I’m just about 25 years old, and each day when I’ve woken up for the past four months, I look more and more like my 90-year-old grandmother. That is, seven years ago, when she was home on hospice care, dying just about 10 days after her 90th birthday. I’m starting to look like that version of her: grey from head-to-toe, save for her tobacco-stained fingertips. Barely a flicker of life in her eyes. I close my eyes and the entire experience of her death feels like just yesterday. My mother would pick lilacs from the tree in the back yard to place them at her mother’s feet, and one by one I would crush the barely-purpled petals and rub the oil into her creped skin. I don’t know if I thought that fresh flowers and sheer will would keep my best friend from leaving this earth, but it didn’t work, regardless. I would stare up at her from being at her side, interlacing her cold fingers with mine, and I would just stare for hours. She rested with mouth agape and the sound of phlegm-filled death rattle, though truly just disturbing white noise, sounding like it was projecting at such a decibel I couldn’t hear myself think. I would recite for her poetry in tender whispers, which I think now was more in effort to keep myself sane than to help her. All the while my entire soul was violently fracturing watching her existence crumble into nothing. March 30th, 2011, ten days after her 90th birthday, she took her final breath. Of course, I wasn’t right there for it. I sensed it was coming and like a god damn coward I excused myself to the bathroom at the last second. Sitting bare-assed on that freezing porcelain I heard my mother’s wails from down the hall. As a searing sense of grief shot through me in that moment, I thought, the things I would give to sit in this ugly pink bathroom again, but instead of a daughter crying out for her mother, I could hear the People’s Court blasting from the living room TV while she dragged on a cigarette at the dining room table, taking her blood pressure meds along with a lukewarm coffee (black) and a handful of cheese puffs. Kept her “regular,” she claimed. Part of her charm. This wasn’t the first person I had lost, but my grandmother’s death brings me to my knees easier than the rest of them. One, two, three years after, I still couldn’t really talk about it. If I did, I’d get choked up, not be able to speak without risk of blubbering. And I hate to blubber. I didn’t think I could ever be okay again. Finally, about six years in, just about last April, I really started to feel “okay” with it all. It wasn’t, of course, like she died tragically young or in some great catastrophe. She was a poetic, hard-working, resilient woman who had fought her way through life for 90 years before expiring. Many would call that I triumph. I should be proud. I guess I was… am. But, once I started being able to think about her without crying, look at old photo albums, watch old home movies, something… I don’t know. I felt myself scratching the surface of a grief I could barely comprehend. They say that as human beings, our sense of smell has a way of triggering memories and feelings of nostalgia better than any of our other senses. It’s sometimes bitter sweet, the smell of an old lover’s cologne, or stumbling upon the scent of a familiar family recipe. For me, there’s that smell of lingering, stale cigarette smoke. But it’s not all cigarette smoke, I can specifically pick out my grandmother’s brand that she loyally puffed for decades. In the few years just after her death, I couldn’t smell it at all. Occasionally, my father would claim he smelt something, but we chalked it up to the fact that anything we wanted to keep of my grandmothers was moved into our own home since we were preparing to sell her house. It was like when I was little, and I would sleep over the house and bring my stuffed animals, and when I’d go home then next day, the cigarette smells had infiltrated Mr. Bunny and Mrs. Bear. It was my favorite thing because it reminded me of her, of that home-away-from-home. Now we had boxes of her around the house, and those things inevitably smelt of lingering tobacco after forty-something years of exposure. It wasn’t until maybe year four or five that I began smelling it every once in a while, but I didn’t attribute it to her. Though sobering and melancholic and would cause me to pause and smirk to myself, I would move on with my day and assume someone had chosen to take their smoke break by my car, or something I kept of hers shifted in the closet. Then around last May, when I had grown more accustomed and welcoming of the phantom scents, I noticed they became more constant. I felt like the smell was… following me? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. It started to get to the point where I thought someone in my house had taken up smoking. I assumed it wasn’t either of my parents, who had quit decades ago. My brother swore he’d never touch the things, and I made a strict promise to my grandmother I never would either. I cornered him anyway, but he denied it. He didn’t smell of it either, and he claimed he hadn’t smelt a bit of it around at all. I started to believe I was going a bit crazy, but I didn’t know where to turn. So, I just decided to accept it as my new normal. It wasn’t the worst, I supposed. As the months went on, and the year progressed from Spring, to Summer, to Fall, my body began to ache with the change in weather. Assuming I was coming down with a cold or the flu, I thought nothing of it. Then as Fall became Winter, it was hard to get around. My knees and shoulders were stiff, my hands weak, and everything seemed to worsen when it rained. My lungs felt damp and heavy. I booked an appointment to see my doctor, who then sent me for a round of tests for autoimmune disorders, cancers, and anything that would cause a rapid decline in health. Nothing came back that inferred a diagnosis, my white-cell counts were normal. Sometimes that just happens, though, as autoimmune diseases are tricky and often present in multiples, so they prescribed me some general medications to cover a variety of symptoms. Though things seemed to help for a while, it seemed to just slow whatever this is, treating only the signs and not the cause. I’ve continued to decline for months. A few weeks ago, around the beginning of July, a coworker pulled me aside. She’s a good friend and had been checking in with me occasionally as it was visibly obvious I was in poor health. She pulled me into the lunch room, closed the door, and reached for my hand. Interlacing my cold fingers with hers. “Can I meddle?” she asked. “You don’t normally ask first,” I replied, smirking. My yellowed teeth peering out from my bloated lips. “Why are you smoking, especially when you have no fucking clue what is going on with you?” “What’s that?” I asked, leaning closer as she was a bit hard to hear. I heard her, but I was frankly shocked by her question. I’d never touched a cigarette in my life. “Come on, Kate. Everyone smells it on you. We’re all so worried about your health that nobody has the guts to pester you about it, but it’s really starting to get offensive.” I had become so accustomed to the scent that I didn’t notice it was on me. “I… I don’t know.” I started to panic and pulled my hand away. “Tell Eric I have to leave for the day. Tell him I’m sorry I’m taking more time, he can take it out of next year.” I got up from the table and made my way to the door. Had it been even just a year earlier, I would have been able to move swiftly. But now, I stood and waited for my joints to unlock and my atrophied muscles to propel my skeleton forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” she said as she helped me with the door. “It’s fine… I mean, you didn’t… I’m just not well. Thanks for your concern,” I coughed at her as a spoke, clearing the foul mucus from my throat. I patted her arm and avoided eye contact and made my way back to my desk. Once I reached the cubicle after what felt like an eternity of reaching for door knobs and walls to steady my balance, I started to collect my things to leave for the day. As I reached for my phone to place it in my bag, I unlocked it to check for any new texts or calls from the doctors or my mother with news of test results. I was desperate for the answers nobody has. Instead, I fumbled around with my arthritic fingers and opened my photos by mistake. I froze. The most recent photo was showing as a picture of my grandmother I took on the last day she was partially conscious. I remember because it was a photo taken of the same day when I answered the phone next to her hospice bed, and upon my saying “hello” to the caller, she thought I was speaking to her. She woke from her near-death state to say, “Hi, Kate,” and fell back asleep. They were her last words. It’s not something you’d forget. Sitting still, I studied the picture. She was still a bit pink and her eyes were open, but she was already one foot out the door. I locked the screen and threw my phone in my purse and made my way for the exit. I made it to my car and started the engine. I struggled to reach over my left shoulder to grab the seat belt and pull it across my hunched body. After a few tries, I clicked it down and reached up to put the car in reverse. My eye caught the half-dozen vanilla-scented trees that hung from my mirror, but all I smelled were cigarettes. In that same second my eyes caught the figure of my grandmother in the back seat staring back at me in the rear-view. My heart instantly beat up into my throat as I shook and froze all at once, failing to scream even though my mouth flew open to do so. After a second or two the scream came, but she was gone. I started to cry as my hands came to my face. My wailing sounded just like that of my mother’s on March 30th seven years ago. It echoed in my memories as it bounced off my windshield and back into my warped face. As I rubbed my hands down my face, I felt my fingernail catch on a wrinkle in my cheek. A warm liquid trickled down my chin as I felt around for where it went. Leaning forward to inspect the object, I pulled my hand up closer to my eyes and saw a nicotine-stained finger nail that had peeled off as easily as wet cardboard. I could feel the dark, gritty blood pooling in the vacant space on top of my weathered finger. I passed out. The next time I woke up, I was in the hospital. Apparently, my colleague found me in the car in the parking lot of my job, doubled-over with my head on the steering wheel, my bloody finger nail in my loose fist. My doctors cannot explain why I am dying at 25. My psychotherapist cannot explain why I constantly smell cigarettes. I cannot explain to my coworkers that I have never smoked, no matter how many times I try. I do not know how that photo from seven years and three phones ago wound up as my most recent photo in my camera roll. I cannot explain why I have spider veins running down my legs. I have no clue as to why my finger nails have yellowed and have begun falling off. I cannot explain this rattle in the back of my throat. I cannot explain why the days are so long, but the years seem so short. I turned 25 eight days ago, and I’ve spent the last three weeks in the hospital. They are talking about sending me home on hospice, that maybe resting at home will make me “better.” Lately, somehow, the smell of cigarettes that has haunted me for three years has now been replaced with the subtle scent of fresh lilacs. I am so tired. I hope my mother brings me flowers.


