re throwing a party for her. She’s right over there!” David says, pointing to her. “She don’t wanna drink because the baby and all, but yo, it would mean a lot if you take a shot for her.” Link sighs in regret. “Alright.” “Eyy, my man, yo!” David throws a hand over Link’s shoulder and the two walk towards Lisa. “Ey, Lisa!” Lisa turns around and reveals a barely-noticeable baby-belly. “Ey, you remember Link, right?” David says, patting Link’s chest twice. “Oh, hey Link!” Lisa says. “Hey,” Link answers, exhausted of the party already. “Alright, I guess I’m taking a shot for you cause your brother wants me to.” “Oh, no, that’s okay,” Lisa replies. “No, all my other roommates did,” David interrupts. “Link’s gotta take one too.” Link faintly listens to their conversation but is more focused on pouring himself his own shot. He holds the spout steadily over the cup and once it’s filled to the rim, he stops. He lifts the shot-glass up and his eyes meet Lisa’s. “Alright, to you and your kid.” He takes the shot and once the taste of alcohol hits him, so does time. Shot. Shot. Another shot. That’s right: he’s drinking underaged. Admit it, you all did too. And, hey, for an eighteen-year old, he’s strong. I guess that breaks the image of the good boy he is at the library. “Yo, slow down!” “This guy’s so fucking lit!” “Back to back!” “Yo, this my song. Turn the volume up!” “Ay, you good, bro?” “Ohhhhhhh!” “No, we just played that song!” “Nah, he’s good! My boy’s good! He’s good!” “You need help, bro?” “Yo, it’s your ex.” “Link, we need to talk.” And that’s all she wrote. Not really. But that’s the last thing Link remembers hearing: his ex. Nine hours of sleep later and the sun slips through the blinds to kiss him good morning. He’s lying in his bed and atop his sheets. He’s still fully dressed. Surprisingly, there’s not a sign of puke or a bag anywhere in his room. Good job, my man. Good damn job. Link peels his eyelids open. He takes in a deep inhale through his nose and opens his mouth to part ways with his exhale. He turns to his left, right and then back to his left before fighting his hands under his pillow. No phone there. He sits up and looks around himself. While he can’t yet find his phone, an inviting glass of water sits on his desk which extends perpendicularly from the head of his bed. The water’s not cold anymore, but right now it sure looks like Benjamin fucking Franklin on pale blue. That’s a hundred-dollar bill, by the way, for those who don’t get the reference. You know? Because they updated the bill? Anyways, Link sits up from his bed and extends a hand for it. And it sure does taste better than Hennessey. Three large gulps is all it takes to finish the glass and with a satisfying sigh he moves to place the glass back on the desk. But something catches his eye. An orange post-it note sits flat against his desk, which was hiding under the glass just five seconds ago. He looks towards his stack of post-it notes to see that it’s been meddled with. And one of his pens is out of place. He sniffs heavily to clear his nose and then stands up to trade the glass for the note. It’s written in fine print with handwriting that he recognizes from his past, and from his heart. “Hey Link, Rose here. ‘We couldn’t talk last night. ‘I left something for you. ‘Check your pocket. Jeans. Right side.” Link raises an eyebrow. Barely. He reaches a hand into his pocket and feels his iPhone 7 Plus, his old but reliable friend who he let down by dropping several times. But something else is resting against it. Something flat. Something smooth. Link’s eyes squint in confusion. He pulls out the phone and he turns it around to reveal… another post-it note. It’s folded, almost wrinkled. Rose’s recognizable handwriting reads… “You’re gonna be a dad. ‘If it’s a boy, I like the name ‘Jack.