They are all violently smashed into the egg shell-finish paint, various shades of brown. A few are old, most are new. “If you leave the bodies it serves as a warning for the others.” My husband joked as he stood on the bed, scraping an old paperback along the edge of the smoke detector. “That is easily the eighth spider in the last two days. This is so gross.” A faint chill ran down the middle of my spine as I clenched my jaw. “At least it’s only babies and not a big one.” As if that was supposed to help. “Where there are babies there’s a momma. And babies become grown spiders, and some of those become mommas. If we don’t take out the babies, I’ll end up with thousands of full grown spiders and I’ll have to burn it all down.” I could feel tiny beads of sweat forming at the corners of my hairline begin to evaporate. Always charmed by my dramatic nature, he grabs a tissue and wipes the guts from the back of the novel, all while planting a light kiss on my forehead. “You’re okay. I got you.” We leave the bodies as a warning for the others, but it doesn’t seem to work. Last night I woke up around a quarter to four, sweating, and opened my eyes as I rolled over onto my back. As I rolled my eyes came into focus with what looked like a spider descending onto me. I screamed as I threw the blankets over my face, begging Andrew to wake up. Startled, he started yelling back asking what was wrong. I kept screaming for him to turn on the light until I simultaneously heard the click of the switch and the room’s darkness blow away. “Casey, please, just tell me what it is.” “Don’t you see it?! The spider! It’s on me! Please just kill it and I’ll come out!” He inspects the covers and the sheets before telling me he can’t find it. My throat is burning with the acid from having nearly puked as a result of the adrenaline rush. I slowly bring the covers down off of my face as my eyes dart around for the spider. “Casey, please, there’s nothing here. I checked. It must just be another nightmare. Remember last summer? We had three nights in a row you swore you felt a spider crawling down your back. You would wake up thrashing. I had bruises down my right arm for a week.” “Andrew I swear to God, this was real. I SAW it.” “You were also half asleep… I don’t know, maybe you were dreaming. I promise there is nothing here. You’re okay. I got you.” He was too tired to keep up with my hysteria. Reluctantly, I settled back into bed as Andrew turned off the lights. He fell asleep approximately half a second after his head hit the pillow. I pulled the covers back over my head and breathed the same air until dawn. Andrew stayed home sick today. He sent me a photo while I was at work, showing three new spots on our bedroom ceiling. “Spider-murder-man saves the day!” read the caption. It wasn’t funny. During the summers when my house feels like my own personal, twisted hell born right out of my fear center, my office feels like a sanctuary. Sure, we get the occasional stink bug or industrial centipede, but rarely a spider. As I’m writing through my emails, movement from the corner of my white board catches my eye. A small brown spider seemingly throws itself out, only to use its web to crawl back up and under again. Frozen, I stared as I watched it reel itself back in with nauseating grace. I grabbed my coffee mug and made a swift exit toward the break room. Once there I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I then opened my eyes and reached for the cabinet to grab a coffee pod. I wrapped my pointer and middle fingers around the inside of the brass handle and begun to pull, expecting to feel the cool metal melt against my skin. Instead I felt something not unlike cotton. I pulled my hand quickly away and then grabbed the inside corner of the now ajar cabinet to continue opening. I leaned my head to the left to peak at the handle when I saw a crushed spider sac and something writhing inside. I dropped my mug, it shattered on the ground, and I vomited into my mouth. I stepped over the shattered “cat mom” mug to wash (boil) my hands. My coworker, Chris, came to my rescue after hearing the shatter. He helped me clean everything up but noticed I was visibly shaken. “What, did you see a ghost?” he teased. How charming. I wasn’t in the mood. “No, just, nerves. You know… busy season. We’re all frazzled and, well… Thanks for the help.” I threw away the pieces I had collected and washed my hands once more. As I used the sink, Chris grabbed a generic mug and opened the cabinet to grab a pod. He seems unphased. I couldn’t let it go. “Did… did you feel like… the handle…” “The handle…” he waited for me to finish, looking equal parts intrigued and irritated. “I thought I saw some crap inside the handle of the cabinet before I dropped my mug. I meant to clean it out but got distracted. Sorry I didn’t mention it before you went for the…” Chris began to examine his hand before inspecting the door handle. “I think it’s fine, Casey. I didn’t feel anything, I don’t see anything there. Must just be those nerves of yours.” I was at a loss. I know what I saw. “Hah. Right. Okay, then… Enjoy your coffee.” “Right… you, too…” forgetting I was leaving empty handed, “I mean, yeah...” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head as he reached for the sugar in the raw and I went back to my office. I walked back to my office concerned I was really fucking losing it. I walked past my colleague Laura on my way back. As I looked up to wish her a good morning, the faint feeling of walking through a web tickled my skin from the neck up. Naturally, I started to panic and thrash. “Oh my God, Casey, what’s wrong?” Laura put down her print she had just picked up to try and help me. In the midst of my visceral fight or flight reaction I realized I was making a scene. I threw my arms down and flashed a smile to the on-lookers and turned towards Lauren. “I’m so sorry, I’m fine. Swore I walked into a bug. All is good. Thanks.” I kept the smile on my face until I turned the corner into my office and closed the door behind me. “What the actual FUCK, Casey!” I whisper-screamed at myself as I quickly but firmly began to rub my hands from my head down my body, covering every square inch to get the disgusting phantom web feeling off my skin. I was certain at this point that I was actually losing my mind, not just in the way people threaten when they are having a bad day or when they are getting pushed to their last nerve. I was seeing and feeling things nobody else could. I quickly walked over to my desk and searched through my purse for my phone. I remembered the spider at the white board and looked over hoping I could still see a thin leg sticking out from the corner. No. It was gone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” My hands shook as I unlocked and navigated through my notifications. I had two missed calls and three texts from Andrew. No voicemails. My heart sank, he never calls. I read the messages first to see if I could get an idea of what may be wrong. Sandwiched between two texts was a picture message. My eyes darted quickly back and forth across the screen. 10:27am: “Case, something’s wrong. Spider situation getting worse. I’m calling an exterminator to come survey. I don’t even know if they do spiders? I’ll keep you updated.” 10:29am: The image was of the ceiling. Instead of dead spiders, it looked to be about two dozen live ones scattered among the bodies. 10:42am: “OK I have an exterminator coming around 2. No need for you to be here, I can handle it. Just wanted to give you the heads up incase you want to hear the status report first hand. Love you.” The phone calls are timestamped for 10:52am and 11:02am. I tried calling back, but it went to straight to voicemail. I sent a quick text back, 11:27am: “Hey, got your texts. Why’d you call? Everything good? I’ll be near my phone. Let me know. Love you.” I got up and walked across the room to open my door. I couldn’t bring myself to grab the handle barehanded, so I pulled up the hem of my blouse and used it to guard myself against any surprises. Nothing seemed to be there. I returned to my desk and resumed emails. An hour or so passes before I realized I still haven’t heard back from Andrew. I do the math in my head and if I take a half day and leave now, I’d be home just before the exterminator was set to arrive. I contemplate the thought a bit more before signing out for the day. As I pack up to leave, I see the spider once more hanging down from the corner of my white board. I pick up my note pad and slam it against the wall, silently apologizing to my neighboring colleague. Limbs shaking and battling a nervous sweat, I wipe the guts from the back of the book, grab my keys, and leave.


Hi guys, this short piece is about a Hellfighter called Atlas and what he has to offer an ill-prepared town of lost individuals, people who are on the brink of giving up hope. As always, let me know what you think, I’m appreciative on any feedback. Cheers, Lordchimp “They’re not impossible to kill, they’re just exceedingly difficult.” Upon hearing Atlas speak those words, in the dimly lit alehouse just off of the main streets, he experienced a beautiful warming feeling that blossomed into his mind, searing away the doubt, pain, fear that had entombed him for so long. An emotion that he had buried away deep down in his soul and it’s sudden emergence, splintering away the shell of darkness that he had cocooned himself in, nearly brought tears to his eyes. It was as if he had been wearing chains of iron and steel around his neck all these years, and with one single sentence, this man had cast them off as easily as a snake sheds its skin. The man exuded confidence, all of his actions, even down to the smallest movements of his body made it seem like he had all the time in the world. As if he needed to prove the point, he calmly struck a match and ignited the plain wooden pipe that hung lazily from his lips, puffing gently as the tobacco smoke curled into the air. Atlas wasn’t quite what Oland had pictured. The stories had painted him as a remorseless warrior, a ruthless veteran who gave no quarter and asked for none in return. A man of fierce stature, who possessed a will of steel and let his blades do the talking. But the man sat in a few tables in front of him was a different person entirely. Where he expected someone broad and muscular, he was thin and wiry, whatever muscles he did possess were hidden completely behind his worn travellers clothes. The battered leather garments seemed to hang off of him, as if they were a few sizes too big for him, or he was a few sizes too small. He didn’t expect the scars either. It made sense that a hellfighter would have such terrible scars, after all, it was expected from anyone who was in the business of fighting monsters. They were a sign of experience, of prowess. Three long scars ran down the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin. He was fortunate, for the wounds had scarred well, not pulling his skin too tightly, not ugly and inflamed. It almost didn’t suit the slim man, as the scars were a brash contradiction of his casual, easy-going demeanor. “Tell us something we don’t know. I don’t need some poncey outsider to come here and tell me the obvious.” Deckland growled through his teeth. He used to be a blacksmith and his rough treatment of metals had carried through to his social manner, him having little time to spare for the words of others. Deckland had a fair few kills under his belt, represented by the five long, serrated teeth that hung off of a rough leather cord he wore around his neck. The room that had been bustling with excited talk and cheerful laughter was suddenly rent with silence. All of the voices stopped. Everyone seemed to hold their breaths at the aggressive comment from the former blacksmith. Atlas however, seemed completely unconcerned, puffling carefully on his pipe, filling the quiet air with swirling, rich tobacco smoke. “How many have you killed?” Atlas asked purposefully, although Oland suspected he already knew. Deckland sniffed and spat onto the wooden floor with narrowed eyes. He made a point of raising up his necklace and giving it a few jagged tugs. “Five.” He spat. Atlas leaned forwards and took the pipe out of his mouth. “I’m on forty two-” “Bollocks. Nobody’s killed that many. Not even Illian.” Deckland interrupted. Everybody’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, Orland’s included. “Well, I can tell you in full confidence, he’s killed more than that…I should know…I’ve met the bastard.” Atlas said with a wide grin, showing all of his teeth. Deckland paused for a few moments as he deciphered the words that entered his mind. Once he had fully understood just exactly what Atlas had said, he exploded into action. The table let out a pained groan as it was scraped across the floor, the mugs and plates atop it rumbling and clattering with dismay. The floorboards groaned as they had to bear Deckland’s sudden bulk, creaking and grumbling under the weight of his heavy frame. He drew a hatchet from his belt with a practiced ease, then buried it into the table with a firm click. “You dare?!” He bellowed, furious rage shining brightly in his eyes. “You dare mock us?! When so many from here have given their lives so that you can sit where you sit?! I should gut you right here, right now…” The alehouse suddenly burst with the sound of angered voices, flipped over furniture and the wild snarls of vicious animals. The room full of men had turned into a pack of dogs, hissing and barking at either Atlas or Deckland, to show their support or hatred. A few had drawn blades and were waving them threateningly at each other, who up until a few moments ago had been firm friends. Brothers in battle. The frightful scene continued for a little while longer until Atlas brought his hand down upon his table with a righteous smash. “ENOUGH.” He roared, his arms held down at his sides where his hands had balled into fists. Surprisingly, the room quietened at the force of his shout, or maybe it was the threat that it had implied. “Are we to fight with beasts inside your walls as well?!” He asked, venom dripping thickly from every syllable he spoke. The aura of violence and aggression was snuffed out in an instant, like a puff of wind on the flame of a flickering candle. “I did not come to bicker and acuse like children. I came to help you.” He sunk back into his seat, his face suddenly showing years of weariness that had not been their mere seconds ago. Most of the men inside the room still stood standing, but one or two settled back down into their chairs slowly. Orland was shocked to see himself stood up, with a hand curled around the handle of his knife at his belt tightly. Ashamed, he softly returned to his chair, unable to look any of the others in the eye. “You want to defend your homes without losing half your brave souls every month?” He asked them all quietly, as if the weight of a thousand stones hung off his tongue. A few more men sat down. “I will show you.” He picked up his pipe which he had dropped on the table in front of him and relit it with another match. Only when more smoke had settled comfortably into the air around him he addressed them all again. “In two days time, I depart for the woods to the north. In two days time, I will destroy the nest that is there. In two days time, I will show you that it not us who should be afraid of them.” He looked around at the misguided men all around him with steel in his eyes and iron in his jaw. “I will show you it is them who should be afraid of us.


From Drake's *Scorpion* blasting from one side of the clubhouse competes against country music from an unknown country artist coming from Cory's locker. A race war, although this one has no casualties, only good natured shit talk amongst teammates being hurled from one corner to the other, is in full effect. Twenty five teammates, a manager, four coaches, a few kids moonlighting as batboys, and a couple of washed up reporters from the local news station go about their business like they have for every other home game this year. The Richmond Flying Squirrels have a record of 54 wins, 64 losses, and are 11 games out of 1st place. To say the team is playing out the season is an understatement. Right handed pitcher Mateo Rodriguez is the only player on the Giants 40 man roster and other than a few other fringe prospects, the big league team would have to all die in a plane crash for anyone in this clubhouse to get a sniff in the show. Blake leans over to tie his cleats as Mateo walks by with his hammer of cock out and busts Blake's balls for having the whitest name possible. Blake pays him no attention; he has other things on his mind. Besides, what can he say to the 21-yr old kid with a future and a cobra between his legs, that would get under his skin - nothing. "*I know shorty and she doesn't want no slow song had it made last year, life goes on*" bumps from the sound system. Unbeknownst to his wife and all his teammates, this will be the last time Blake laces them up and runs out between the white chalk lines. 29-yrs old with a birthday rapidly approaching, Blake has played over 1,200 minor league games after playing ball at Eastern Tennessee State. After signing with the Braves in the 12th round in '10, he's been traded more times than DMX has been arrested. The moderate signing bonus Blake received is long gone. Some of it spent on PEDs which helped him get called up to AA two years ago, some if it spent on drinks for floozies in visiting towns, and the vast majority of it went to child support for a child he hasn't seen since birth. His baby mama got pregnant on purpose, thinking Blake would be her ticket out of bumfuck Tennessee. She should have spent more time watching him play than lying about being birth control and she'd realize Blake had no shot at making a big league squad. General Managers aren't looking for a left fielder with 30 career homers in nearly 8 seasons of lower level play. 6:30 and first pitch is 37 minutes away. Willie Larkin, the Flying Squirrels manager, is in his office finishing up his interview with the local reporter. Same shit different day. Neither want to do the interview, but then again, neither he nor the reporter are talented enough to get beyond this point. Willie is giving one word answers. The sooner this asshole leaves him alone, the sooner he can take a swig of the Jim Beam in his bottom desk drawer. In the clubhouse, players are taping their own wrists & ankles up. Others are on their phones texting their significant others and DMing the ladies they're planning to cheat on their significant others with on the road next weekend in Hartford, CT. Mateo pitched a gem last night, 7 shutout inning and 12 Ks, and has made his way to the field to scout talent in the stands. Rolling a basket around the clubhouse, the batboy picks up towels and rolls of medical tape and warm-ups from the guys lockers. The smell of foot sweat and unfulfilled dreams permeate the cramped room. A flickering light above the center of the clubhouse is symbolic of just about every ballplayer presently putting on their uniforms. Blake takes it all in. Eight years in pro ball, another 15 before that, he's seen all baseball has to throw at you, except for the spin on a 95mph slider. He's addicted to painkillers; he chews enough tobacco to kill a bull; he doesn't earn enough to pay for his herpes medication; he's a dream that's run out of gas on the freeway. Too many successful folks get interviewed he thinks to himself. Makes you think everyone will be. On the one flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from him is the pre-game of the Giants game scheduled to start at the same time as the Flying Squirrels game. The thing that will eat at Blake's soul for the rest of his living days is not falling two exits short of the show, but rather, seeing former teammates of his through the years make it to the cathedrals that are MLB stadiums. Jealousy is a deadly sin and Blake knows that jealousy will be the cause of his death more so than tobacco & illicit drugs ever will be. Willie stammers out of his office with a five o'clock shadow going on midnight and tells the boys first pitch is less than a half hour away and to turn the music off. A standoff between those listening to the country music and those listening to Drake ensue. Neither side wants to be the first to turn their music off. Same shit different day. Eye black applied a few minutes earlier, Blake picks up his Louisville Slugger in his callus covered hands and grips it with more passion than he did his baby the day she was born. Baseball is his true love and he's been lusting after it ever since his dad brought him to Camden Yards as a 6-yr old. That day Blake told his dad he'd play there when he grew up. Problem is love is a two-way street and baseball doesn't have time for washed up players that are going to be on the wrong side of 30 soon. The clamors of cleats clicking on the cement pavement rumble as the teammates make their way out of the clubhouse. Blake waits behind and sneaks into his manager's office for a quick swig of Willie's Jim Beam. He's not in the lineup tonight, so why the hell not. In a few hours he'll be an ex-ballplayer. That thought soaks into his pores more than the cheap liquor. With one more glance at the deserted clubhouse, Blake turns and makes his way to the hundreds, not thousands, of fans that have come to the game for $1 beer night. None of them know his name.


THE FICTION POLICE The doorbell rang on a snowy midnight followed by an urgent pounding on the door. I stumbled out of bed and peered through the curtain. In the cold stood a man and a woman in uniform, so I opened the door a crack. The woman flashed a badge. “I’m agent Smith, this is agent Weston from the FP,” she said, “can we have a word?” “Umm, from where?” I said. “The Fiction Police. We seek out bad writers and bring them to justice,” she said. “Is this some kind of a joke?” I said. “Trust me, I’ve read your writing, it’s no joke,” she said. Right then years of combat training kicked in. Muscle memory never fades. In one swift motion I drew the eraser from my pocket to neutralize the threat. But she was good. She lunged for my hand and twisted it hard; the pink eraser fell and bounced on the concrete. “Keep your hands where we can see ‘em!” she shouted as she drew a steel pen from her holster. She had me at penpoint, a red laser dot danced on my forehead. I put my hands up. These people were pros. Probably pros at prose too, but I digress. “And before you drop the sad cliché about the pen versus the sword thing, I need to read you your rights,” she said, as I stood trembling. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a fictional court of law. You have the right to a fictional attorney. If you cannot afford a fictional attorney, one will be written for you. Do you understand these rights?” she said. I nodded. “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us?” she said. Just then I got the joke about the pen versus the sword; I tried to suppress a laugh but it snuck out. “Oh, a wise guy! Are we gonna do this the easy way, or the hard way, downtown?” she said. Her face twisted into a scowl as both agents stepped in closer. Her breath smelled of wine and, oddly enough, hand sanitizer. “No, I’ll talk, come inside,” I said. Slowly I turned and labored to heave the ancient oak door open, it creaked on rusty hinges like the unholy howls of a wounded beast in the… The sudden impact rattled my skull and sent my glasses flying; she hit me with a hard backhand then twisted my arm tight and slammed me against the wall. “Stop that, RIGHT NOW!” she yelled as she put the handcuffs on. I tasted blood. “Stop what?” I asked, as she patted me down for weapons. “That’s a 387, aggravated literary assault! Punks like you make me sick! What did those defenseless adjectives ever do to you?!? What!” she shouted. I stared at the floor as the gravity of the situation sunk in, and yet they both looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place them. “You sure you don’t recognize us?” she said. She was tall and thin, with short brown hair and striking blue eyes, surely more like a model than any cop I’d ever seen. “You can hear my inner dialogue?” I said. And then it hit me: Lottie Smith, the protagonist from my latest novel and Jim Weston, her square-faced older partner. I always forgot to give him dialogue. I blinked and took a step back, this must be a bad dream. “Dreams and flashbacks are code 412,” she said. “What’s a code 412?” I said. “Lazy writing,” she said. Just then she gazed out the window into the fetid gloom, her pale blue eyes reflected the glint of the summer moon. The same moon where she met him years before when… “STOP IT! I’m warning you! A 387, then a 412 and now an aggravated 423!” “Let me guess, a 423 is using the view from a window as a plot device to give backstory?” I said. “Bingo!” she said, “you’re not as dumb as you look.” >* * * The patrol car smelled strange, like cheap wine and expensive hand sanitizer. Weston drove fast, as if he could only express his inner anger through driving, not words. “I never meant to be a writer,” I said. “Let me guess,” she said, turning to face me, “you wanted to be a cop?” “I wanted to be an editor,” I said, “but I have an irrational fear of pencils.” Smith rolled her eyes, wishing the precinct was closer. “It was a tragedy. Both my parents were killed in a freak pencil sharpener accident. This scarred me for life. The mere sight of a red pencil can put me into shock.” “Sorry I asked”, she said, and meant it. We rounded the corner and the Fiction Police precinct building came into view. It was an amalgamation of the House of Usher and an Ikea store, but nobody knows why. Snow covered the lawn and lay piled around the building; the car splashed through puddles as we entered the parking garage. The booking process was fast and efficient; fingerprints, mug shots and writing samples. I met with my court-appointed fictional lawyer; he said I was looking at twenty years hard labor in an author re-education camp, maybe out in ten if I mind my p’s and q’s. Later that day I was transported to McKittrick Federal Fiction Prison to await trial. > * * * As the days passed and more fictional snow fell, a state of melancholy fell over me. My only option was to escape. I traded my daily ration of mashed potatoes for some cutting tools. For some reason the mashed potatoes at the prison were excellent, nobody knows why. After two weeks of careful planning, I was ready; I would escape or die trying. I sat in my cell thinking about life and how much I would miss the mashed potatoes, but my freedom was more important. The next day was perfect weather for an escape. Heavy snow had fallen and plows left a pile of it outside the fence; this would prove to be useful. I found a length of steel pipe left carelessly in the prison yard and no guards were in sight. So with the wind in my face I began my run to freedom. I held the pole parallel to the ground and sprinted towards the fence. Right then my years of pole vault training kicked in. I remember vaulting from my crib, from my parent’s car, even from the bathtub. At top speed I planted the pole at the fence; it stuck fast, flexed and soon I was sailing over the razor wire. The snow bank was more slush than snow, but it was good enough. I landed unhurt and now was free. I expected to hear guns shooting, alarms blaring, dogs barking or even dogs shooting and blaring but it was silent. I simply stood up and walked away. But suddenly a police cruiser roared into sight, so I turned to run. I started to sprint for the tree line but tripped and fell into a massive hole. As I looked up, I was greeted by the smug face of Agent Smith looking down on me. I cursed under my breath and struggled to my feet. “Well well well, if it isn’t vaulty mc-vault the pole vaulter! That was a nice try!” she said. “I almost made it. Dammit,” I said as she helped me from the hole. “You’re only making it harder on yourself,” she said, “is there anything else I need to know?” “Well, the story I told you about the pencils. That was a lie,” I said. “What story, I wasn’t listening,” she said. “I said I was scared of pencils.” She laughed out loud. “Only fictional characters are afraid of pencils--an editor can kill us in a heartbeat,” she said. Her smile turned to a look of horror when I drew my weapon, a red model two Staedtler pencil. She jumped back. The red pencil tip glowed like the light up nose of Rudolph the reindeer from the iconic low-budget stop-motion film of 1964. I passed it from hand to hand so she could see the weapon. I was ready to fight. “Nothing personal Smith, but I can’t let you take me in,” I said. In a flash she drew her weapon and crouched into a fighting stance. A ray of afternoon sun made the polished steel of her pen gleam and sparkle. She too passed it from hand to hand. “It’s not a choice, it’s my duty. Writing is not some kind of game,” She said. She breathed hard, making steam in the air, like a bull pawing the ground, ready to charge. “Put down your weapon, I promise to go easy on you,” she said. Sweat formed on her brow. “Sorry Smith you know I can’t do that,” I said. We circled each other like two alley cats ready to strike, weapons nearly touching. She advanced and swiped left but I dodged the attack and pivoted right. I swept my weapon forward, and made contact, a line of red formed on her arm. She grunted and shook off the pain, then swung wildly and struck back--a burning pain tore through my shoulder. Our weapons made contact, locked, arm against arm, strength against strength. Her blue eyes burned into me. “Give it up! Not worth dying over!” she hissed under her breath. Suddenly she swept her foot under mine to trip me. I fell backwards with her on top but twisted at the last second. She stabbed but missed and hit the ground. I scrambled to my feet, spun and made contact again. She staggered, this was taking its toll. “Don’t make me do this Smith, I don’t want to hurt you!” I said. But she advanced in a frenzy, swiping left, right, then left but I blocked and blocked again. But then I spotted the hole--it was behind me. I stepped backwards, took a swing then shoved her. She stumbled and tried to catch herself. She fell in. The fight was over. “Go ahead, kill me! I’m a flat cardboard cutout of a character, I deserve to die!” she said. But instead I reached out my hand and pulled her up. Suddenly her eyes were blue, bluer than the bluest of blue things. I could tell she wanted me. I pulled her close, closed my eyes and kissed her. But oddly her lips felt flat and dry. I opened my eyes and she was gone; I was kissing my manuscript. It smelled faintly of wine and hand sanitizer. That was weird. I threw the manuscript onto the slush pile, stepped into the fictional police cruiser and started the engine. It was now night and a light snow was falling. What a day it had been. So I drove off into the cold moist foggy night then looked up to ponder the infinite flat-black darkness of space that was punctuated by bright white pointy things and a big round white orb of some sort, then stopped to catch my breath from all the pointless exposition. I felt good. I shall live to write badly another day.


A red and white news helicopter rattled and hummed as it hovered over the scene. Color footage of the live feed lit up the newsroom while POLICE STANDOFF WITH ROBBERY SUSPECT scrolled across a million local TV screens all at once. On the ground a tense scene was unfolding. “Drop the weapon, NOW!” the officer shouted. Shirtless and bleeding, Louis Coleman paced back and forth. He ignored the orders of the police and began to pray out loud, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy...” Louis thought about his life; it once held promise. He once was a sweet boy who sat on his mother’s lap, brushed his teeth and fed the dog. He would wave the flag on July 4th and believed in the lie that anyone could be president. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…” But now his bare white feet stuck to the black Florida asphalt while overgrown vines of unkempt hair hung from his head. A revolver dangled like a deadly toy in his hand. Dropping out of high school left him working as a roofer in the Florida sun. The hard work had taken its toll, and over time ‘a few beers to chill out’ turned into a hit of heroin to sleep and a hit of meth to wake up. Then it took a hit of meth to stay awake and more to make it through the day. Ten years later he had no teeth and the progress of his life was measured by the entries on his rap sheet. And today his very first armed robbery had gone entirely sideways. Police cars with blinding blue flashers had him surrounded. Six cops stood with guns drawn, using their car doors to steady their weapons. Each cop overheated and impatient with their Glock Model 19 trained at his center-mass. Each one thinking *it’s him or me.* Each one ready and willing to deliver a deadly fusillade of nine-millimeter rounds if he took a shot at any one of them. Police radios crackled and the sirens in the distance got closer as more police units sped to the scene. The robbery was going to be so simple: walk in, point the gun and take the money. But the clerk pulled a gun. Louis panicked and shot the man then ran out of the store empty handed. Now he was surrounded. “...on earth as it is in heaven...” he continued. “Give it up, Louis! It’s not worth it!" the cop shouted, but Louis didn't seem to hear. "LOUIS, DROP THE GUN NOW! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!” “...give us this day our daily bread...” Louis said quietly. Louis didn’t drop the gun. Instead he cocked the revolver, slowly turned towards the police and raised the barrel. “And forgive us our trespass....” he muttered, but his prayer was cut short by a volley of fireworks, but not the good kind. Dozens of brass shells clattered onto the pavement. Louis crumpled to the ground. If he did have a soul it moved on swiftly to someplace else; maybe someplace better, or maybe someplace much worse.


It was a raucous rooftop party in sweaty downtown Baltimore that was packed with hipsters. A sea of red cups bobbed and tipped while beards and flowered dresses jostled and milled in a cloud of skunky smoke. “Eleven!” Janie shouted, “Eleven of twenty on the goddammed assignment, just fuck that class!” Ben took a long drink of his beer and did his best to look interested in her college grades; he even heard the words coming from her lips, but she could have been reciting alien poetry, the only thing he wanted was the body that fit beneath her thin summer dress. Others around them were clearly drunk and laughing too loud or shouting themselves raw over the deafening dance music, so they didn’t notice the girl. The girl came out of nowhere. She was a blur of a whirling violet dress with matching makeup and greasy brown hair. Ben recognized her at once and stared at her, it was Lisa. Janie frowned. “Sorry, I know her, we went to high school together,” Ben said. That was a lie, they met in fourth grade--his first love, his first kiss and his first date. They broke up in high school and it tore him apart. Now she was just a spoiled rich girl from a rich family at college until they kicked her out; for now she lived in a haze of substance abuse. Her dirty bare feet danced in graceful circles, and in a zombie-trance she closed her eyes, inhaled the music then opened her blue eyes to watch her skirt spin and stare at the stars above. Ben loved her but knew that was all in the past, he was only a child back then and didn’t know any better. Janie grabbed his hand and pulled him away to dance. He liked holding her hand, if only for a moment. But suddenly the girl bounded onto the parapet and skipped on the narrow ledge, a balance beam ten stories up, the wind from below whipped her hair around violently. People gasped and the crowd fell silent. “Lisa, get off there, for fuck's sake, please!” someone shouted, but she continued, walking heel-to-toe then spinning. A gymnastics show for the crowd. Ben sensed the danger and ran to the edge, his turn to be superman. He had to rescue her, the fragile drunk maiden from her deadly dance on the ledge. He fought his way through the crowd to save the girl who stole and broke his heart. But he blinked as he saw it, as if it was slow motion. She slowly turned and smiled at him then took a step off the ledge. In an instant she was gone, he didn’t get there in time. The music stopped and a girl screamed, others started sobbing. Ben looked down and watched her dance one last time as she spun in the air as she fell, her purple dress a rag doll in a storm. He closed his eyes and started to sob. He sat on the ground and felt the tears well up in his eyes. His superman skills simply didn't work that day.


Billy’s dad, like most of us, is a creature of pattern. His mornings always run on one of 17 common sequences, with 24 exceptions to date, and most of these are a simple reordering of the same clusters of sub-sequences, anyway. For example, first order of business is always checking the time. Always. In his 13413 days of existence, there have only been 3 occasions that Billy’s dad didn’t check the time first, and one of those times resulted in the conception of Billy. Today, Billy’s dad runs on sequence 12. Check time, urinate, shower, brush teeth, dress (always pants first, never shirt first. Billy’s dad once tried dressing shirt first, but with a formal top half and naked bottom half his body was confused as to whether he was feeling vulnerable, or aroused. He spent the rest of the day battling jump scares and surprise erections), coffee, breakfast, shoes on, keys, and out the door. This isn’t to be confused with sequence 11, which is essentially the same, but Billy’s dad brushes his teeth after breakfast instead.   Billy knows his dad’s patterns. He studies them as part of his own daily routine. Billy’s sequence system has a considerably smaller sample size than his dad’s, and consequently a much smaller total amount of common combinations. Billy has 5 standard morning routine paths, and most of those are dictated by whichever sequence order his mother is on. Today, he’s on #5. Wake up, watch dad, mum brings him breakfast, mum tells him to get dressed, mum shouts at him for not being dressed yet, mum takes him to school.   Beyond these typical morning rituals, however, the rest of the day was going to be anything but typical for both Billy, and his dad.   Billy’s dad was a particle physicist, and today was the day that the POS Institute was going to run an experiment he’d devised - the piece de resistance of his life’s accomplishments. An experiment that, if all went accordingly, would allow his team to smash through the physical structure of the world and allow them to peer into the fabric of space, time and all other dimensional elements that combine to form the world we know today.   Billy, on the other hand, was going to be taking a livestream of this event in to his class, for all his classmates to witness history in the making. It would be like the moon landing, if Neil Armstrong was your dad.   In the lab, assistants ran their routine series of checks and balances in the lead up to the experiment. It’s the next phase of particle smashing - quark smashing. In 2015, the world smashed particles together to get a look at what was inside them. Today, we smash what’s inside them together, to see what’s inside the insides. It’s all very technical.   This is the preamble explanation Billy gives the class at the start of his show and tell. Billy always fancied himself a bit of a scientist. It’s the genetic throne he’s destined to one day sit upon, but in reality, he just loved smashing his toys together in the sandpit. Today, he brought in some Lego demonstrations for the dummies in class. Billy found Lego worked best, because kids could understand the mechanism of individual blocks sticking together to form a larger structure. He thinks the metaphor was lost on them, though, when he talked about seeing what’s inside the Lego blocks. Most of them thought he was talking about plastic, so they were confused when he brought up his iPad to show them a livestream of the experiment. Billy’s dad’s experiment. As the rest of the class begin to catch on, they squirm awkwardly in their seats. The teacher tries to politely interrupt, but Billy has already streamed his feed to the projector and the coverage blazes on the whiteboard for all to see. He doesn’t care if this kind of learning makes them feel uncomfortable, it’s time for the world to open their eyes.   Billy’s dad was thinking the same thing at that moment, as he stood in the control room buzzing with excited physicians, who watched read outs of a track firing excited protons around it. A green light flashes, indicating that the protons have reached optimum speed. Hand at the ready, Billy’s dad smashes a big green button with dramatic flair, which cues the magnetic track to align the protons for collision. When things are moving at the speed of light, everything happens pretty instantaneously. The protons collide! Not one set, but this time two sets, on opposite sides of the 24 kilometre long track. And this time, the experiment doesn’t stop to watch the newly born quarks bloom and die like fireworks. No, this time the magnetic charge that’s been helping move an align the original protons continues to run, sucking up the quarks and shooting them further down the track, smashing them into the other set of fresh quarks that were being fired the opposite direction.   By this point, Billy found himself sitting outside the principal’s office. His teacher hadn’t appreciated his show and tell, apparently. But he didn’t see why his mother needed to be called in. His confusion was on par with his dad’s.   Back in the lab, Billy’s dad studied the revelation of new data. The experiment had worked, they’d discovered what was inside the quarks. Like a packet of crisps exploding, streams of smaller elements erupted from inside. From what could be deciphered, the contents were made up of two shapes, a circle, and a line, always connected to each other in varying strings and arrangements. How they functioned would take the team a long time to figure out, but for now, they were happy to have glimpsed God’s building blocks.   Billy left school early that day. He and his mother shared the car ride in silence. Billy, excited that the experiment was a success. His mother, much less enthusiastic.   After a successful day at work, Billy’s dad was on his way home to share the news with his family. It was afternoon routine 14. Pull into the driveway, check the mailbox, open the front door, and…   That’s when Billy’s mother took the iPad off him. Billy knew it was time for ‘a talk’ again. Which was it going to be this time?   “I’m worried about you”. “I want you to see Dr Boyle again”. “That’s not your real father. It’s not healthy for you to fixate like this”.   Some arrangement of those, surely, would make up one of Talks 1 through 4.   Instead, Billy’s mother looked over the screen. “So, what did he get up to today?”.   This was something new.


Of course I remember what happened on that terrible evening. Even if I wanted to, I could not forget the events of that damned night. I know you do not believe me. No one in their right mind would believe it. I myself would have laughed at anyone who even hinted at something like that, if I had not seen with my own eyes that disgusting, unspeakable and unnatural spectacle… But you need the details and I’ll have to start from the beginning… We moved into this neighborhood two years ago. My wife and I, with our two children, bought a nice cozy house on this quiet, shady street. My wife is a wonderful mother. She spent the whole day doing household chores, our children went to school nearby and I went to work in the city center. We were a happy family… until some bad luck made me buy that damn meat. You’ve probably seen the butcher shop on Main Street. The one where the gloomy, fat man stands behind the counter all day, wearing a bloody apron and proudly displaying his big lumps of raw meat in the window. In his shop, the meat is always fresh and juicy and no matter if you fry it, roast it or boil it, the succulent meat just melts in your mouth. I do not know what made me enter his wretched shop and buy three kilograms of pork that evening. Had I known then how things would turn out, I would never have set foot across his threshold. But I was unaware of the dangers, even though I glimpsed the evil glint in the eyes of that vile butcher when he handed me the package of meat and even though I noticed that despite the cold weather, the meat was very warm. How could I have been so careless? When I got home, I threw the package of meat in the fridge and went upstairs, collapsing into bed without even undressing. It had been a hard day at work and I was extremely tired. My children were playing somewhere in the street and my wife was hanging up clothes in the back yard. I didn’t sleep very well. I had a very strange dream. I dreamed that I was at a pig farm, wandering around aimlessly, making my way through the mucky stys. The buildings were falling apart and looked almost as if they had been abandoned. There were remnants of stone walls, pieces of charred wood and other garbage. The stys were filled with pigs and the disgusting animals were wallowing in the mud, rolling over and over and covering themselves with dirt. These fat pigs stared at me as I walked past, with drool and slobber dripping from their snouts. There was something otherworldly, something inexplicable about the place. It exuded the air of something disgusting and evil. I wandered among strange ramshackle buildings and the mucky pig stys as if I was spellbound. Something inside me would not allow me to leave this accursed place. I was looking for something, but I did not know what… Then I found it. Half-hidden under a layer of mud was a hatch with a rusty iron ring. I do not know why I did not run away from there at once. Instead, I pulled up the rusty ring, opened the hatch and peered down into the darkness. A set of stone steps led down to a dungeon. A faint ray of sunlight lit up one tiny corner of the dungeon and that’s when I saw them. Bones! The floor of the dungeon was littered with bones. Hundreds, thousands of skeletons lying there in the dark. Some were very fresh, with hunks of meat still clinging to them. Others were dry and dusty and must have been there for years. I do not remember how long I crouched there, staring down into that monstrous cave. All of a sudden, I woke up in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. My heart was pounding in my chest and I could barely breathe. I looked over and saw my wife snoring peacefully beside me. Although I tried, I could not get back sleep and when I looked out the window, I saw the sky was already beginning to brighten as the dawn approached. I decided to take an early-morning drive to calm my nerves. I got into my car and drove out to the countryside. I wanted to get some fresh air and convince myself that my nightmare was no more than a delusion. As I drive the butchers words repeat over and over in my mind. "Enjoy your meat." I try to ignore the pit in my stomach and sense of dread. The butchers face... The diabolical glint in his eyes... The vile grin he had while handing me the meat... I realize this must be me feeling disturbed from the nightmare and letting my imagination twist earlier events. I shake off my dread and enjoy the scenery around me. When I got back to my house, it was around noon. As soon as I opened the door, the unmistakable smell of grilled meat hit my nostrils. At that moment, it seemed like the most appalling and terrible stench I had ever smelled. I went into the kitchen and saw my wife and children sitting at the table. They were eating big hunks of juicy, roasted meat, the same meat I had bought at the butcher’s shop. I watched them gnawing the cooked flesh off the bone like wild animals, chewing, chomping and slurping with abandon, then swallowing it down with relish. Their hands and mouths were covered in grease and they licked their lips hungrily. My wife was about to say something to me, when suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence and started coughing and choking. The children started coughing and spluttering too. Then, they all fell to the ground and began writhing around, foaming at the mouth. I stood there, unable to move, but I saw everything… all the hideous details… No! No! Please don’t force me to remember that abominable scene. How can I put such a monstrous sight into words? How can I describe the way my wife and children suddenly started gnawing on each others limbs, tearing off pieces of flesh with their teeth. I can’t bear to talk about how they grabbed knives and began slicing pieces of flesh off each other and devouring them. I simply cannot put into words the grisly mess they made as they gobbled and chomped and chewed on each other’s bones until all that was left were just three skeletons lying in a pool of blood and guts on the nice, white, tiled floor of the kitchen. And that’s how the police found me the next morning, surrounded by the skeletal remains of my beloved family. They dragged me out in handcuffs. They accused me of horrible crimes. They told lies about me and said I ate my entire family… No! No! It’s not true! Do not believe their lies! They’re involved in a conspiracy against me. They’re protecting the butcher. They’ve eaten his damned meat and they’re lying to protect him.


‘One final unselfish act’ The following is an official transcript recovered from the ‘black box’ of downed flight 217. After being told that a terrorist cell had placed a deadly airborne plague agent in the climate control system of the plane, the pilot and copilot agonized over what to do. After they elected to reveal the horrible truth to the passengers, the captain waxed philosophic for some time over the speaker system. His calming words of wisdom offer a glimpse into the state of mind of the dedicated crew and passengers of the doomed flight. Far beyond that, it reveals genuine proof of one last unselfish act by everyone involved in the horrible tragedy. Pilot and crew remarks are in quotations. Internal FAA notations or clarifications made regarding specific circumstances are listed in parentheses. (The pilot Paul Reardon addressing the entire plane over the PA system) “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard flight 217 with nonstop service from Boston to Atlanta. We ask that you pay attention to the safety demonstration by the flight attendants and keep your seats buckled at all times. Exceptions being for using the lavatory or when we have the seatbelt sign turned off. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 37 thousand feet and our air travel time today is expected to be three hours and 35 minutes. At the moment it is partially cloudy and 86 degrees Fahrenheit in Atlanta. As always, we thank you for flying with us.” (Over the course of the next 37 minutes, the pilot and copilot (Matt Dobbs) discuss the routine flight operations among themselves. Those basic details about air speed, elevation, fuel consumption and other aviation related things have been omitted here because they bear no relevance to the official FAA investigation. Around 38 minutes into the flight, Captain Reardon received an urgent call over the radio. The details of which, lead to the premature demise of all 147 souls aboard. “Flight 217, this is air traffic control. I have a priority one message for the captain’s ears only. Do you read me?“ (The captain responded that he was listening privately after the Copilot removed his headset in full compliance with the controller’s privacy request) “Please hold for Earl Greenberg of the CDC.” “This is David Earl Greenberg. Am I speaking with Paul H. Reardon, the captain of flight 217 from Boston to Atlanta?” (The pilot answered in affirmative) “There’s no easy way to say this, Captain. I’m sorry to have to report to you that the FBI and Department of Homeland Security are here with me. They’ve officially verified that an embedded terrorist sleeper cell has infiltrated security sections inside Logan International Airport. Under intense interrogation the suspects admitted releasing an extremely virulent, very weaponized strain of neurotoxin into the climate system of your airplane. Incubation is less than 8 hours and there is no treatment for this airborne virus. I repeat. We have no vaccine or cure. (The pilot can be heard uttering “Oh my God!” over his headset at the declaration.) This biological weapon is highly contagious and 100% fatal. Every man, woman and child on that plane will be dead within 36 hours. That is a fact. I’m deeply sorry.” (Captain Reardon interrupts) “Is this some kind of sick joke? There must be a mistake here. I feel fine. (Then he addresses the copilot) You feel ok don’t you, Matt? As soon as we land, we can have the CDC or NSA test the air in the plane for whatever it is you think...” (The caller cuts him off) “You can’t land that plane. There is no antidote or vaccine. It’s incredibly contagious and absolutely fatal. I know you served in the Air Force, Captain. I’m calling on your years of training and distinguished service to do the right thing for all involved. No one on that plane must survive. There will be a terrible epidemic if anyone does. Millions will die. Atlanta was the chosen target because our offices would be overrun and incapacitated. This weaponized strain infects every person who comes in contact with it. Then they were planning to release the same neurotoxin-laced virus in every other major U.S. city to set off a biological pandemic. To save millions of American lives, I implore you. You must crash the plane and sacrifice everyone aboard including yourself. There can be no survivors.” (There was ‘dead air’ for nearly thirty seconds as Captain Reardon took in the devastating news. Matt Dobbs expressed grave concern at the somber tone of the one-sided conversation. He demanded to know what was going on. The Captain appeared to be hesitant to reveal what he’d just been told. It was a horrific thing to learn. Eventually Reardon did inform Dobbs of what was said. Both men were in shock.) “Captain, can I depend on you to do the right thing here for the sake of the country?” (When there wasn’t an immediate agreement from him, the conversation took on a darker direction.) “Reardon, listen. The President of the United States has authorized the Air Force to shoot you down if necessary in the interest of public safety. We are all hoping to avoid that. There would probably be eyewitnesses and an official inquiry. If you steer your plane into lake Allatoona, just north of the Atlanta airport, it can be written off by the FAA as a tragic accident. We don’t need to create a huge panic about these individuals having a deadly biological weapon on American soil. We must contain the situation. If you crash the plane, millions of others will avoid this agonizing death. You can also spare everyone aboard the horrible fever by crashing the plane while everyone is still asymptomatic. It’s a matter of weighing the lives of those on the plane versus hundreds of thousands, or possibly millions.” (The Captain again expressed disbelief and asked for an official confirmation from another source. He demanded to hear it from the lips of an individual authorized to speak on matters of National Security. The microphone was handed over to authenticate the agonizing scenario.) “This is Richard A. Farnsworth, director of Homeland Security. I’m sorry Captain but the news is true. My colleague here from the CDC can advise you of the technical details but based on what I’ve seen, this thing you’ve been infected with is a nightmare. It makes Ebola look like a case of the sniffles. Whether you crash the plane or land somewhere, you and everyone else aboard will be dead in less than two days. The difference is that, if you all die in the crash, no one on the ground will be infected and die. The president has already scrambled fighter jets to shoot you down. They are in route as we speak. He doesn’t want to risk you or the copilot trying to be heroes but I’ve asked him for the favor. He agreed to allow you a few minutes to accept this horrible fate and die in the unselfish service of others. Over the next few minutes, both men went through the universal stages of doubt, anger, grief, bargaining, and then finally acceptance. Just five minutes earlier, both men had been completely dedicated to full safety of all passengers and crew arriving at their destination. Now they were being asked to deliberately murder almost 150 innocent lives. It was beyond surreal. “This is not a drill, captain. The suspects have confessed. The runway tube has tested positive for particulate residue of the deadly virus. The ground crew who emptied the lavatory tanks for your plane this morning are already dying in CDC isolation. Make peace with your maker and do what needs to be done for the greater good.” Reardon and Dobbs had a marathon ethics discussion over what to do. Both men went through waves of anger and prolonged sadness. The air traffic controller instructed them to alter their flight path slightly to take the plane over the massive North Georgia lake. Despite their shock and bitter misgivings, they did as they were directed. They were also advised to not tell any of the crew or passengers but that didn’t sit as well with Captain Reardon. He told the copilot that the people deserved to know what was coming, even if it brought them deep fear and misery. It would also allow them to make peace with what was happening and understand that their deaths served a purpose. More importantly; their sacrifices as tragic as they were, would save others. First he had the depressing but necessary duty of informing and preparing the crew. “Attention. I need all available crew members to report to the cockpit for an important ‘Tulsa’ briefing.” (His wording was ‘airline speak’ for an emergency situation that the crew recognized. Once they entered the pilot’s area they could be heard expressing apprehension and fear over the ‘panic code’. They knew enough to worry but they weren’t prepared for what the pilot was about to tell them. Honestly, how could anyone be? They were all consummate airline professionals; and while aircraft crashes are always a possibility, this was a very different story. The plane itself had no operational issues. The pilots were lucid and highly capable; and yet they were told they were all going to die in just a few minutes. The crew went through the same five stages of grief and anger. The natural human impulse was to deny what they were told or fight against it. They all desperately wanted to live but the somber facts and necessary path was clear. Once they’d composed themselves, they returned back to the cabin to complete their very courageous flight. At this point, the pilot made the toughest announcement of his life. “Ladies and gentlemen. My name is Paul Reardon. Your copilot is Matt Dobbs. I want to thank each an every one of you for making this journey with us. What I’m about to tell you is incredibly painful and difficult to express but I feel you all deserve to know the truth. I say that because as terrible as it is, I would want to know if I was seated out there across the aisle from you. About 45 minutes ago I was informed by the CDC and Department of Homeland Security that our plane had been sabotaged by terrorists. Some form of deadly neurotoxin virus was placed in the air conditioning system of this plane. I’ve been on the radio with the CDC and Homeland Security. What we’ve been exposed to is both highly contagious and incurable. I’ve been given the option of deliberately crashing this plane, or we will be shot down to prevent causing an epidemic on the ground that will potentially kill millions. I am so sorry, Ladies and gentlemen. I know that no one here was prepared to die but... we must accept this fate to save others. I’ve been assured that our deaths will save millions. I’d rather face death with each of you, than be shot out of the sky. I wish there was any other choice. I wanted to give every single person here a few minutes to pray or just meditate. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do. Prepare to die.” (Cellphone video recovered from the wreckage recorded the reaction to the Captain’s gut-wrenching speech. Understandably, there was fear, panic, chaos, and denial for the next few moments. The people wept and cried but unlike an unexpected crash, they had a brief period to overcome their lamentations. As if on queue, two F-17’s arrived and were visible outside the windows. The moment arrived as the plane rapidly approached the proposed destination for the planned crash. The insinuation was clear to Dobbs and Reardon. If they didn’t take the plane down, it would be immediately shot down. Faced with that ‘choice’, the pilot did what was requested. The last transmission was by Mr. Dobbs. He announced that they were going down. Simultaneously, the crew and passengers recited ‘The Lord’s prayer’ or other sacred mantras. According to recovered black box data, the crash occurred at 11:43 EST. All lives were lost. The FAA, FBI, Department of Homeland Security, and other federal agencies worked to investigate the circumstances of the crash. At the time, no one knew why Captain Reardon and his copilot deliberately diverted and crashed their jet. Only later did the startling details of the diabolical plot to deceive the pilots come to light. A real terrorist network installed sophisticated jamming equipment into the plane’s communication system. The purpose was to make it appear as if the pilot was talking to actual air traffic controllers and government agents. The plan all along was to deceive the innocent crew members into downing the plane and taking their lives. After capitalizing on a few of these sophisticated attacks, they planned to claim responsibility for them and strike terror into the heart of the country. Once the pilot diverted the flight plan and failed to explain his actions to real air traffic controllers monitoring their flight progress, it triggered civil defense fighter jets. They were scrambled to escort the unresponsive, suspicious acting commercial airline back to its regular trajectory. It was an ingenious and successful plan to hack the air traffic communications grid but the courageous victims had no way of knowing it was a sadistic hoax. In the end, they gave their lives for a noble cause they believed in. Their reluctant martyrdom was a final unselfish act.


Fibromyalgia. That’s what the doctor had said years ago. Ever since I was young, I struggled with pain. I was called a wimp in school and even my parents were a little disappointed by me. “Man up,” my dad would say, noting how I would seemingly always complain about pain. When I was a kid, I would just have odd pains. They would come out of seemingly nowhere. I would look at a kid that was bullying me and a few moments later, I’d be in pain without him even touching him. When I thought about jumping off the swing set like the other kids, I would end up feeling pain in my legs. I did not really understand it when I was younger, and I would not until I was much older. As the years went on, I would still feel, what I thought, was random pain. I had gone to the doctor and he said that I was dealing with fibromyalgia, which is a bit embarrassing. It basically reinforces everything I’d been told throughout my life – except now I felt like there was nothing I could do about it. I always thought I could grow out of “being a wimp” or grow into “being a man.” But apparently, if I wanted to do that, I would have to be on one of those TV medications. You know the ones; the medications with the commercials where mellow music plays, accompanied by a soft, feminine voice talking about pain and then the myriad of side-effects. Yet, I went ahead with it. I figured that if anything could help, I would try it. But it did not help in the slightest. To the untrained observer, it would appear to help because I was not always in pain. However, I still felt pain. A lot of it. For example, one of the jobs I had required me to cross about four lanes of traffic on a busy street. There was no stoplight or stop sign for the other drivers, so I was forced to cut across. However, every time I did, I felt an immense pain crash through my body. It was intense and shook me to the core. I recall having to sit in my car for a few minutes before work every day while I waited for the pain to subside. This happened every single day I took that commute. It was the fastest way there, and any other route would take me an extra five minutes to get there. I guess, at the time, I weighed my options and decided to deal with the pain if it meant shaving off a minute or two. I guess I should have known something was off when the pains started becoming less and less frequent. There was nothing that triggered the slowing down, but I was grateful for it at the time. Put yourself in my shoes: if your entire life was pain, then when that pain started to subside, you would be grateful, no matter the cause nor who it hurt in the process. Still, people noticed my enhanced demeanor. I was no longer sulking around, waiting for the next pain to strike. Instead, I was cheerful and ready to tackle each day. Sure, I still felt the pains every now and then, but they had become few and far between. That’s not to say they did not hurt like hell, though. I would feel like someone gored me with a sharp object on some days, and other days, I would feel a sharp pain across my throat, among other such pains. Still, I managed to get through it. Then they stopped entirely. I can recall the very day they stopped, too. I was walking to the mailbox when I felt a sharp pain strike through my chest, as if I had just been shot. I clutched my chest and groaned as I fell to my knees, but as soon as it started, it stopped. I shrugged it off and went to get the mail. After that day, the pain stopped. Sure, I still felt normal pain from cuts and bruises that I would get, but not those intense, random pains. I should have been elated; I should have felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but it was the opposite. I felt a dark sense of foreboding. With each passing day, I felt myself longing for the pain again. But each day, it did not return. Instead, I felt dread and paranoia, as if something bad was going to happen, but I was not sure what it would be. I wanted to chalk it up to anxiety – something I dealt with every so often (hey, who hasn’t?), but this was different. I could tell when I was worrying about something unrealistic. I could usually talk myself down from an anxiety attack. This was something else. I did not even know what I was fearing or where it came from. When the paranoia would set in, I did not know what I was supposed to be on the lookout for, if anything at all. That brings me to a few nights ago. I had this vivid dream where I was in my house, but it wasn’t me in there. I suppose it’s hard to explain. Have you ever had a dream where you were looking through your own eyes, but it was almost like it wasn’t you in your body? That’s what I felt like. I was merely an observer as this dream version of myself wrote something down. As I looked through those familiar, yet foreign, eyes, I could make out the writing clearly. It was indeed my handwriting, but I did not know what the message was supposed to mean. It read out: “There are three of us left. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how to stop it. This is the only way I can think of communicating. Be safe.” I didn’t wake up immediately after that as most people seem to when they’ve had weird dreams or nightmares. I slept throughout the night, but when I woke up, the message had imprinted itself in my mind. I could see it clearly no matter what I was doing or thinking about. But still, I’m not sure what it means. All I know is that it did nothing to calm my paranoia.


The waitress, a short, homely woman of about fifty, bumps into the table as she goes by, and my glass of water is knocked to floor. Water spills everywhere. I put my fork down, pancake still speared on it, and look up. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” the waitress cries out as she realizes what she’s done. She immediately pulls out a crumpled paper napkin from a pocket on her apron and places it on the table. “Here, mop it up with this. I’ll to go back to the kitchen to get some more for you, hun. I’m terribly sorry, really, I am.” “It’s only water,” I say. “It’ll dry. Thank you for the napkin. But don’t worry, it was clearly an accident.” She’s insistent. “No, don’t thank me for nothin’, sugar, it was all my fault. Now just hold tight, I’ll be right back.” As quickly as she came, she whisks herself across the restaurant toward the kitchen and disappears out of sight. With the waitress gone, I survey the damage. It isn’t too bad. Nothing spilled on me, a small amount latent on the table, and the rest already half-dried into the springy, soft carpeting underfoot. I uncrumple the napkin and lay it on top of the table spill. Wait. There’s something written on the napkin. I snatch the napkin up and examine it. It’s dripping wet from the table, and a few drops fall onto the table and onto my pants. But I’m focusing on the words inscribed on the napkin. In dainty, loopy cursive, the words read, “Get out of here now, while you still can.” A million thoughts race through my head at once as the restaurant becomes blurry around me and everything starts to spin. The din of voices and the clatter of silverware sink into the background. The napkin falls out of my limp hands onto my lap, and I gently place – or perhaps slam – my hands on the table to steady myself. “Again, real sorry for the mess, honey. Here you go.” I feel a small stack of more paper napkins brush my hand as it’s placed on the table. I snap out of my stupor briefly and see the waitress standing above me, a sweet, genuine smile stretched across her face. I feel comforted, if for just a brief moment. “N-no, ma’am, you – you’re okay, really,” I manage to stammer while hurriedly balling up the moist napkin and hiding it in my hands. “Just a little spill. I’ve got it under control.” The waitress loses her grin for a second and glances at my clasped hands before beaming even brighter and looking me in the eye. “Thanks a million for your chipper attitude, darlin’,” she says. “Too early to be dealin’ with grumps. Good to know there are still polite people like you in this world.” I’m stunned, but I force a nod and a smile. “No problem, ma’am. Thanks for your help.” She blinks, smiles a little wider, nods in return, and goes. I lay the mass of dry napkins over what’s left of the water puddle, and I use the one on top to clean up the drips from the wet napkin – the wet napkin with the warning. Speaking of which, what does it mean? I think of the diner scene from Pulp Fiction and smile to myself, but then I remember that this is a serious situation and the smile goes out like a light. I don’t have time to think it over, I decide. The instructions are rather clear. “Get out of here now.” That’s all I need to know. I eat at this diner all the time, and since I always order the same thing, I know already what the bill will come out to. I pull out the correct amount from my wallet, plus tip, and set it down on the table. Slowly, so as not to alert anybody, I slide my wallet back into my pocket, grab my bag from the floor below the chair, and start for the door. I want to search out the waitress to thank her properly, but I decide against it, as it might take too much time. The period of “while I still can” may pass. As I inch ever closer, I count the distance in my head. Only thirty feet or so ahead to the exit, to safety. Twenty. Ten. “Everybody get on the fuckin’ ground!” Shit, shit. I wasn’t fast enough. I wonder whether to run or get down as ordered, but the KRAK! of a handgun shot and a bullet hole in the ceiling overhead do the thinking for me. I get down. My back is facing the rest of the restaurant, so I can’t see anything besides the parking lot outside. I see a family piling out of their minivan across the lot. They’re dressed nicely. Probably here for a nice late breakfast after church. They don’t deserve this. I hear wailing behind me from a gruff, husky-voiced man. I recognize his voice as the manager’s. “No, Helen, please, you can’t do thi – ” KRAK! A thump as the heavyset man falls lifeless to the floor. I bite my lip and try not to cry out. Helen? That was the name of my waitress, the one who gave me the napkin! It couldn’t be the same woman, could it? Could it? A kid starts crying, loudly and annoyingly, choking, wheezing sobs of dead, harrowed fear. A chill goes through my spine, and I shudder a bit. There’s another gunshot, and the crying stops. I don’t know if the gunman – or gunwoman, apparently – shot the wall or the kid. I pray to God that it’s the former. As all of this unfolds, I can see the family outside growing ever closer, blissfully unaware. They’re perhaps fifty feet away now. I glance behind me quickly and catch a glimpse of a woman standing with her back turned and brandishing something in the air – the shooter and her weapon, but I don’t look for long enough to see any defining features – and I realize that I have enough time. I wave my arms frantically at the family to get their attention, point behind them to ward them away, and put my right hand to my ear like a phone to notify them that I need the police. The father nods at me in understanding, puts his arms around his two children, says a few words to his wife, and then hurries with his family back to their car. Hopefully to go find a phone. The national response time is three minutes, if I remember correctly, and it’s a relatively quiet Sunday morning, so the cavalry should arrive soon. That is, if the father calls the police. He may be too concerned for his own safety and rush home, forgetting my and the rest of the diner’s plight. But I trust him – I have to. He’s our only chance. Behind me, I hear no sound but footsteps. Someone is pacing around the floor of the restaurant. The shooter, surveying her targets like a hawk circling above a mischief of mice. She’s the predator; we’re the prey. The footfalls on the carpeting are almost silent – it’s not much more than the weight of the person moving around that lets me know that someone is indeed there. But by the entrance to the diner, in the area immediately behind me and around me, there’s not carpeting, but linoleum tile. The soft footsteps along the carpet crescendo gradually. They become harsh click-clacks as the person makes her way to the linoleum. Then they come to a halt. Shit. She can’t be more than a few feet away from me. My heart stops, my blood quits pumping, my breathing ceases. This is it. I stare at the asphalt outside, freedom. So close and yet so far. I prepare for the bullet. “Sugar?” I force myself to remain inert. It’s bait, I’m sure. She wants me to move so she has an excuse to shoot me dead. “Sugar, d’ya hear me? I’m sure you do.” Not a muscle moves. “Come on now.” I don’t even allow myself to blink. Footsteps resume. The click-clack draws nearer until I can feel the waitress’s presence above me. I stay immobile, not allowing myself to look at her or acknowledge her in the slightest. The smallest move could spell my death. Then, to my surprise, she pushes the door open. “You were always such a nice customer, darlin’,” she soothes. Her voice is so soft and smooth. How could she be who she is with such a voice? “I loved seein’ you in here. So get goin’ now, I ain’t goin’ to shoot you. Come on now. Get.” I blink, turn my head slowly, and look up at her. She smiles. Feeling safe, I ease myself to my feet and stand facing her for a moment in disbelief. In the moment, I realize that I have a few options. I could try to subdue her now, while she isn’t focusing on killing anyone. I could try to talk to her and get her to stop, calm her down until the police arrive. Or… I could just let go. Listen to what she says. Get. But I can’t do that. I would never be able to face myself again. I can’t leave these people to die. I can’t. I feel the eyes of everyone in the restaurant on me. I feel the earth below me, the air around me, and the sky above. I feel the stomach-churning horror of the atrocity in front of me and the endless freedom and security in the peaceful forever behind me. And now I hear sirens, and see blue and red reflected in the glass of the door. Helen, the waitress, turns around in desperation and starts firing with reckless abandon. I see a few bullets eat into the walls, and I see several people get struck, scream, and fall. I see blood, and I can smell it too. There’s running from behind me, and it’s getting closer and closer. I rush forward and try to grab Helen, but then I feel a hand push me aside, and I fall to the ground. There’s more confused shouting and a few gunshots, and then all sound ceases. The world stops for a few moments, and I feel nothing. I consider the fact that I might be dead. A hand grabs mine and hoists me to my feet. A young officer eyes me with concern. “Sir, are you all right? Are you injured?” “I’m perfectly fine,” I answer. “I’m not hit. The fall hurt, though.” A weary smile of relief etches itself into the officer’s face. “I’m sure it did. I’m sorry I had to do that, sir, but I’d rather you fall and get hurt than be shot.” “I understand, officer.” I nod curtly, and look around. “Am I free to go?” “We’re going to need you to answer a few questions, of course,” the officer says. “So you’ll be coming down to the station with us after the ambulances arrive and we can get the injured and dead cleared out.” This has been a bizarre, almost unreal day, and I think I should be the one asking the questions. But I acquiesce. “Yes, officer. I’ll wait right here, if that’s fine.” He nods. “Of course. Just sit tight, it won’t be long. You’re sure that you aren’t injured?” “I’m not,” I confirm. “I feel right as rain.” “Good.” He goes, leaving me alone. I’m standing, but my legs feel weak, so I sit on the asphalt. I press my back against the wall of the restaurant, facing myself away from the carnage inside. I hear the wailing cries of the wounded inside as the officers search the building and clear out the survivors – and the dead – and I have to put my hands over my ears, close my eyes tight, and roll up into a ball right there on the parking lot. It doesn’t work completely – the horrible stench still hangs in the air – but it helps. Time passes just the same, and after a while, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I uncurl myself and sit up to see the same young officer from before. “We’re taking you downtown now, sir,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest, but we do need you to answer a few questions. So we can get a full report on the situation. Try to figure out what was going on.” As he pulls me to my feet and escorts me to his vehicle, anger and sadness well up inside me and they pour over. “Why?” I scream at him, at the sky, at Helen. “Why?” “Sir,” he says. “trying to answer that question is what my job’s all about, but I still couldn’t tell you. I’m so sorry.” But his sorry falls on deaf ears. I’m no longer listening – I don’t think I’ll ever listen again. I am a man who has witnessed firsthand the greatest malevolence dreamt of by the human heart. I will never forget it, and it shall haunt my dreams forever to know that such a thing can be done so cruelly, so indiscriminately, so ruthlessly. And with such little warning, except for in the form of a paper napkin. I do not know why I was spared; I do not think that I will ever know. But never forget this: tremble at what man is capable of, but fear more the mask under which he hides it.